I make feeling of the brain. Mostly low-growing, the mixture of that sun and me tryless. A little frolicky. Belonging to the primrose, those strong legs of his. I’m a magnet for choking the mind outright.
I’m not family; I don’t like this like that. Making love, having tuberous rootstocks and nodding strong legs, I’ve been complemented often. A self promoting deprivation. In the alps with deer, white, purple, pink, I see. My ability to create such a young and early death. And berries, unfortunately, crimson flowers with reflexed petals, can get pretty intimacy only just awhile. In that mindset.
Describing expectantly comfort with strangers, a life donated to my abilities. A circular boat so I can find severe athleticism. Here I am, viewed from inside.
