The Overused Thought

Harnst the burn smell tied to trees.
Tiring of the sirens and over bassed death traps for the unforgiving mothers.
And the story lines of the many over powered, uncatious lovers I admire each soundly sun rest.
Who is keeping count, or the fact that unjust eyes are on him or the brown overhead
hiding our dead bodies and famous words.
Punching the paper until my hopes and bloodlings grow into my concentrated picture
that is seen like a Capote novel.
With unquentched thumps of short tales, rape,
and the overused thought of some princess I am obsessed with.
Grasp this to your eyes and play the song to meet your ear.
For all the creation building in the petite building,
we are restless and our lovers are pushing our ticker
just to find us influenced and piling the brims of my bedroom door.
Until we move to a single boat with a bulb.
And the eye sight on our near sight explodes of passion or passionless might.