…
Tamika — Immature
tour de course
Monday
the wheels
the wheels
the scourge
the feels
the same’s
the manes
the squeals
the peels
such a dichotomy
oh, the monotony
mounting me
counting’s me
pantings
so good
love when he fountains me
seasons roll in
like an ocean
oblivious
blatant
without regard and
without emotion
hands’re foldin’
like the motion
the stares
the wears
cares
tears
a lair nears
a hunter’s savings
pariah
cravings
the hastings
the pacings
little lost petal
humbug
the wastings
a mill’s a brewing
so disguised
tempers
brooding
lovely skies
a stitch for a shard
naïveté marred
weathered the storm
What a canard.
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