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| Silver Fur The insecure are edible, the good are unholy, my back is now turned. I've got a wishing hand. Throw up your sorrows now. I'll be your wicked tears. Wait 'till the kid inside you grows, it'll bore the number and, he'll kill your lower cold. I dream so hard I burn. Without legs it's hard to run. My face painted with suicide. The backwards birth of crazy? Someday you will learn... I am what you threw away. |
| Randy M Submitted 10.29.02 |
| Nov. 2002 Entry |