Worried wanderer whisk your tears and they will return to let you do what you are compelled to do, dress in them again like silky caresses of messes you made and let them cascade upon your warm cheeks and catch the breeze and cool your soul down since they only want what you’re doomed to want, existence, the most painful of the available options and yet the most beautiful one because you can see the thorns pre-prick you grew this shit and watered and watered it and still cannot resist plucking the rose buds with your bare hands, as soon as it could hurt again with your open heart, with your wanton desire, with your feeble minded chasing for a little more pain expressed by the ocean of emotion where you can wander more and wonder some and wreck yourself repetitiously easily drained from inner rain, your sticky stuck sad eyes ready to be whisked and patted and rubbed and noticed once more, just another side effect of being a suffering storm chasing whore…

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