I bet you never knew of my writing,
only the letters I have written you.
I bet there has been evidence of a sickness!
Ah, love, but this there has only been a few.
Politely I ask of a sweet intimacy,
my mind can only take of what is there.
Suck a sickness, this love,
a swath of fullness is imaginary.
These words are all for you,
I wish I could better recite them aloud
To speak of such pattern is hard to prepare.
What a victorious achievement upon us,
insanity at it's best if I may dare.
But without thoughts there may be no writing,
Without sickness there may be no insanity,
Not a garth of an unspoken word so unspeakable in meaning,
a day gone without these things risks love,
but my thoughts, writing, sickness accompanied by insanity, words spoken in voice...
they are the idiotic supremacy of my loving existence.
