Adore: A Detachable Commitment

The songs I sing. The words I write. I sing & write with the sweetest of intent. The creative gush goes out on dishes of glimmering silver as candied delights ready to be consumed by whom it may concern. The girl written doesn't know - naturally - but others do, yayo. They know her to be a most wonderful being.

Despite my haughty stance as stated in Depart from Admire, the seed has been buried and it checks me, kicks me, teases me to put forth more thoughts of cherish. Another lyric. Another verse. It has to go somewhere, aye? To lock a seed from growing is far more straining then to let it grow withered.

And I boom full what you see and hear for she truly is a person of spectacular worth, don't cha know?

However.

I plug into this admire, guarded. Through quadruple-shielded cable is sent that sweet, sweet intent. Out to that platinum-plated super transference 1/4" jack is a sound heard out Whoa. 'Cause she is the Whoa, aye? And if and when Modern Lovely discovers this output from seeing the sight that is tender she and she runs far, far away OR returns with apathy personified . . .

then I'll simply plug out.

I wrote what I wrote. I sang what I sang. It'll just be there. That sweet intent. Meant for someone Whoa.

But no. Heh. =P

It's garbage, aye?

It's a detachable commitment.

(I refuse to set up for heartbreak, dummy. Hah.)