Scribbly scraggly

I wish you weren't as wonderful as you are I wish you were that angelic only with me For I could brag and boast afar that your brilliance is only for me to see I wish we were our little big secret instead of out in the open for all to judge together wanting it badly, not because we were let I wish you wanted me badly, with all my brains and fudge I wish there was more of me for you to explore More for your eye, mind and sense to dabble, dismember and devour that the burnish sparkle of your eyes should flame untamed, unbridled, adrift for I know it has got to last given how extreme the reach of a moment's rift quite unlike the slow, sure sail of the lowly mast My thoughts warmly around you dwell Reason, logic, ethic cast aside for you gently caress through shame and snivel and let me feel my forgotten side.

British accent sounds horrible – any time of the day or night. But when you’re marauding through sleep cycles and get an earful from the late night telecast of Harry Potter, you know what the websites that advertise knife sets are talking about. Slick, ominous and cold. I don’t care if that is ruined parallelism, the tirade would give me nightmares even if I were dead to the world. It could actually wake me from sweet slumber by the sheer disdain in their prunes-and-prisms mouths strongly enough to write a blog post on it. Somehow, my sense of language is not what it used to be, at this late hour. Free flowing American expressions cannot be a smokescreen for lopsided grammar, tawdry flow of thought and half-baked enthusiasm to write. There I have to agree that the English have got their language down cold. Remember Nigella Lawson crooning over her cauldrons. Makes me feel life is worth living. And that way, I’ve made my morass lead my readers to the central thread of my labyrinth...