My honey used to taste like art, then Her lips turned to salt with a petrified emptiness that tore me apart.
I just wanted to make love where the sun meets the sea, but when I emerged from the ocean, I saw all the little boys run away from me.
Honey used to drip on my neck and down my chest, now I sit with calcified skin that aches and never lets me rest.
I would have died for the Artist that pushed buttons on a Sunday, but sadly he cowered so fast, and then pretentiously pinned himself to his silly, small, hard cross.
When there's no fight for honey pots with pools of bottomless sweetness that ever pours, boys that drink without pledges will know how hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
