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I lost a battle in my head when I recounted backwards from ten.
I feel like I’m on fire, but not as fiery as the fire that stages its satire in your eyes.
Like a play, I lay around acting it out within my own sense of stay.
I need my time, like the fire that satires its burning point of melting in my eyes.
Kind of like yours?
You see, I feel a need to plea to the novel written in something, something BC.
Claiming if I ask whole heartedly I’ll remain collected.
If I believe, I receive, correct?
I’m on fire like the critic’s words for a satire that pleads its worth for the unturned moments I siphon for.
So on fire, that I forget the desire to perform a beautiful satire in your honor.
I shovel moments beyond the baring of any comprehension.
The crude way I sow my inner soul for its worth.
For the fire that melts my core.
You see, I feel no need to plea to the novel written in something, something BC.
Your story is the only story I’ve known.
And it’s my satire.
It’s burning the desire that melts the soul for hire.
I can’t say I want to know you, I already do.
I just wished you loved your fire the same way I do.
I’m on fire but not as fiery as your heart, and it’s a satire for all the words that go askew.