Cold resin and buds of vanilla and dewdrops leave my hands,
The sweet sorority of such scents and beauty,
Leaving my skin as the wicked marks appear.
Hiding behind a mask, almost every woman's greatest talent.
Men making the submerge of prosthetic treatment of a painting,
Much more of a pleasure for most sides,
It's quite sorrowful to see such flesh go to waste.
The wrinkles of those young feminine species.
I'm quite baffled by the unrealistic marks of such products.
Either being pale as if you were to die,
Or to be darker than the soulless of black.
Why must we change our tone to try and become of sexual arousal?
Why, why, why?
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Just summaries and poems biggrin
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Arsenic Apocalypse
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