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website - steakfry.neocities.org
email - thesteakfry@gmail.com

live from my bedroom/garage

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former incelcore artist who now makes decent music

"Write from Wrong"

and if you told me to "look but not touch,
 I'd stare at your sun till my eyes set as such,
 that mine eyes should be dashed where the river rocks roar,
 as long as I washed up upon your sweet shore,
 I'd stare at your star till it fell from my sky
 breathing a teething to soften your sigh,
 gorging my gaze in a creative craze,
 on this dream that doth stream through my nights and my daze...

...and then if you told me, " be seen but not heard",
 not a mutter would stutter away with my word,
 that my silence would stifle the city's shrill shroud,
 my thunder staid under the cleft of your cloud...

...and if you told me "your steed is your scream ",
 then the clatter would shatter this saturnine stream
 I've been wading in fading, so wantless and wracked,
 by the reap of a sow I can never take back...

...and still if you told me to "write but don't reach",
 let the burden be heard in my every beseech,
 why the wheel of my woe it would wind me my way,
 so scant I would pant for the light of your day...

...and still if you told me to "tread but don't try",
 not a finger would linger in passionate pry,
 but my will would not still for the sate of a second,
 until I was bade by the bless of your beckon,
 how I've bound up my breathing and paced in my place,
 and I sent out my sound just to find me your face,
 writing my wrongs till I come out as clever,
 to be planting my songs in your fields of forever,

...and then if you told me to cease still born seeing,
 and bathe this burden in the beauty your being,
 then my stars would cross heaven and hell, sky and sea,
 That a beautiful world...It should happen to me,

5 year fathom watches watches,
stillborn every second second,
every biding breath it botches,
every burden bares it's beckon,

"time's the cup that drinks from you,
the carvened starvened quaffing challice,
press it to your lips anew,"
-Virginiana Hammemalis,

5 year fathom weighs the way,
in 1/16th of ever after,
kindle-clocks counting decay,
in oft regurgitated laughter,

"every thought's a treason plot,
a handle hewn in cares grown callous,
picks you up to smash you down,"
-Virginiana Hammemalis,

5 year fathom rode the road,
it's pressures poured into impostures,
each angle set to explode,
in seamy seams of dream imposters,

"drown your druthers cupid-careful,
find no fears and make no malice,
still you simper for a stareful,"
-Virginiana Hammemalis,

5 year fathom rolls the roles,
the marrow-masks that try to wear him,
tumblings take of tithing  tolls,
their irredeemers
set to scare him,

"dampen drove the bridal bridle,
purity's your pleasure pallace,
phallacy's your idle idol,"
-Virginiana Hammemalis,

civic defense squad is following