Breeding of Lyrical Insanity

How can a faucet pour sand?

Cold and hot dust at the touch of a hand,

Hot desert, dry heart from one,

Cold frigid, cave dweller hidden from the sun,

Mouth the rawness of a raging guitar,

White static and electricity leaves you feeling bizarre,

Something intimidating,

Something wrong,

Quite possibly discriminating,

Making you feel like this isn’t a song,

Predetermined things are written on paper,

I scream my words,

Never mind the vapor,

I’ll take your halves in thirds,

Something so harsh,

Something so rigid,

Could not be something sung.

The ideas that are pouring out are so far flung,

You might have to take a net to catch this one,

A harpoon would not hold this down,

But in all due time you will see I’ve only begun,

Careful, don’t break this crown,

It is a position rarely seen,

When one can manipulate words so clean,

To make them sound so horrible,

To make them sound so incorrigible,

This is how I like it,

Share this with me,

Tame your self from throwing a fit,

Succumb to the rage of words…I’ll accept your plea.

A/N:

Note in the line, “I’ll take your halves in thirds…” It is referring to the “I can only tolerate so much of you…” idea. 

BTW, this is another of my experiments.  Seems I am doing a lot of those lately.  Oh well, enjoy!