The tussin.

I want to indulge in the splendor of sound surrounded
by blackness, but speak the beautiful words of my melting subconscious and let a thousand words paint you the most exquisite picture
you've ever heard with sweeping crescendos of cascading red and orange colliding with blue bass lines on a black invisible pallet of infinity churning
unspoken loud reverberations of emotional discourse
that raises your conscious right of your chair and dances and screams.

I love romance and peaches, but both can go sour quickly.

Give up, it's always going to end up dry and bitter like fruit withered
and gone bad where there was once plump life and happiness to feast on,
tender and juicy and running done your chin and spilling
like sunlight warm on your cheek with nothing to do but
crack your face into a brilliant smile and making
you feel youthful again. You can't bite dust and wish
for the same results as you will end up chalky
and brittle boned with age and despair
with nothing but your blood and tears to re-hydrate
the split lip your laugh has become
from stretching arrogantly too wide and hopeful.
I love romance and peaches, but both can go sour quickly,
and who knows what worms slither
in the rot of the next apple's true insides.