If you scratch my soul,
You will get scraps of Jane Austen.
If you scratch scraps of Jane Austen,
You will get attain the traits of a raconteur.
...
The tenebrous tiring tipsy night strutted away,
As the sun tarried to commence its dynamic day.
A bluish beam lingered in the air,
But something amidst the bluish beam,
...
When you pick your nose
And pull the booger out,
Which is slimy, sticky and black,
I feel awful. I can't feel more pain
...
The wind in the breeze is like
Life within a sea wave,
Tea within a cup,
Dreams within sweet slumber.
...
If you can see sanguinity
When the pages are rinsed in ink,
When happiness is replaced with bereavement,
When the world hollers in reverberating pangs,
...
That night, my eyes were immersed in sea,
My legs were sprained in a pool of blood,
Albeit my wishing to be anew and free
And refresh myself in elixir flood.
...
On a starry night as I watch the moon unfold,
And the stars wake up from slumber deep,
I wonder whether such sights were oft for me to behold,
But such bliss and tranquility is hard to keep.
...
My gaberdine hung on the wall,
On the rusted hook
That I brought forth from your abode
At midnight.
...