Virgo Poem by Dashaun Rashod Snipes Mister

They say it's easy to reach beyond the clouds of doubt, but they know only sorrow.

The Gettysburg burial; a common wealth, welded in black ink, and hand Drawn infamously with a detailed linear algorithm.

Who cares about outsiders, when Virgo season is like pico de Gallo inside, they'll make you have orgasms around your mouth.

Some say we're toxic, but you love what I am doing.

It's getting high.

Coming near.

Passing fast.

Going hard or Google chrome, because you might find something; someone insulting for being just plain beautiful more than you.

You may do a private search for me even if you are not into me, but what you haven't yet seen in me you wouldn't know was true, you believed in us, and you can't beat them. All on you, because you are too ashamed about what keeps you around just to keep you down, and declined, but despite all your fighting delivers you into a spiral of deletion, like something you once loved to be but lost of the passion, and the power to run after anymore.

When you're surfing the world wide web for a mister perfect body.

More than you can take a glimpse; sneak peek.

More than likely you realize your momma, and daddy has a wandering eye, a bitterness, and a heavy heart to find someone truly celestial.

A cheriphym.

A seraphim. Is always a never-ending pair of the constant belongings for someone else's championship, is a masterpiece for the depressing, and mournful sound too morbid, and dark to be accepted for public play of a demo.

Even more than you can bench press, or taser a vanilla ice heart of wooden tissue to make a sound every time you give them an urge to vibrate within your rocker arms.

You always talk down to us.

Who do you think we are?

We're just a Virgo.

With an appetite to serve.

In an exponential process we want anything, and anyone.

Another thing; another one; another reason to spread our wings and take to the sapphire sky.

Our flames are blue and unholy.

Burning abounds the lowly with green envy.

We're just looking for some way to paint over our self esteem with a big ego.

Couldn't catapult us over the great wall fast enough, so we take matters into our own souls.

Into our own minds.

Into our own hands.

Into our own space to withdraw from the neraphms they're not supposed to be mixology with our souls.

We are intoxicated on our extremes.

We are the sacred ones that can only be delivered to you in a dream.

What goes viral this time as a one man team.

It's not likely that our competitors can turn us to cream.

This is not a creamery unless you want us to be decked in Hagen daz for the winter I will never transform unless I want to.

We're high and low and everything that is better between.

An impossible whopper with cheese and avocado dip with all the trimmings because we don't usually eat beef we grill it first.

We're so sweet we'll rot the teeth out of your mouth.

You don't love us anymore when you see us.

We don't do anything really well, but look really hot.

It'll kill the fantasy of making kids by us, you might want to break our bones, and throw them away into the soil, but when you realize what you have done you'll be suicidal.

We're just fabulous and perfect by nature.

Born to reign.

Passive but something, like a realist if you ever want to download that line.

You'll be in the line of fire, just simmering down to the tenderous state.

It's a shame to see why we don't exist for everyone.

We are the undefined because we have many forms.
Many levels; many volumes; many depths, and exquisite ranges in this universe of our immortal undignified light; behavior of mocking the ugliest praises in perfectly focal precision in this classical; jazzy riff and vocals running on, as a runon sentence of our Hallelujah; the hierarchical praise for the highest level of the beginners reward.
Informal.

We're allowed to leave bitterness in your mouth, because outsiders are out of season think you're over us, but you only have your self to deceive; you cannot force on us; cannot fit in perfectly with the role of avenging angels; we walk gracefully with the power and vengeance of the vixen God, but we fail to this exam in every quarterly year. To want a horrible boy, is as our immunity; for the pride of our existing pool of living light is better than origin and a never-ending birthright sealed with a godly serial number upon our forehead to show the entire world, we are here to adore and be admired but we are not likely your own to take, we age much more fine, than wine or whiskey and smooth to the touch, like purple velvet and more opulent than precious yellow 48karat gold, we glisten with the glory of the divine from within, without the trangressors of the terrain thinking of us as collateral and personal territorial assets to refine under man-made pressure, we have sound like the acoustics bass no money can truly afford.
Virgo can be viral for just breathing calmly in a walk through a summer shower, and
Ain't nothing going to change my mind otherwise.

Authorship by Mr Dashaun Rashod Snipes
©Mr. Dashaun Rashod Snipes
®️ Virgo