A poem

I want to turn you inside out with my mind. I want to show you the bend of my spine. It's the nature of the bell to the beast. Juicy, flavorful, iambic pentameter, you've heard this all before but order's up. It's time to give into the madness and become what falls out, brustlesprout. I want to slowly slip into your skin, show you where and when I've been, enter through your nose, where the wind blows, show you the meaning of everything happens for a reason, 'tis the season. Your clothes are meant to be worn out. It's the semblence in me that you find yourself craving the insanity reveberating from within yourself as you lose your breath forgetting to remember why you weren't faster, why you didn't train harder, why you never paid enough attention to make a difference, why you positioned yourself as such, what timing is, whether it is or it isn't, whether here or there, anywhere, that's how I do.