Fit with something awful

Milk and thistle, and substance or some other
Soothing mine, and theirs, and others
Soft it felt to touch and cover needles sin and me
Stuck between our hands, directed by who points between
Look at you and you at me
Danced our sights without deceit
I'm lying in the night
Laying now without our covers, heat bound us without a trouble
Loosen grips the minds of brothers fight and spar and seethe
Writhing and fit with something awful
Born with anger, and something true
It held onto a midday swig of truth, toiling and swirling into and onto me Flesh and fabric woven one again or two and...
And well two more or: how many?
Always counting: how many?
Always counting: how many?
Writ with fever, fit with something awful, I’m fit with it too
Hoarded only likе a sight of nothing more or less
Kept alivе by scent, touch and more too
Left alone for nothing more

I cannot keep up with sharp minds
It is difficult to be conditioned
I cannot keep up with quick wit
Driving hearts gas leak
I cannot keep up with high speeds Broked-down
Low energy
Evicted

I see you