The Lioness Head on a Silver Platter

The error of a girl who ate too much, the qualifications that could never be too little, the treasured concepts that have to stay hushed. Why? It can never be too much when getting it late, a blessing in time is a bit of a long wait. As she continued to beat the plate— knife and fork, she took a huff. The Lioness head makes her feel out of touch, though it's the freedom that gave her back her instinctive lush, the trait to her artist brush to retouch. Can somebody feed me? Excuse-moi— please! I'm in need of opportunities that have surpassed me in this broken vessel of a livelihood, the deterioration, the reopening wounds of my excavation. The filthy hands scavenging my flesh that will nourish this earth, before and after I hit the dirt. Rummaging for my jewels, forgetting they don't have the proprietary tools, from their engagements marked up as a map by every sight they found under their schools— fools. I'm down on my knees, and it bleeds! Gripping the gravels of the ground from these unfinished roads, the last completions halting the competition. I'm here for my submission for my inherit transition.

I am the inevitable that always succeeds when it comes to energetic proceeds even though I've been cut and stripped away from my common needs to achieve— I am not available to be stripped away in pieces for people seeking the rights for a validation; straightforward to a prized certification. I am the vindication. I am built in a small house, though I am a millionaire, glory above all who fall under the glorified standards daring to compare. The manipulations lead to a cunning situation where the sender immediately changes the identifications. Unaware and unprepared, too predictable to care. As the sly repeats the oval tracks through the lanes of the supernumeraries between frequent and methodical communications; overlooking the perspectives of a higher-up rallying strategies to gather up subordination. The exonerations studies the contrariness between a burgeoning wheat grain from a tare. The one who is unbelievably appealing above every extraordinaire. The combative issues that will make you pull out a couple of tissues, the depths of personas exchanging misused information for what they want to share. The despair.

The sight of a crash scene forgivingly seeking a class theme, to teach the inner self-esteem. Does anybody want to learn? Does anybody even want to listen? Not one person wants to teach themselves? Has anybody discovered this concern? I can't believe how careless this tragic series burns. Chill and take your position. We certainly cannot swallow this pill; it might kill for the inquisition. Let's begin to write up their deposition. We don't want to interfere with the recession's transmission, the early teachings to rundown into the new age, long reaching— don't let that drizzle of confusing civils indicate the quibbles where the troubles continues to spill, that's for the ill who enjoy the pricks of quill. Choking on the truth is the melancholy to our uncouth. They don't want to open up to nourish themselves and they despise the mouths who have tasted the clears and cools of the wells; the hands that kindly try to graduate them from out of their cells. How swell, that's why the world is unbearable to dwell.

The destruction that has formed into the schooling constitution is a penny well burned. It's a grueling imitation, education has turned. It's a system that contains the fortune to follow the details that strains, nowhere near what it says it would be adaptable to attain. The ones who stand to complain are fragments rooted out and left in the outer view in the back of the classrooms as remains. We've been reckoning the rudimentary of a golden male quail, this fortunate fowl holding a string of pearls, a personal performance stabilized by fingers and clasp around the crest of the chest, sequenced for the neck. What the heck, where's the respect? The quail is a form of a reality check, for those to relate and reconnect, for the thoughtless who need to cease their rubberneck and seek how to reflect. It's serious how conspicuous they make no use of their alias, the legible tend to forget. The quail is the assisted rest for the righteous, to reserve their palpating palms to stroke their centre; descending the direction from their bosom, bracing to ensure the innermost isn't wholly glum. Researching into their gumption, unlocking themselves from out of the trammels of their thorax function. As a fowl's door to a coop, trapped by the wire guarded for the eggs they stoop. Relax and regroup, ready yourself for birth to reboot, I'm going forward, oh shoot— let me finish my palate, before I hear the judgement's mallet. I'm in cahoots. But this does not taste like fruit.

She thrives to make sure her manual to acclaim is annual today, I can't intake any more shame. The reputation in the many assimilations of every domicile intervals made combined, is this girl's reward formed to roll over her head; to sit gently on the back of her upper spine. The quail feeds the pearls as a crowned crescent jewelry for the ones who define the right to be kind. I am the divine, repeatedly fined for taking what's mine. This girl's obedience sits upon her neck mocking outright foolery, outbidding her embracing climb. How indigenous is this quail's rise to find those who outshine? It's sublime! The saving quail is the finishing touch that advances the search of a holy grail, that flattens the curves on the graphs that scales, conquering the allotment from what could have bottled it up, screwing it shut— society's going pale. As an overruling deity outweighing the trails, from where you've sailed, it's facetiously stale. The blind continue to read their Braille, looking for lives to exploit like a specific dress shirt that's half off, up for sale; go ahead and send it in the mail. The luxuries of the tattletales. Not looking for what they can change in their own story when mingling in oblivious joy, stepping down on the lion's tail. Their nourishment looks deceiving when their mentality is frail. When you lift the veil, you'll see they are mindless and live in their own personalized jail.

The crowned jewels weren't made or fitted for those who are cruel. The plate was forced before my face because I am the one to take the leap of faith. Therefore I assemble and manage to eat the head placed eloquently in front of my stool, she's asleep stoically in wait. I don't want to be the one, day in and day out, eating gruel. My will to defuse the aberrant fuel. First in the mix and they will be the ones reversed, I was not cursed I was blessed in this behest of a mess, the head of a crown has its own type of zest. By the side of my mouth there's drool, not because the flavour is cool, I'm being fed like a spool to prevent myself from becoming a mule. Begging to stay kind in this rewind for a chime to conclude this crime. Keep away the saturnine, I am here and this is the chase to my prime, stay in line. The world's best is waiting for your sign, the rules will align and those who groom the falsehoods are going to be fired or they'll resign. I stood up and the thieves of satiate perspicacity sat down to repine. Thank you and goodbye, no one else's tactics are charismatic with the erratics of a feline. Let us now get into the mood and design of a genius like Einstein and fortify, balletic as the moves and shhs of a calming shoreline. That'll get the august sincerity to beeline.

I've used the colours of the rainbow to mount my stance and glide into what's called upon my name, it's signed for me by the signature of this routined balancing act, scripted with my initials in place before I even caught up to the race. I was informed of my trace before the method of sliding down the coloured path like a velvety lace. A promising dream seen, overlapped with means, a stream with plentiful stamina laid out for this starving Madame, balanced swiftly on her beam for the chance to redeem. It's edible for me, because nothing else stays down, I'm hungry for the crown and it's now. The liturgical synergistically blends in me because I have endured more than enough at the age of thirteen, my empire's dire, a transpire I've required. I indulge because my pace to elevate makes me tired. I know more than anyone else, there's something else higher— I've fought the ground more than enough to know this expires. The fight will retire. I manducate to transport into the skies of sapphire, once blue now crystalline to renew.

Home is the resemblance of the inhalation of a crisp fall breeze, poignant and fresh, a charmingly sentimental aroma caressing the nose's ceiling, dealing to contain its characteristics, kept as a memorabilia in the cognitive functioning, available to reprise on reset. The freedoms of desolation, captured to cherish it's seasonal teasing, curious and soothing to a designated forthcoming healing. Let us postpone the marionettes, it is mandatory we get dressed in our best; we didn't come to amuse when queuing abreast within this test. When I see home, I don't see it as a physical element, it's the space around the flesh that excites the spirit. The inside emotion, the uplifting jubilation— the deliverance that hands you down your merit. Qualities of the extradimensional lyric welcoming the congratulatory maverick's rhetoric, thoroughly imagining ongoing subjects that don't deflect. Ummm, just a sec...humming at every swallow, my belly is no longer hollowed, I've finished the meal that will seal the deal. That is my accession, raise a finger if you appeal. Though I'm insouciant, I have too much zeal after completing this fixed ordeal, I can't wait for the reveal. I've acknowledged there will be no more repression. I've been concealed.

Although the Lioness appeared dead on that energy surging silver platter, she lived, and urgently transferred her orbs auspiciously into me, forged for the incoming destiny that's impending impressions for everything and everyone who's opportune to see. It's orbital panache definitely scattered throughout my physique, embodying wherever it mattered. It is poetic to be anticipated about home, the supermundane exertions that will care for this superior dome, a world in which we can face continuance with values unknown soon to be shown. Nothing can be removed or stolen when you formulate tile and stone; immovable new solutions laid tight, we can't afford anymore pollution, we will gain the might.

I came home to my senses and this control does not match or need anybody's expenses. It is the chance of a lifetime— that's the wonderment of home, it's your power within to withstand your surroundings wherever you are, it's by far the taste of a safarian animal outside the lengths of a transported car, stressing and pressing to fix it's teeth in you, features near the whiskers ajar. Now confronted facing you on your plate, transporting its power for you to participate. For goodness sake, I'm so full and emanating with what I ate, this feels great, every atom in me is awake. When you reach the top, you can only go a mile more than what's far, don't give up when you're that shining star. Home is where the heart is and that is up to par. Don't be stumped and end up as an unhealed scar, feed the leadership, become who you are. Open the doors of your home and the world will love what you've shone in your zone. Shine and don't confine. I am the Lioness that rawrs, that's the start to where I'll spare and repair the sores to soar in good part.