I pick apart poems like petals from peonies, prying every precious drop of prior knowledge from the purest of people. Probably because passionate words pull at my particles and prod me to proceed forward. I am a product of unkept promises and proper manners, so pardon me for pausing under peer pressure while perfectly postured. I pressed my lips against your prideful mouth and praised your every psalm. I punctured proximate parasites, proclaimed paradise, and played into your palm. Plagued by unpropitious parts, the paragraphs written from behind my pectoral muscle are not pristine, but are particularly principled. Poetry pulses through my pulmonary arteries and protrudes from my windpipes. It prescribed posthumous peace preceded by our point in time’s perpetual passing. People publicizing their personal presentations of perceived love progresses my own particular perspective.