Day one: of Operation Mike marrying Aimee Allen singer/beauty extraordinaire

Note to reader:

My whole goal is to eventually reach Aimee by the most livening not conventional not easy on my conviction nor does it ease my mind way, lessening any crime. I have not heard of someone of here getting arrested for writing lovely poems, the libtards have not started taking down all free speech yet.
So be with me on my poetry travels. As it is from here to eternity, to Mike in the end marrying his Aimee. If you are a person that has ever been in love on a weird level like or somewhere near mine here.
Like this all of this note to reader is done from head to page, basically.
I write all my pieces, except for my poetry straight from head to page, as quickly as I can type, I put it down. My Books in the future are not straight from head to page either. But all the same like this poem below for Aimee, I wrote it in an couple hours and really I think it is quite and really is a great work.
I am going to do one poem a week, because the set up and all of that shit is really tedious on my so being; as eventhough I don't get paid at this moment to scribble out my drowning cause or reason about. Heck, what a guy or girl has got to do in even doing the slightest bit transpose? It takes mind energy.
And I am emotionally sucked dry and in an uncommon way by my books and what other projects as now.
Why don't I just search out the chick through various avenues, as people are easy to find in certain a ways? Well God wants me out doing it this meager way; if you believe in such things as higher type being.
I follow orders from something that shows itself as unseen, but so much the scene of my life giving day.
My mother just died. My dad needs in so home care; all this after I spent most of my life under here mental illness hell and spiritual oppression the kind where not much light came into for all my life. Myself walking among the ambulant stare in so between wanting to kill myself and forging on into again through the blackness to live another day down here on a earth while that really were wanting me done over and gone. Something errant but of assured intellect wanting me dead. As really along with a severe learning there disability also, it all really doesn't make for a person to be able to really create any kind of dreamy sort of resume for any employer of any kind. And it doesn't allow one to buy a plane ticket and go girl chasing or whatelse, and get there arrested right now here, for being weirder than what my words divulge of myself. And definitely when the girly woman is as gorgeous as Aimee Allen. I have only one thing to offer. Bad timing of it all is shit. I wish so that God would have freed my mind and life about 15 years earlier or so, but no that didn't happen; so it goes for ole Mike.
Mike is broke always with no hope of making a decent living for myself as here beyond my writing. As nothing in the job market really stirs my insides as something inspirational to give myself as to. I don't want any inspirational slave job, where it is built on a scaled slave wage: as it a say yes sir or yes ma'am to some in valid self important miss or mrs prick or mr cunt. --So my come uppance it comes on a little much like this and that. Dad needs people to take so care of him now a little bit, so I am with my brother. Also, Mike has been taking care of his own business end of things, for sake of his writing career. Now it is time to take care of his non existent love life at this moment, and make it existent among Aimee Allen a gorgeous singer for so the Interrupters there about. As I know this is seeming infantile and seemingly chicken shitted, but when you are curled up into life like here a guy ready to enter into earth's uterus so again. But really that is all what I am left with in my current so situation, as far as by best means to operate under. 
May the second' 2017
-Day one poem or story, it is my 12 white Roses: as Mike tries to win Aimee-
Intro: Tim Armstrong did his Rancid best of writing a song a day. Where so Mike will write a high level quality poem (at least I think) everyweek of Aimee's life with me. I am going to be writing her a poem a week till the day so we walk down the aisle together, and afterwards. And here we go here again. Or maybe I won't write her one everyday. Poetry and writing books is different than writing a song. It is much more emotionally draining of a person and the pay off... it sometimes leaves one all lacking. When I write a love poem, my own ability makes me goo goo minded the whole rest of the day. So when you are a brutish brownish blonde haired blue eyed braggadocious American braggart bastard like myself, with my Irish/Prussian/Santee Indian heritage; man I am going to be the biggest hammer, a swinging Thor off his perch with burst effect coming from pounding. Thor himself is so going to wet his underwear. Yes so I don't really like love poems or writing them for that reason. No; love poems are just difficult because everyone in their mother has tried one.
Everyone thinks they do one good and hard, like they were doing their mom all over again and it so great.
And Hillary is their mom and their mom loved it. As Hillary says now that she would have been as elected if the elections were held in October or something like that really emboldeneds idiots to hear that.
I am doing poetry all the different that ranges like Beowolf that famous poem, a book and whatever piece.
Unlike my poems here.
I am doing the kind of books right now: that Alex Jones himself will admit to a porn addiction here to from him wanting to beat off to the superior beat and drum roll; my fucking bag pipes that I have is so coming in a classical Beethoven type supreme God intellectual power run after roll. I will so make people have mental masturbation purges of themselves in their place of business or with their love....
Nothing like writing an eloquent fuck you, to the Oligarchy 1% of 1% crossbreed Illuminati so soul suckers. And do it in like 220 pages or so, where those and their intellects don't have anyone like me baby.
They are going to have to sit there and take it.
And nothing like writing about Aimee.
While I am trying to court or impress my Aimee.
Hector is one guy I am writing to, so to give and show this all to Aimee, for me, bother Hector or so Tim Armstrong of Rancid, on his music site HellCatrecords, www.hell-cat.com, hell bring on the so Rooster. Say nice things about me, to help Aimee in her decision making. Because we know Mike is great.
And maybe buy something from the site, for any head ache I cause.
Anyway Hector God love you. I appreciate your coming across the border. Imagine the Rooster of the USA going off to war with his US flag in hand, and his love for Aimee waving back at him in so love.
They both dreaming but never met yet.
'Hell Cat Records don't you guys be a bunch of cock blocks,' the warrior screams, what a love he so has.
'Oh! The humanity!'Fuckers' Aahhh!' 'Freedom!'
To Aimee,
-Aimee off in among Aimee's dream-
Aimee off in among Aimee's dream.
Her brooding recall to wonder what a man could give; as he seems so far away with his bluest eyes writing poems, like he does for her now. Long wondering for what she seemed to never have here before.
Glaring past the sun, to the wanting love, no one seems to want for real love anymore, like the there Rooster.
Can a man even take on the simple endeavoring, of endeavoring the wishes that are found in a here beautiful girl anymore; does soft sensitivity touch the heart of mankind, to where man doesn't spoil it?
Here is Mike, and there is Aimee....
The American flag on Mike's fucking shoulders. Aimee soft to the touch, Mike is a fumbling there breech in etiquette: for how one should actually approach his future wife that he had never met ever before.
In a dream.
Excited of the day of her sun filled eyes, and reminisces, as Aimee smiles from lightly dark mourn a morn. What a beautiful but lovely placement, that has there both of them, one, like his bluest eyes as so making it all for her, constituting to try too know what she would think; of what he knows of her.
(They will have a wonderful Irish wedding.)
His brownish hair used to be blonde hair, and bluest eyes, with all sincerity and honesty, looked into hers.
Her beautiful brunette set of hair, like a head piece of the gods, like a female Roman statuesque girl glory.
Her and herself, and her one huge bicep holding her so big 60 foot by 60 foot Holiday US American flag.
He holds her hand and walks with her in his head, they love the USA, Constutitions etc.
No longer can there ever be something as replaced of her, when no women nor at least not too many are remembered nor to be reminded, of --what men used to be so to her in the past; even though the rays of winter's sun longed for it, her eyes mirrored among for the desires that come out of a girl's heart. She went from a girl to a woman and now to a girl again. Her eyes and lips and ears and smile have come from what has fallen before into her; she once married to her life and what she had done alone.
It is only at its best in a dream, right now; and not fulfilled in her regular life, --for what she should do.
Married to her life, what a waste to, a wasted trip, to trip falling over that shoe in the morning there awake.
Alone.
Now-
Walking alone to her gigs, or going to movies with her dog alone, and wishing that her life were so more covered and well spent for all what she loves beyond just the happiness what has her alone so on.
As Mike waits. Mike keeps time, again Aimee answers this time in what a dream what Mike created dream.
The sun now sets. Her life awaits.
Mike waits, too.
He dreamt also and he was a little lonely, too.
But damn she gotta a big bicep; for how did she carry that flag, and walk down the aisle at the same time.
The winds must have been 150 miles per hour, pulling on that 60 by 60 foot flag.
Damn! My bitch is strong, and beautiful, I love it. .
Dream over. Come to Mike, and live the reality.
Author MJ 'The Rooster' Young