illeuphonati
a raconteur—a sentient lifeform—a cognitive scientist—a millennial clairvoyant hueman #illhueminati http://www.soundcloud.com/illeuphonati/generation-comparison http://www.twitter.com/illeuphonati #RareIntentions Creator of #ILLHUEMINATIHUENITY DM for 3s #illhueminati snapchat: illeuphonati || instagram: illeuphonati
in italy, there were fascinating times while reminiscing about how mesmerizing the feminine foreign specimen populace.
gazing at feminine foreign beauties i saw while staring at the multitudes beyond them made me know they were a perfect ace.
a monastery would educate me in the clergy as i walked up steps, my firm grip ceased to coexist with my ecclesiastical tomes and they went off steps that were steep.
a foreign gentle *** appears out at the corner of my eye behind a ruined wall, and for a minute, she bit her index finger nail in accordance with her beautiful white teeth.
as soon as her eyes connect with my eyes, i knew there was a visual connection going on between us two; the attention to details, the physical aspect of ****** human interest.
we continued to look at each other for over an hour and i had such an attraction to this young tan brunette, brown-eyed foreigner who had a t-shirt logo of a moon crest.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
I
still hear
voices
but now
we all get along.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
445
’Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms—
It had the Tassels on—
I thought how yellow it would look—
When Richard went to mill—
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how Red—Apples wedged
The Stubble’s joints between—
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in—
I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father’d multiply the plates—
To make an even Sum—
And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me—
But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year—
Themself, should come to me—
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter
the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile
they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world
they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you
but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.
j.f
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Sometimes you set me on fire
But it’s not burning, it a small tea light candle
But it pokes me and prods me
Hurts my fingertips
In the best kind of way
I worry I like you more than you like me
And that’s not a bad thing
But I don’t think it’s a good thing
Because I like you in all the ways
That people think I should love you
But is that love?
What is love?
And is that something I want?
If you care about me more than I can feel
Or say
Is that enough?
What is enough?
Enough kisses? Hugs?
Enough time holding hands?
Enough times waking up with you,
falling asleep too?
We tip toe around the word
And I don’t mind
Should I mind?
What does it mean to care about someone?
Or to care for someone?
I’m deeply in like with you
And I know this because
I feel completely free with you,
Free to talk, laugh, dance
I cannot explain how much I like that you dance with me
Even if it’s for a quick moment.
I don’t think straight sometimes
You make me think of everything
I want your honesty and mind
Thoughts, and I so want you to be a person
Because I think that’s all I really want in life
(Isn’t that all everyone wants?)
To be a person but with another person?
Because we all are looking for something, usually someone
To be ourselves with
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.
dear whateverthefuckyournameis,
i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.
- m.f.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
I'll say after a
good amount of
searching and reading,
conversating and listening.
That maybe its the mad ones
who sit like statues on the steps
facing Beacon street,
who may be the only
ones who really
know the truth.
There's that way we
are all supposed to be
and that cruel myth that is
happiness.
The tales they
tell as truths keep
me seeking out the
whys while beating
back the reasons.
Material joys can
numb it,
but its the drugs
that **** the pain,
new cars don't.
Let the masses look
to their religions
let it act as their ******
For my gods are
closest when danger
is near.
There's not enough answers,
just as there are no
real Saints in
San Pedro.
As far as I can
tell.
Friends may come and go
but it's the addictions
who remain reliable.
Where people hurt
drugs comfort.
Put me in charge
of this destiny,
I've guided it thus far
through the foggy mornings
and forgotten nights.
The short lived happy times
and the hardest of times
that always outshine
them all
on paper.
Allow me a little
control of
this destiny,
however short lived
that destiny
may become.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Somedays, the tide only laughs
at the sandbags we put up.
When the ocean of emotion
breaks with waves above our hearts,
we swim or drown.
The swell of current overrides
and riptides pull us down.
Move parallel to shore against the tide
till firmer ground is found.
Swim.
r ~ 4/6/14
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
Cady crushed
Soulful sunbeam
Modelling moonlight
Bright red scream.
Makeshift Marilyn
Winter wanders
Cavalier cowboys
Don't slow down.
****** valleys
Lightening laser
Taunting temptation
She'll be watching.
Dusted dimes
Matriarchy mothers
Electric evolution
At least pretend.
Sleeping sisters
Brutal brothers
Scoring shots
Smells like you.
Snakes stifled
River rapids
Drowning diseases
Love songs sung.
Their souls;
corrupt.
Unarticulated answers;
lost.
Paradise alley;
forgotten.
Ungrazed lips;
innocence.
© Sia Jane
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC