michelle-lynneWhisper

French
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The Art of RoboticsTo be a human being is to be riddled with thousands of imperfections. / Full of flaws; scrapes, spots, and scars cover broken and bruised skin. / But robots need not fear and fret about fixable, trivial defections.
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Love is a VerbCandid smiles radiate waves of happiness, / And the promise of foreboding tenderness. / Pupils dilate at the sight of chaste skin
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3.1k
Fear Not for Your Ephemeral CorpseFrom my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful. / The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun / They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done
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1.8k
An Artist's RenditionI remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.
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1.7k
Desperation in Its Purest FormYou take a seat next to me, and I brush up against your smooth, porcelain skin. / My pupils dilate, the anticipation of your attention captivates my soul. / You say nothing, but your cerulean eyes scold me for my past sins.
21
1.5k
Young LoveIdyllic sensations of fingertips gliding across unspoiled flesh / Kisses fill in the gaps left by words unspoken / Bright eyes meet and exchange heavy glances of infatuation
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1.5k
NightmaresMy heart races, erratically, lacking a proper rhythm. / A rhythm that could only be rendered by another heartbeat. / My soul soars frantically, searching for yours in a forlorn prison.
20
1.4k
21 Days LaterYou messed with my head / My head is a mess. / You messed with my world
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1.1k
Nostalgia and Guilty PleausresHow can somebody who is regarded as being so fantastically creative, destroy so much? / Perhaps it's not that I'm creative, perhaps it's just that I have a talent for picking up the all the jagged, crumbled pieces. / Nostalgic for familiar feelings and guilty pleasures, still so keen on the awe-inspiring rush.
10
997
Your Version of "Creativity"She's got it all, creativity and intelligence / And like a fish to water, you squirm towards her / I hope she breaks you down, rips you up, **** benevolence
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902
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