too much for me. head pounding::heart thumps; an insistent beat that turned my [skull to mush.chest constricts] a bit and palms were sticky with sweat and vision was clouding a bit. (****, what am I gonna do?)
happy new year- may your days be long-lasting and never-ending. }haha, get it? you'll never ******* s l e//e p. you'll lie awake every ;night, bottle of scotch and a phone bill that's l o n , g overdue (you only got away with it so long 'cause you've been sleeping with your network *service provider) in your palms and wish you were a <child< again.
*new year, new (me)*'
chúc mừng năm mới : happy mew year in vietnamese form
how my heart wish'd to/thu.mp/ along with those that sat wispily[wispy as the barren trees that thin out toward the unforgiving east; shan't i venture there, rest my weary soul] beneath dusty lofts of liquid gold [it shone brighter than the stars above, the gold did, and it blind'd me quite so]and compress'd waves of bitter contempt. [their lives were good, the lives of the wealthy: they died young and wild, lungs choking and burning on year-old ale and *** and their lovers laying desolately at their selfish sides. and yet, they hold the right to say they lived, to say they took life by the throat and tugged.]
as a kid, i never really knew what the heart had to do with love. like, love is this :: (big) /warm/ {bea.utiful} thing, but our hearts are these ****** hunks of meat that sit beneath our ribs and get that [blue/red] substance through your bones.
(where the **** did it come from, that idiotic interpretation of an emotion? why tie it to something so repuls i ve?)
you tell me your heart was skippin' right out'a your chest and all the way to north of philly an' back, i'd laugh in your face and tell you that love came from your brain, not your adrenaline-flushed ::heart::. i'd say it like the ****** little ten-year-old ***** i was, and i'd make you believe me, too.
but, honestly, that hidden truth has finally snuck up under my eyelids and permeated -yes, i know and i mean it- my heart.
i know now that love is responsible for mending your heart or breaking it or filling it to the brim or speeding it up or making it skip a beat or drop to your curled or thud gently against someone else's bare skin and, jesus, it's kinda ******* beautiful once i actually think about it. like, a simple emotion has the power to tug apart and lead the pieces out (single file, mind you) one by one.
exégèse sur le mouvement perpétuel du cœur : exegeis on the heart's perpetual motion.
i like the typ<e tha?t's dif}feren\t th=an me in every way and fo ^rm * (it'll h_]urt le.ss if th-ey hu"rt me 'cause:: i know *if that were m'e//, i neve:/r w ould'a done it) ,
i like the type that'll always make me laug h ev%en whe^n i can't bre##athe (even though it'd burn and constrict, that, right the+re, wo[u ld be h ea v)en).
i like the type that won't ob se_ss over me as i obs@ess ov$er the m;(wouldn't wann a put 'em through that kin*da m is e r ,y.)
this is getting worse. (honestly i wanted to make this sweet, but it just never happened)
[eyes gazing out beneath heavy lids] i've done that a lot lately, walking [mind twenty-odd miles away] into doors that haven't been opened [feet move faster than my head] yet, fingers clenched around a **** [nose hits first; check for blood] that's only been halfway turned. [won't happen again, sweartofuckinggod]
yeah, she laughs [that's what got her *<big>,, that laugh that breaks ricochetting h e a rts and puts three--month--old(s) to shame} but her heel broke at four am on her way out your back door and her mascara hates rainy days (::and, oh, it was rainy.;;
miriona tāra pēpi : million dollar baby in maorian form.
would you still love my aching soul (oh, how my bones punc;tured and ble'd) if my lips were reduced to ash /it would coat your skin as it does mine, mind your heavy heart/and my heart clawed and thrashed and fluctuated through my whisper-rimmed ears?
she was leaning against the rim of the golden gate bridge, the cars whizzing past her and tossing her dark hair up around her upturned face. a cigarette was hanging past her lips, her lipstick leaving :: ruby stains. she glanced over at you [caught your eye, is what she did], pulled the cigarette from her lips, and
she was like ]open doors and [closed windows; she only closed up the things that let you l o o k i n . *{only let you in with shutters drawn and lights dimmed because eyes are the win(dows to the s o ul.}
si era el número seis : if she was number six in spanish form.
i'm slumped in some shady ally behind some shady bar with shady people and my head is pounding and i don't see you until you blow a stream of smoke in my eyes and the soon-to-be-familiar scent of cinnamon and chocolate wraps around me.
she tosses her head back and laughs, white teeth flashing and soft skin escaping your aching lips, pulling you in by your shirt collar and showing you künä.
1. trócaire : mercy in irish form 2. künä : sin in kazakh form
she was like the B L A R E of an a(la)/r..m *******at 5a,,m; an unpleasant neces-sity.
it's been too much of an effort to open up the add a poem page and go through the process of it all. i am on an unofficial hiatus; started a few weeks ago, but it's here and it's crippling.
u etti raqami bo'lsa, : if she was number seven in uzbek form.
**** heartbreak **** lonely nights **** missing the taste of iloveyou on beer-numb {lips} and |tongue| **** fallin outta sticky-sweet delirium [show me love so i may learn to hurt quite so.]
i do[can]not {will[can]not, is what i'll do} write about the way the ******* trees bow in the ::deep-bone-ache-inducing:: wind like tranquil hummingbirds on a warm spring morn;"<could if i would>
i do[can]not {absolutely will[can]not, you know?} write about how i feel or how my heart broke or how my heart skipped or stopped or tumbled from my chest;'would if i coul d
i do[can]not {trust me when i say i do[can]n't, please do} write about the way i carry my life because i
f/abri..cat e a(n} d cottonise and wrap my words in carbonated silk and polyest er because i am no more than two twiddling thumb;s and too many cups of tea.
//subcons ciously apart of the 98% and counting, is what i am.//
::i spit lines at three am and shoot out'a bed with my lips moving with preprocessed words kissing my breath yet i forget more than half of it before i reach the pen and my skin::
thou canst only be but an a p p a r i t i o n with a vast and oily heart (sewn from wings, it was); a prolonged skip that traps thy breath; carries thy heart so thou shall be no more than an int.ake of \air\