we are writers, the most masochistic figures among all mankind.
we want to connect deeply with everything and everyone
we want to touch
deeply, softly, roughly. desperately, timidly;
we want our words to make love,
breathe heavily to the blissful moans coming from
the vowels and consonants fornicating with grace
and passion, but with a growling that could make an
A moan'ahhhh' or an
F whisper under his breath, '****'
words and pain and desperation, desire;
our thoughts creating a mass **** of literate *****.
& so we feel,
feel every romantic fever,
every rush of endorphins when lips touch,
body parts grip tighter, tighter,
and hearts mingle,
but only to become a paradox
& so once again we feel,
every chill of remorse
every rush of nausea when toxic lips touch,
the once poisonous distance between our bodies becoming fresh air,
and the gentle embrace of our heart and soul becoming cold shoulders.
only to become a paradox.
but we are writers.
we thrive off uncontrollable emotions,
our very essence continually searching for a muse,
a new way to morph bland reality
into a strange, disgusting, but beautiful new piece of art.
Based off another tweet series