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1.3k · May 2016
fire-fire, lair-lair
Jordan Bryson May 2016
fire-fire,
lair-lair
can't see
where this heat ends
or where it originally begins
following fashion
but giving up on trends
art is a concept
and there is nothing left of my personality to defend
strictly forbidden
the rules i tend to bend
you impress my heart
i am your friend
468 · May 2016
Neuro-destiny
Jordan Bryson May 2016
Say "hello!" to the little-orange friends, with them our mind extends; and further. Or is it...how far?
Please drive slow, crawling level with the wheels of the car. Look, it's that space, the "old place"; remembering that face. From her lips, my past, I trace.
Definitions tend to change. The way they are described sounds so strange. Oh, you fickle little words, or more so, you ink scribbles resembling flocks of birds.
I have been asked to descry meaning from you, from such language.  It's a clairvoyant mission that will only promise me anguish. My mortality,  my fears, all of the limits holding me shall be broken and  then finally, my own identity, I'll vanquish.
428 · Apr 2016
Want For Not
Jordan Bryson Apr 2016
I am a dreadful darkness, do you think love will work for us? Images, words, are these what you trust? I have swords for you, dripping with lust. The light shows you my reflection, but I'm trying to tell you, that mirror is clouded with dust. I throw what I have away and I so earnestly collect pain. Yours, his, hers; it's all the same. Selfish, maybe, but we all desire to play; this isn't and it never was, my game. Do you hear my voice? If you decide, that you do want to love me, then I must let you hold the blame.

Humanity is on the other side of myself; I cannot reach it. I've never been taught, you see, I have nothing for anyone. I perceive what you want. I am able to give you what you want. The problem is that I don't know what I want. So, in choosing the default, I want everything. I will take that from you, love and all, so that we are bound to fall. Oh, I pray to god that you speak my language. I can't ******* hold my tongue. I've wrote a thousand ballads, a thousand songs I've sung and not one of them has touched them. Oh, even to have them turn in my direction; pain sees in me. It's the toll I pay, the ghosts who walk this world come to me for its collection.
To the pretty girl, who's looking to me through glass, but cannot pass through.

— The End —