burning pages.
epiphanies procured through the pages of a book.
let's burn the already ones read.
i doubt the meaning of life is within the confines of the downed pink capsules.
the hollow shell of a human form.
i keep validating it. chemical communication has every place here.
the warm. hands clickity clackety against the keys. because they are home.
furiously scribbling is the one organic anecdote.
throwing a verse down is much preferred to THROWING DOWN. which is what human nature gives on the tendency to fantasize about.
let's not quabble over semantics here. (and let's not mention fantasy).
i'll check for justification in the mirror image of my face in the bottom of the carrot-stick bag.
no such luck, the soul ain't there either.
WANT TO VERBALLY SPAR, BABY?
i don't think you, nor i have the ability. (actually i do, it's more your well-being i'm concerned about)
erstwhile you sit and wait for the first attack, you should think into purchasing some pantene.
2.99 at walgreene's.
i've forgotten what i've started for. so let's not quabble over semantics here.
the death of white roses are never wept over. it's expected.
(maybe a vase in the corner is quite befitting of the lovely token of hopelessness)
it's like a catch-22, it's like fighting a losing battle.it's winning something like a full paid scholarship to plumber school, or finding out your best friend is a **** on christmas mourning.
merry christmas.
one should be cautious in stealing public property. the owner hadn't left it out for the recycling. you should have read the label.
and you:

i'm done.

exhalations within the confines of my keratin flavour
faded red, no match for your deep mahogany
i'm red. you're brown.
we should get together and have one little, two little, three little
indians.
i digress. time gets fast, everything gets slow.
we just started from a different point of view.
there's little honesty in lying between the lines.
so give me time, or stop sitting there.asking your watch the time.
if i read anymore plath i'll never be able to string more than
one cohesive sentence together.
or ever one coherent phrase. give me a sign. time is of the essence.
an hour here. a few there. not nearly enough to say what's in fine print.
my nuerons are fine printing too much for comprehension.
it's hard to read it without bifocals.

i sat there and waited for you.
then, after the time it took for the ice to form on the window,
i left.
i knew you'd never make it.
maybe there was another appointment, an important peice of business to attend to.
all i got was a crummy mass-mailing of the same carbon copied letter of good tidings.
i want more than that.
i don't have the capital, nor the time to confess such demands.
it's just not my style.
you know my style.
i fiend for you almost as much as i fiend for blank sheets of paper when the mood hits me.
stop.

i just remembered the time that i walked the 5 miles to your house
in the pouring rain and i had forgotten to wear my glasses
showed up at your door and took one smell of you and it was over
a line drawn in the sand- crossed.
the child-like empress sleeping soundly in her bed while we broke each other
further than we ever had before.
i couldn't see- that was obvious.
i only came (hahahaha) to tell you that dylan never found what he was looking for in "isis".
that he spent years trying to find something that didn't exist.
that he came back to isis in the end, that
it was all for naught and you said you hadn't been through the
pyramids all embedded in ice.
your speech came to a chorus of laughter.

decided you were evil that night and that i'd spend my entire life
killing you in my dreams, and fantasizing of ways to tear the empress' crown right off her crimson head.

you didn't even drive me home later. it was still raining.