Dec 2010
The wind blows hard tonight. The wind takes every bit of warmth from my marrow and doesn't bring any of it back. No, this is not an art that you have mastered exclusively, as much as that may disappoint you.
Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like ****, but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.
I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.
Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.
The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.
The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.
In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged.
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.
I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ******. Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored.
Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.
Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.
Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.
Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like ****, but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.
I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.
Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.
The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.
The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.
In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged.
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.
I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ******. Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored.
Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.
Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.
Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.
