would you like to dance?

Sometimes. I envy the clouds. The ability to escape large crowds, where stagnant lines come from pained mouths, lines of songs yet unwritten to lines of pain and hatred. Lines that make others wish they were dead where they stand just so someone else can feel content with themselves. This disgusting creature of a society churns like a hungry machine, eating the ignorant teen and spewing out those with a mental illness. Allowing these people to play their bodies like violins and to play target practice with the roof of their mouths. So yeah, sometimes I do envy the clouds.

Hopping fences in my sleep. Malicious intent that I wish to repent but I won't allow this attempt get me down, this time. No. This time is different. Different in the way that you would not suspect. It's change in a way with resounding effect that I tend to dissect, but only with a grain of salt. I clatter to the floor, still awake. I feel the urge to run but my body doesn't let me. My muscles no longer want to support what my mind couldn't.

This pen and paper feeds a hungry mind. A mind that's driven by thoughts that drive the deprived. The deprived mind is a mind which is filled with inconsistencies. Inconsistencies of ideas that were never finished. Finished ideas reap rewards only I can understand. Understanding the motives of finishing ideas is difficult for me to process. Processing endings for me is like trying to get a dog to chase an invisible ball. A ball which is full of non-existent closings. A close is something I can never agree with myself on. On the end of a page is something that never occurs to my mind. A mind that is deprived. Deprived like the end of th

It was warm today so I thought of you. Where are you? I've been waiting months and months but you still won't come. They're taking you away slowly but surely. We're taking you away.

I don't see through these frames like I used to. The blindness portrayed by none other than myself. Accidental smudges. ***** frames.

To the mind that has only offered compassion and the best, how long will you hold your guise? How long will it take before it's shattered? You've been holding on for so long, can't you see how easy it is to slip? Just let go you say. Just. Let. Go.

He opens up in incognito, he lets her know through broken text. The emotions he feels, the way that he talks easily depicts what she does for him. He doesn't want to see her, all he wants is same. She promised friendship but all he got was blame. She's showing off to him, she shows him bones that do not fit, but they were cheap and easy to find. He rests shaken, knowing that he was cheap and easy too.

You left too early to grant me personal wisdom, but left enough of a trail to guide my thoughts. These words are written with you in mind, your eyes seeming to know these words before I write them myself. Your birds and your nature are held behind my eye sockets with the undertones of drugs and fear. King of Lizards.

You’ll never see that side of me. The closest you will ever touch is right here. No matter how hard you try to pry me open I will stay closed. This isn’t for anyone to see. I’ve closed the emotional side of me a long time ago. I’m sorry.

I tried to be your inspiration.
I left.
You left.
And so did your poetry.

i think of you as physical cravings derived from my love of the earth. you lack selfishness and you appear familiar yet unexpected. you're mysterious to my past yet feeble and soft to my present. what will be your physical form?

He was simply searching for eyes, for what is he without? He's scared to show his art.

I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.

I’m never satisfied. I will leech off of you until you are an empty vessel of compassion and I am full of apathy. You will give me everything and I will willingly take it knowing that I won’t love you anymore. I feed off of my interest like a self sustaining *****, not knowing what to do with myself at times. I’m not going to tell you I’m sorry. Because I’m not. It’s you who should be sorry for yourself.

The village burned with a hatred of another, minds regarded as numbers. As the smoke died down not a sound was heard among the charred. Minds wasted for profit. Minds wasted for gain.