Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
She wanted to tell her that she craved her: her presence, her soul, the mere sight of her silhouette.
But she couldn't tell; she knew,
it wouldn't change anything,
she was just an option,
that she was not the girl she hoped she was when she fell in love.

What she loved was just a delusion, one she designed in her mind.
Desperately clutching onto an empty idea that could never be fulfilled.
A persistent ache; reoccurring sighs.
So when the urges of reaching her came, and they came often
she hid, so quietly and patiently
knowing that one day
the girl she dreamed of would emerge; the love she deserved would be received; the life she yearned for would begin...
Midnight, milk-light, scatter her ashes in the night.
Without a fright, yet no delight; stay away, out of sight.
Midnight, milk-light, my axe tucked up tight.
Psychedelic eyes might bite, chomping; I contain increased foresight.  
Midnight, milk-light, soul rupturing twilight.
Innocent baby claimed despite
My sedulous might.

Clutch at my throat; make me fight.
Clench onto my bones, they are composed of dolomite.
Cast my duty into exile; cease her scorching light.
Caress the midnight milk-light and be freed of your God’s smite…
Based on the Woodsman from Over the garden wall.
A girl, vulnerable to her mind; a woman, nevertheless the same.
In the hollow of her washing bubble a puddle commenced; she couldn’t gather herself together again for she was too scattered.
To the least it’s what she believed.

Two babies cradled in a different corner to her, weeping willows mourning; are they to grow into this too?
Rejection of nature predominantly designed a fallacy of lost hood.
The third baby, still weeping, yet enriched with independence. Invited by a luxurious blanket for warmth in harsh winters. Although she remained a soulless entity, she still furnished the cot with crackers and coins.

Under the ice berg someone contained a classified secret: matching skin, shape, and freckles to the motherless mother who is a motherless mother to the children.
Cancerous voids developed after someone observed the woman in isolation; dread for the future of her identity, is it fixed and determined?
Notice the matching freckle.
The singular, particular one. In child’s eye it cried destiny of starvation from stability. As time passed like clouds over soggy skies, the mark had faded into crimson skin.
The dual burden tumbled as if it was an ill mind: she is not her but who is she now?

If the mark bound their love together, who is she now? Is nature of need, instinct and identity consumed by the insatiable washing bubble?
Is the missing freckle to ever be found?
I finally gathered the motivation to write again
In a field of smiling sunflowers, at odorous sunrise, he stood clad in blue. Reminiscing on her face, how perfectly structured her cheeks were when she giggled innocently; a loud eruption of sorrow drained through his arteries. He bled into her, desperately wishing for her to convert his blood and generate wine.

In a field of melancholy sunflowers, stood tall and limp, she sat clad in emerald.
Hands around -so tightly- her throat
Clenching until unconsciousness dominates.
She couldn’t remember him; he never existed.

Blood to her a sacred trophy, never mind the bitter wine.
Contempt in endless solitude,
Yet she questioned,
Is this all but a dream?
The satisfying sound of a rich man's spoon clashing, ever so gently, against a precious little teacup -small enough for a child- sends you into a fit-like turmoil. I designed that.
For months I spent in a frenzy, an obsessive, a mind dominating state desperately squabbling through pages, hunting for you. No, you may believe that this encounter signifies you as someone of importance, but truly you are nothing more than a facade that is efficient for my purposes; I'll have to use you in order to never lose to you and lock you up in a cell so hidden that not even the greatest hounds could find you; you'll decay whilst overcome with the emotions you possessed me with: obsession, depression, and envy. It is magnificent that an individual with an identity as low and empty as yours can hold such immense fascination over the human mind.

Regret is proof of an individual's conversion with their reality; they depend on hope to raise them above the bitter disappointment. I do not regret the fact that I sought you out after you had tormented me. I regret, however, conversing with you in a language I perceived to be so indestructible and powerful and beautiful and peculiar. Had I have not committed such loathsomeness by bleeding into your association, I may not be so alienated.

Are you, or am I, or are we each other's design? Unfortunately enough I have been engulfed in a radioactive pit and the elephant's foot has swarmed me.
Despite your heinous wreckage, I cannot (although my efforts are still there) seem to open the eyes of those who love you or have loved you, to cure them of the blindness you struck them with, so they may live to witness the revival of yellow and the revival of spring blossoms.

These are my last words with hidden intention of reaching you. These are my last words to be shared in the form of my own comfort and my own safety.
Alas, the end of the hunt stands here. Bid me free of you; I'll bid you free of the childlike fits (fated by the melody of the teacup) and the misery that fills you when you hear my name.

To this I hope is the end. To this, I say to you for the final time. Goodbye...
They rest, there on a windowsill, wondering on how to act; the pain of the past had brought the constant blues.
Alone at midnight, clueless, their mind an unsolved puzzle.
How they’d love for a figure to awake, maybe they could be alone together.

Droplets of rain drizzled down the cold glass of the window; mist engulfing the atmosphere. Cloud’s tears merged with theirs; they wept together, in a peaceful solitude spent leering resentfully at the ever so vacant roads.
Each parked car: isolated, secluded, in an  exemplary position for the foe with savage schemes, feeding from the terrors the night. Seeking their reinforcements in brutal hours.

Amber street lights reflected ominous shadows of the trees with faces, expressions of all sorts: fright, delight, madness and sadness. Perplexing confusion scraped into the tough oak.  
Like a jack in the box, leaves sprang up into the wind; surging through loop the loops to an unknown destination. An unknown home, in a village of poverty. That’s where they had lie, in a location ****** to destruction and a law lacking consideration.

An overwhelming, overpowering desire to become real, to be something alive, possessed them as if depression was the new supernatural.
Crookedness humiliated their figure like sniggering hyenas. To perceive a demon of your skin receives you a glorious enlightenment; love is not craved, happiness is not to your taste (but you do not know if you like something until you try it) and the iced wall sealing you from reality cannot be melted.

If life’s an unescapable film, all they could ponder on was the obsession over the idea of this film finally coming to an end.
No one else exists but you.
Crooked the way I’ll remain-
Sit upon the bay in pain
Inescapable prey, death lane
Why wouldn’t you want to stay?
Man I wrote this a **** long time ago and none of it makes any sense ****
Coldness, a parasite to my soul; making my ghost inside my bones quiver.
Nothing can dismember it’s frost.
I’m so cold.
But,
You appear as a raging fire,
Wanting to extinguish you, my shivering spirit clutches onto your skin. Craving your warmth: to sink in like blood on fur, to feed the ravenous cold that’s so bitter it growls at the searing sun.
Thus, you ablaze reflected in my eyes, invented an ultimate revelation;
To heat this cold it must starve,
To fill the hole I must turn my body to charcoal,
And decay in the Death Valley...
Next page