It leaves its handprints on all that I see, and tarnishes all I touch with poison Feeds depression like a maggot, to deepen this cursed mire that is my place to be It snatches my thoughts away from all glee, and I wish I would vanish, be hidden And alone long for a secret Eden, for a decade it has tormented me
It told me: ”You will never have a hand to hold, nor starry eyes to madly love Alone you'll stay, you're too broken, cautious Your spirit forever burns with my brand, there will be no olive branch, no sweet dove” Thus spoke the cold, dead void called Loneliness
Written sometime in October 2016 after an all-encompassing, amazingly crushing sensation of loneliness.
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box, Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence. I'm wasting away in a paradise of my own creation!
Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism, and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose. As everything starts to return to a drumming constant. It all sounds the same. Like ashen trees and factories which procrastinate and suffocate.
We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and lonely daydreams. I know it sounds dramatic but as is the nature of reality. Drab and dreary and acid washed. Interrupted like a beach by the sea, By the little peices of honey soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions. A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from. Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pool. So. Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Of coffee and two bass lines and pollen and folk. Make it for me so I can watch you as you work. Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters. How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide out of boredom. And black hot frustration.
Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked acceptance. Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions. Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.
Give me seatwarmers and handholding Or corvettes and convertables. Give me arrowheads and heart attacks Humble my bones with a cardiac
!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.! SITCOMS ADJASENT PLOTLINES mumble rap AND ***** TALK HOTLINES four letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning
Its September in January and it rains for a day And despite our efforts We still waste away