my words might wash up against your shore in torn up shreds each scribbled letter faded obscured by time obscured by rippling waves that thrash and tear each piece left vague dowsed in mystery and a lingering a longing to be read
soon maybe next time i'll be mature enough to put them in a bottle.
I wish I could fit myself inside a bottle, that travels across oceans sailing off with the message, earth is not home anymore and that I'm better off, living in this beautiful irony of getting by with the swelling, and the panics and the wild spasms of the waters—
After leaving I thought I knew it all, and that’s the worst part. Because all I ever wanted was silence but now the silence pierces like a dart. And I thought I was strong to walk away from ruins- but tell me, does it take more strength to walk or build, in all honesty? And all the words I chanted to my heart are the opposite of what I now croak from the bottom of an empty bottle, from the hollow of my soul, from the redness of my eyes, from the fullness of my mind and every ounce of my wit now only proclaims, you made me a hypocrite.
in a thick milk bottle a dark green one which grandfather found on the beach after the war having inside a shriveled yellow paper without any drawing without any inscription the grandmother's ashes stayed for a while
grandmother being skinny the bottle was almost empty so the grandfather put the paper back in place
when he missed her he took the bottle put it on his chest and spoked to her and when my grandmother had to answer him he was turning it like an hourglass and so he did for two years until he crouched too (although it was harder because he was hefty) in the milk bottle
then to make room for him I finally took that sheet and I stuck it on the window
when it rains on the sea and it's lightning on both sides of the paper two overlapping palms can be seen one of a woman and the other of a man crossed in filigree by a single line of life
I'm back to not sleeping again I'm back to doing drugs without my friends I'm back to nothing An empty room An empty bottle A full head and ashtray I wish I could close my eyes and go to bed But I just can't
Having luck where I can achieve anything... Is like a young kid opening a bottle of their favorite bottled soda the day it first came out! Awaiting it's arrival like the coating of a nice breeze dancing throughout the company of skin coated with sweat. As the hairs with little droplets of already coated sweat came (as if a light drizzle fell over the field of endless rows of arm hair) not so long ago. Standing perfectly ***** as the sun blazes downward like a coating of sticky smog! Making the tips of the already (***** endless rows of arm hair) shine brightly with droplets bending light between it's different surfaces. Almost as if when looking through the pure liquid droplets, you see the inside of a crystal instead. A crystal fine layer with the inside of many warped and distorted angles. All the very uncomfortable effects may seem mildly dreary...at first. Except for the awaiting call of the miracle that is the sizzling bubbles popping within a still closed bottle cap of your favorite bottled soda! And that's where ALL the effects that may seem mildly dreary...at first, is usually because of the miracle that is on an "occasional" slight delay! Sincerely... The "luck" is in the young kids favorite bottled soda!
Luck isn't just impatient...when it's truly hungry full of vigor! Especially when it wants to thrive in a motion full of severity!
The lid of a stained glass bottle, leaves a burning sensation in my palm. What was I hoping for? Surely, this message will wrinkle- my painful words silently drifting away. And all that'd be left was my starving soul, craving to be found one day.
Nobody looks too deep at the paintings I do Could you tell who was the person lost Who was drowning in the sea that I so much efforted to paint Me, in the coldest and fakest water alive Dead, and lost, such as a skeleton should be. I, in love, how I wanted to be; Satisfying love like lavender field in summer, Flame of a candle, warmness from the fire But frightened from the same medicine Love is overrated and unpatieful, cold as a bottle of gin Submersed in the midnight lake. I've always been afraid of falling in love, They never told were we would fall to, or where from And if so, do we land or do we keep falling? Is love an abism or a simple metaphor?