Love... Coming in sunset hues in my dreams And incubus-like shadows. Too long... I watched honey smeared lips And just admired. I feel... That love smells rather of pesticides than freedom. Like having to love to say I hate you? What the **** is that... Love... Is cold in the air Platonic, romantical, ****** you name it. I've no love to spare. Gravitational regret... How smooth can you be? What's falling in love and what's just thinking about it, the possibility, of potentially feeling what is marketed as... Love. Dedicational letters or careless texts seem useless, Unless they make you feel less worthless. Nonetheless it's just advertisement for some feeling growing out of my inexistent basement. Cynical... I've been told, told that I have an asexual view over romanticisms and ****** encounters. No. I am just as perverted as the rest of the world, Possibly even more. But what is ******* and *** to love The statuesque human principle? Simply just as relatives as time.
lick tongue sealed the chronic condition of this flimsy envelope glue made mobile tongue devours all that made the flavour of that sweet additive of ever so luring adhesive taste me taste me seal me like your lips after i brush my fingers down your sifting hair to your hypnotic hips ASSSSSSSSSSS UHHHHHHH conceal me and i'll seal you with every taste glue me down with your formulating lip gloss a message you'll carry around with you that was never spoken loud this envelope is sealed and is waiting to be dropped at its destination P.O. box 123 love me like i could have loved you
Anticipation and all its fulfillment Expectations and their dissapointment. Laying in the bathtub on my birthday. Like a fool. And laughing sincerely Scared of further living Letting someone else love for me. Because dreams are too vivid. I don't like you I just need your warmth. For now and probably for a month. And it's so enchanting How I'm so careless but so scared So reckless but so restrained. Too young to be able to understand. How it all functions, Young and flirtatious. Keeping the rest to myself because anything else is a negation. Broken promises and broken bones, On loud nights when I drink nonalchoolic champagne. Heat raves and the sky falls, I'm 16 and alive. How did I make it? Young and clueless, Life's a movie and I'm awfully egotistical. Undoubtedly hypocritical. Speaking to all the clouds and ignoring the voices around. Baby, I tell them, "ill never fall back into love" I'm an idiot plus the stars said love's just a social construct. An experiment. So i stood there in the dark, no water in the bathtub just me, listening to chuckles in my room celebrating my birthday.
yes at times I do agree to the things you say about you and me - at times I agree until nothing at all comes undone knots having been burnt by the zany boiling suns
at times I think that each word crawling underneath the seams is worth eating and each promise I steal tastes like melting butter and steel beams
at times the iron builds up in my core and I can divulge no more at times, there is no time because for some reason you control my reality as a whole and when my world starts to crumble you simply press reset so things go back to the old way where I would agree with you, again and again
Thou and thy hangdog airs! In sheer betrayl, You started it. My brother told me thence Who left? and I said "...I don't care from hence Cuz--(nevermind)." So who is now to scale 'Non showing off that, erm, I do?! In frail Excuse for all this foolishness, whose sense Has fueled this madness?! Yours, for all intents. Yet wherefore do we thus go on sans bail? I swear, no sooner do I throw as twere The towel in on this game, but lo, twon't do. You're back in gear to circumvent my poor Attempts at moving on. You like me too? No, that can't be. But oh! Tomorrow. You're What, eh? Not jealous of my smiles, are you?
Okay. *slams his door to let me know he begs to differ with my bravado that "I don't care about--" and: YOU win.
Thinking about heading west again. Except now it’s real. Maybe a basement apartment in the suburbs. Or just somebody’s old bedroom. My mom says I need to slow down. Rest. She knows I’ve been sick for months. But then I would have to start thinking again. On the way to her house, this morning, there were two pickup trucks parked by the train tracks. The sky hurt to look at - what else is new. Something hurts inside too – a place I can’t pinpoint. I want to drive and listen to sweet music. But should I leave when I came so close to losing you? I don’t want to be half a world away if the ground breaks. You think the desert sounds good for me – it does, it does. It’s so hard to tell when you’re happy for me. We have the same sad eyes, the same predisposition for addiction – same blood, too thick. That side of my family reads like a warning label. The other side – less clear – I spent a lot of time with family last week. Finally I piece together that maybe my mom is the black sheep. Not in the traditional sense – but a runaway, scared. I’m scared too. Not of the same things, always. I don’t mind being alone at the train station. My dad says he wanted to tell me in person – it’s hard to believe now. He still doesn’t want to talk about it. So I tell him I’m moving – but it’s the least excited I’ve been. Maybe I should take the guest bedroom and just call it quits.