To read my old conversations...
That are long now passed,
It is both more, and less jarring than I expected it to be.

I am taken aback,
Not because I am taken back,
But only due to the sharp and nigh painful retrospect of our mistakes.
How differently I wish I did anything,
Not because I wish I still had you,
But, because I am disappointed in myself for not living up to my own values...
Blinded by the blind, blind love I was in.

Retrospect and nostalgia may be similar,
In fact...
They're either edge of the same sword.

"you know, a thief who has stolen from a queen is typically locked away, never to see the light of day again."
"yes, but perhaps my heart was given, not taken."

We fall past the need of others
Entrapped and wrenched from howling legions
Smell the air, the sense of sages
Crying 'Secrets! Secrets beyond ages!'

Sell your soul for whispered love
A candle burning into skin
Forbidden words spill from mangled throats
Tongues wag loose, tell me what hurts

I know your fears and sacred comforts
Fleeting addict shakes with longing
Give me touch till your bones are empty
I fill your needs from my own coffers

I fill your needs from my own coffers

I see your soul.
A barren strain isn’t hard to examine.
I know the flatline and dead mindlessness
that comes as a sand storm sweeps.
I know those aches and groans.

I’ve sat by the colorless windows
of a gloomy city, seeing nothing but strangers
with indifferent eyes.
I’ve walked these streets feeling the laughter
vibrate but never entering this gray soul.

I’ve bought all the whisky to drown out
the fluorescent lights of love blooming
in the new year.
Grabbed book after book
in hopes to fill the gaps and dents in me.
There might be a cure
but don’t find it in someone else.

For those tropical storms can carry
them away and leave you to wallow
alone like a tape on replay.

So run.
Go far and leave this town.
Run from your life.
Travel.
Eat.
And pray.

Then maybe you can love and blossom
in the lights for the choices taken
by a wandering soul.

Fit to nothing but feel everything.
For life is too short to sit- read- drink-
and feel the burn of salt on your cheeks.

Sincerely yours,

Wanda

In the tomb of my memories
I lie stretched out like some limpering anusmachine
staring into itself for eternity, transfixed by machine eye

I wish there was a nicer way to say this
but there isn't -

memory defines our actions in life
we are prisoners to our past
and nailed to our fates
such as whimpering
such as being pathetic in public
such as drawing from the circuits the
treachery of turds descending

Morning ****,
Oh the release.

Lust is gone because of broken hearts.
Living terminates as excitement fades.
Love stops when meaning is lost.
Life is arrested at the scene of the crime.