Prickly languid pear. Hold fast against the wilted branch.
Thank the tree for its regard; the limb that decayed the least. O' how my will hangs as I do above the death who brought us this rot Pear, languid and prickly. Tenacious pride claws and bites at morbid despair and lonesome longing; neither victorious.
Ashen sky dust and burn the peel
Languid pear. Pain felt from the dying of the limb that had more than you in the end
Resentment tucked between the anguish. Who brought us this rot? O' how this will fades unable to deliver the cut that will end The branch snaps.
Languid. World devoid; the will of which persists.
there is a wasteland the abdomen of a swollen sea watching precariously as i bite into bits of dark chocolate and don't stop until the entire package is on the floor like a drunken dancer or a torn best friend a candor that i sold auspiciously for a pair of high heels that i never wear, they just sit in my closet waiting for dirt to be pushed into the canvas of it's sole i'll only wear them indoors when it's raining and i can hear the synchronizing of the drops on the roof top with each step i take onto the hard-wood floor -tap tap tap tap i'll do this until the sincerity is gone from the momentum eventually next summer they'll be forgotten in a cardboard box that has "free" written with a red sharpie and perhaps it's next owner will be forgiving, will take the loneliness of the esoteric feeling of wanting to be worn and introduce them to the vinyl floors of a cheap club or the cold linoleum floors of an expensive resort hotel i'd like for things that I've known to have a continued story even after it's out of mine, and they do
there is a wasteland a woman that constantly licks her lips because they're dry but they're only dry because of the constant moisture forced upon them the reduction of catch-22 as if the joke doesn't fall smack into your clothes trying to find something underneath the bra strap, past the skin but you can never get through, can you? she pulls your hand away and you're left feeling rudimentary lacking, like the lackadaisical manner in which the lights never hit you the way you wish it did
The flower in the wasteland exudes life itself: The physical entity of determination and will to live. Yes she may be damaged from all the toxic surroundings. And yes there were times she accepted her weakness. But she still prevails. Sprouting joy despite all that. She's special. She's the flower that survived.
I wake up to to see a wasteland clearly in vain Covered with imprints of horror and pain The shadows of night sneak about in my eyes All I can see are the Tunnels made to echo my cries And All I can hear Is the loud fast rhythm of fear There is know where to go chained up in an invisible chian It feels as though im locked up in a cage of pain Forever here to witness the bitter cold of this life Or Perhaps to escape with a with a gleaming sharp knife Only to think no it's not right This I must fight I must find myself light To end this endless night
“A flame” a familiar voice said “has always been there and never gone out” I recognize the voice I hear my mind shout It was the voice of myself I exclaimed with haste A voice I lost when I entered this place
In front of me was a can of joy A stalk of memories I stretched myself out to get the can I barely can reach and find out what all this can teach I pull out heat and flame Disposing of shadows and bringing them shame The flame flys through the illusion of myself Breaking my chains And riding me of my pains I look at the world I was in falling apart Whilst expelling the bitter and the **** I knew from that terror. that place?.