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#trust-issues
when did compasssion leave you and get replaced by apathy and lips touching bottles of alcohol like they belonged to her mouth you only wish you could hold the sun of her face sweat off your worries in her holy let her know that to be resurrected you first need to perish let her feel the sadistic toll of stillborn happiness let the content promise be a threat let her know you will not auction off your heart for it to be sold again at a profit let her fall asleep knowing that you will be there in the morning but you will watch her all night long to make sure she does not leave you hollow like a haunted house an abandoned building you've watched too many lonely sunsets to believe that hills like her are anything more than a shelter you've heard too many whispers of the wind to think that the way she touches you will last any longer than storm
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Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
fluorescentmind
paranoid
when did compasssion leave you and get replaced by apathy and lips touching bottles of alcohol like they belonged to her mouth you only wish you could hold the sun of her face sweat off your worries in her holy let her know that to be resurrected you first need to perish let her feel the sadistic toll of stillborn happiness let the content promise be a threat let her know you will not auction off your heart for it to be sold again at a profit let her fall asleep knowing that you will be there in the morning but you will watch her all night long to make sure she does not leave you hollow like a haunted house an abandoned building you've watched too many lonely sunsets to believe that hills like her are anything more than a shelter you've heard too many whispers of the wind to think that the way she touches you will last any longer than storm
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After what feels like a plethora of years I've fallen in a hole that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it because once in a while after a plethora of days or hours I am pulled apart by emotion. No, not emotion-- the repercussions thereof The repercussions, the repercussions of those repercussions, and the repercussions of those-- A plethora of consequences Have you ever been so stressed out that you actually vomited? Me... neither? Instead I sway from side-to-side like a swing pushed in the wrong direction and as the sky turns I make corrections only hoping my wisdom is "grammatically", structurally sound-- unlike a skyscraper pushed in the wrong direction-- As my eyes begin to burn I wish the sky would just stay dark and that morning would never come so I wouldn't have to meet my daily migraine nor the time of day when I have to stop wait listen learn work negotiate, speak, drum, impress, produce, create, multiply add and subtract all in one sitting all in one hour every **** hour Nor the time of day when I start to think about you. That's when my mind finds my heart. They don't speak-- They just listen to one another smiling sweet as Tupelo honey I can almost imagine it through the blood rushing in my ears when I close them-- But it just feels like a fist fight in my chest, and the rage of it burns in my throat and the spectators cheer them on which resonates in my hands which are then unable to write which is a sad fact that keeps my eyes from shutting at night, at least not as soon as I want them to-- You don't have to tell me I'm crazy-- It screams at the back of my head when you stare at me like that thinking a plethora of things that I can't keep in a jar so that I can spread it on my toast in the morning-- Saying a plethora of things I misinterpret to silence this plethora of thoughts that fall from my eyes without ever reaching the ground and the plethora of grass-roots who wouldn't know how to drink them if they did The plethora of times I passed opportunities without saying a word, disguised them as reasons not to say a plethora of phrases in reply-- The plethora of plethoras that communicate through an alphabet of more than twenty-six letters so that, in the middle of the night-- when I don't know what to dream about and therefore must think instead-- it can irritate me in more words than belong in a dictionary. But sometimes there's just one word and the word that haunts me tonight is: Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... That's the flat sound of Pl-, a soft, tender eth- and the gasp of an -a Plethora-- Plethora-- A hundred things yet to be said Plethora-- So many crises so much time Plethora-- Not quite enough to make you mine Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora...
0
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
sarah-sad-matcha
Just the Repercussions
After what feels like a plethora of years I've fallen in a hole that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it because once in a while after a plethora of days or hours I am pulled apart by emotion. No, not emotion-- the repercussions thereof The repercussions, the repercussions of those repercussions, and the repercussions of those-- A plethora of consequences Have you ever been so stressed out that you actually vomited? Me... neither? Instead I sway from side-to-side like a swing pushed in the wrong direction and as the sky turns I make corrections only hoping my wisdom is "grammatically", structurally sound-- unlike a skyscraper pushed in the wrong direction-- As my eyes begin to burn I wish the sky would just stay dark and that morning would never come so I wouldn't have to meet my daily migraine nor the time of day when I have to stop wait listen learn work negotiate, speak, drum, impress, produce, create, multiply add and subtract all in one sitting all in one hour every **** hour Nor the time of day when I start to think about you. That's when my mind finds my heart. They don't speak-- They just listen to one another smiling sweet as Tupelo honey I can almost imagine it through the blood rushing in my ears when I close them-- But it just feels like a fist fight in my chest, and the rage of it burns in my throat and the spectators cheer them on which resonates in my hands which are then unable to write which is a sad fact that keeps my eyes from shutting at night, at least not as soon as I want them to-- You don't have to tell me I'm crazy-- It screams at the back of my head when you stare at me like that thinking a plethora of things that I can't keep in a jar so that I can spread it on my toast in the morning-- Saying a plethora of things I misinterpret to silence this plethora of thoughts that fall from my eyes without ever reaching the ground and the plethora of grass-roots who wouldn't know how to drink them if they did The plethora of times I passed opportunities without saying a word, disguised them as reasons not to say a plethora of phrases in reply-- The plethora of plethoras that communicate through an alphabet of more than twenty-six letters so that, in the middle of the night-- when I don't know what to dream about and therefore must think instead-- it can irritate me in more words than belong in a dictionary. But sometimes there's just one word and the word that haunts me tonight is: Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... That's the flat sound of Pl-, a soft, tender eth- and the gasp of an -a Plethora-- Plethora-- A hundred things yet to be said Plethora-- So many crises so much time Plethora-- Not quite enough to make you mine Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora...
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