"delineated" poems
The smell of a spring rain
settling on the earth
is the smell of life anew.
At the window, I sit with a book,
both cracked,
cooled by the alfresco air seeping through,
and tiny droplets glissando down the pane.
The pitter-patter of a soft rain
falling to the parched earth
is the sound of life replenished.
At the rain's offset, I leap from my chair,
exiting the front door,
to saunter through the lush green pastures
that linger outside the library's confines.
How green the trees appear, and the grass--
how rich the stalks of the trees,
their boughs with budding leaves quenched,
glistening in the sun.
I even enjoy the scent coming off the once arid pavement--
it is the smell of the earth,
freed from its impedance,
rising above the stifling asphalt.
I smell the life that lingers beneath,
and the dull metallic tinfoil taste of the pavement
fills my open nostrils--
It is pleasant, though a little less so, than the ambrosial landscape.
I inhale ever so deeply,
relishing my favorite part of spring,
in the offset of a warm afternoon rain on a brisk day,
sauntering through the wood-laden trails on worn brick paths,
to the paved parking lot where my car awaits--
delineated in a filmy layer of mired pollen residue.
It needed a wash anyways.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
She is a character perfect
for my work of science fiction,
chosen after much research
on unreliability of reality
as one knows does exist,
it's even more true of her.
In a hurry I concluded,
"What a luck, I chose to write her
as the character of possibility!
then, how quickly
the class I expected of her
went totally to seed.
are we opposites?
Or, is this reality not shared by both of us?
what can one say about a situation when,
my own creation fights against my writ,
No, I am not in the same league as Luigi Pirandello
this is the result when commonsense is delineated
by a hallucinating mind, caught in love net.Zilch.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
Child in bubble
In the delineated rubble
A bone to be scavenged.
Cobbler tying butterflies
The polish left dry
A bone to be scavenged.
Tailors stitching suit
Tape measured six foot
A bone to be scavenged.
Bullet tattoos is to bliss
Is this the balance?
A bone to be scavenged
A hunger to be avenged.
The inner vulture.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
The velvet cover aroused a cringe inside,
With the touch to the diary with his wrinkled hand,
And the stolid shiver began to subside,
Pouring grin over his face, as the pages were scanned.
He stared at the words, turning the pages leisurely,
Every line he read, triggered mild sentiments,
Not very severe but gentle and silly,
Soothing and abating the repressed resentments.
The diary delineated the stories behind each verse,
With hues of despair and projections of curse,
Depicting doleful goodbyes and cheerful handshakes,
All of them crushing and sinking into the filthy lakes.
Hopping from one stanza to another,
He slowed down his pace as he moved further,
Like the dormancy of his brain and the moments gray,
The lines reminded him of his birthday.
"I'm a poem, you'd liked to take a glance at,
I'm candle you will blow, I'm the feather on your hat,
I'm the words in your veins, I'm the verses you make,
I'm the lyrics on your lips, I'm the name on your birthday cake."
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
While inspired by the sun
She chases the sharp saccharine song
That follows the birth of morning
New day only granted its light
By the world held within her gaze
A body of delineated elysium
Elicting every second
Of what was known to be so desolate
Forever my heart will beat
To the breath of imperfection
She. Is. Perfect.
"We remain on the branches of a tree waiting for the day we will rule the earth. We are the rain."
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
Arteries benumbed
Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun
Reading your mind even worse
Print so small
Foldings such as a roadmap
Those molecular models delineated
Moods might just as well be
Translating cuneiform
You wedge-shape marks on me
Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter
That mascara you wear
Like kajal on Persian Princess
Ovular pills with spider legs
How do I defend from?
Enigmatical ellipses
Narcotic exotic
I look for, but find no
Adjoining pamphlets or warnings
To all your strange side-effects
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Some women serve up their ******* in coyness
under blouse, purposely delineated.
Others serve them up in boldness
rolling them out and hoisted to
their lips or ours for pleasure.
Still others serve them on the half-shell--
a teasing delicacy, but are they FAKE OR NATURAL?
Alas! Sometimes it's a ****** tough job to tell!
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
the planet makes another pass
around its lonely star
an arbitrary point in space-time
delineated by a self-aggrandized
emperor stabbed to death by
those closest to him
et tu
brute
i spent the night
the sole attendee in a
dreary cinema
half-asleep
ignoring spasms
of guilt and envy
witnessing the depravity
to which the 1%
would sink to ensure
their profits never
decreased
you were getting wasted
with strangers and
fair-weather friends
on cheap liquor and i can't
help but wonder if he's there
does he even ask to hold your hand
and i'll nurse
my jealousy
the way you'd
sip a lukewarm beer
it tastes foul but
no one wants to be
the only one at a
New Year's Eve party
who has to be
sober
some nights i imagine i am
the lone survivor of an ill-fated crew
the very last human being
in an apathetic galaxy
awakened from hypersleep
trapped aboard this
spaceship
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
If you Google it, the search comes up as a dot it is so small
growing up years ago they said the population was 500
but that had to have included the people passing through
for we had an ESSO, Schell, Gulf, BP and Texaco gas station
Being on the way to cottage country we were that stop
far enough from the big city for cottagers to be ready
for a bathroom break and a fill up at the pumps
Crime was something we only read about in the papers
Our claim to fame the lake, and ice fishing
You could drive your car to the island in the dead of winter
passing by fish huts painted in an array of colors
The ice road delineated by trees to avoid getting lost
Sure we had the odd break in at a cottage but nothing
that got our name in the news
Oh, we also had two churches and a one room school house
we arrived when I was in grade two, Miss Mitchell was the teacher
Growing up in those days meant hours playing
If we weren’t swimming, we were future hockey stars
or baseball players, Ian and I at the back of the school
pitcher and hitter challenging each other
Hours upon hours at a time spent with kids from down the street
Sure there were the petty fights but mostly with my brothers,
but what can you expect when you have four boys growing up
each vying to become adult like
Those were, in my mind, the days of innocence
before computers and the world became larger
and the internet allowed you to see it all,
the poverty, the deadliness of war, man’s cruelty
Once a place I wanted to desperately get away from
to get lost in the city, an introvert looking for a place to hide
I now find myself reminiscing of those long lost days
where life was simple and a day could be spent daydreaming
Andreas Simic©
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 7:08 AM UTC
Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With agony, thou cry, thou scream and thou sleep
Staggering over time, the extensions of gore
A morph possessed over the flags: cloistered around throat
An uttering of serene eons, of atrophy and of thaw;
A morass of hegemony, of identity and war
Withered from bullets,drained over the ground
A knock on the coffin of tommorrow and the past
A chronology misplaced and outdone
And a synapse of presence smothered with the breath of dust
Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With hope, thou bawl, thou shout, thou sleep
Chaotic commemoration ruptures over the streets
Splatters around an arcane, segregated country
Under the mud of enigma lies the rotten leaves of history
Away the tomorrow leans, restless and unknowingly
For it lies awake with the screams of a rifle, the screeching audibilty of ghostly mutterings, the camaraderie caught on flesh, between the teeth of craved monarchy
For the tomorrow lies awake near the history.
For the past suffocates the vivacity
Yclept the peace, yclept the tranquility!
Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With anger, thou yelp, thou break, thou sleep
A hymn of sigh deafens the petrifying serenity
A sigh outraged with the murmur of life
Seismic ephemerality tears the ground apart
Barges in, the present, whispers a cry
The tomorrow lies still over the chunks of calamity
Lulled to sleep with the kiss of presence,
With the screams of a distant enmity:
The burial of time that has been cloistered around the anonymity
The burial of the ceased, the past, as a euphemism
The burial of the existence, the present, as a mayhem
The burial of the undone, the tomorrow, with a malediction
All three in the same grave, punching the timeless, imminent reality they delineated
Which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
With silence, thou shatter, thou question, thou sleep
Down the ground quaffs the time
Of a city that no longer breathes
Out inundates the prayers of a dilemma
For a country is to cleave
Fidelity over a continuum, with faded prayers, shares a discourse
Befuddled with an antinomy, it asks itself, how an epitaph shall be wrought?
Down the ground swallows the confusion
Of a city that no longer cries
Now, which ground shall thine eternity crawl beneath?
To be overwhelmed by a plenitude of halves
In the name of peace, in the name of life!
Which ground shall I die beneath?
To lie awake with an eternal sleep
I no longer whisper over the divided streets
Not to awaken the past, not to revive the wounds and faded hymns
I breathe in the dust, devouring the ceased
For a divided city is to be kissed
Down I no longer hold an impulse to scream:
A gush of presence that arises a breeze
That of which billowing up the grave
Releasing a future for a road ahead
With hope, I bawl, I defy, I beg
Yclept the peace, in the name of solidarity!
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 5:28 AM UTC
In our world of clamorous wailing and insertions our entrails are left out on the curbing bloodied and useless.
If only we could fish ourselves out of our own wistful delusions.
Every creature has its role in our worlds tropic cascade, but our true delineated roles are being the cogs to catalyze our machine.
Never dethrone someone of this quality; Sometimes the seemingly most meek are the most mirthful and life changing.
Don't render yourself a graggled block in the machine due to your insecurities, love and love indelibly and you will be set free.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC
oft times as a child crayola crayons
occupied concentration
to color, with a hue and a cry
would erupt if the merest and faintest mark
trespassed violating
some shade dee rule, i'd decry
cuz even as a boy,
a peaceful nonconformist/
nonestablishmentarian streak
now finds this guy
proud to be among
the minority removed
from the madding crowd,
though blurt out a friendly "hi"
when within of the vast lines of humanity
entropy vies to get
the upper hand until ban ky
moon: secretary - (at time of this writing)
general of the United Nations
doth raise an hand gesticulating with lie
sense to subdue
the crowded housed planet fitness
even if his magic doth manage to ply
a temporary truce among
scrabbling mobs of hoodlums,
some regurgitating spoon fed
pablum patois bred from an era quois
wanton vengeful retaliation,
whence faux recapitulation
initially evidenced
from hooligans who try
to wrest control
with mortal kombat full commando
from elected officials,
who abhorring violence must vie
trump petting for state military
don protective gear
bound by parochial training
to counteract mutiny why
hill chaos runs amuck law man
dating rubric with force of arms
and crack of firearms,
which forced quiet riot doth aim
to don the mantle of government control,
whereby foot soldiers
i.e. boots on the ground -
operate asia single blame
less force to be reckoned with,
cuz the supreme arbiter of power -
who thru a coup d'etat did claim
sear of power forces opposition
to sing condescending swan song
toward ruler de jure,
which includes a price tag i.e.
at least one vestal ****** dame
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
breath
and breathe in what i have become
beneath a misery of make believe
as I hold all my torn breath to pieces
in
believing
edges of right and wrong delineated
by straight lines
are where I have tiptoed
and never fell over
with scared looking back eyes
I see I need more distance
and breath
from the lines.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
I’ve been told,
I’ve been warned
even before I comprehended human language
one should revere Text and Revelation
and should prize the Holy Book
I have been told
by Priest, High Priest, Highest Priest,
and Even Higher than Highest Priest,
and all these Declared Representatives of God on Earth
and I have been told to revere the name of God
(for some reason, these Declarers say God is a He;
they’ve had a look, I am to presume)
and to prostrate myself before the Divine Leader
and I’ve been told, advised, counseled, warned
what is right, what is just
and what is good, what is allowed
all boundaries delineated
in the Book
and I’ve been told
by parent, teacher, clerics, Holy Men and Holy Women
and I have been told by Institutions, Foundations of God
operating as Family Trusts on Planet Earth
and I’ve been told, sure –
but still I put aside
I put all away
for when I look within myself
when I look in quiet
at the world and what unfolds about
all I see is the unfolding of beauty
and so it is the unfolding of beauty that one witnesses
a beauty beyond word and symbol and book
an unfolding beyond dogma and theology
and rules and conventions
and so it is the beauty I see, that I witness
and beyond that and before that
there is nothing, nothing more than that nameless beauty
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 12:08 AM UTC
I could see the stars tonight; three of them.
Half-turned from the face of the moon, one
Could just barely make out what they were
Maybe thinking.
It was as if they were reading out their own
Transcripts of all the good nights I have ever
Had: bullet list format, possibly written on
Index cards.
Small though they undoubtedly are (if they
Are, because I’ve never seen one up close)
They make the wideness of Everything feel
So poor.
When my evenings were read out in their
Starched mutterings, the sphere of the sky
Was delineated utterly to me: one club that
No one joins.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
Exhaustion.
What a curse it is;
Awake yet better asleep,
And barely alive,
You just can't contribute to the great bee-hive of society;
And as we all know,
A working-class hero is something to be.
Yet the sound of a jet in the sky,
Or the silence of a fish in the sea,
Is no longer what seems of intrigue to me.
I'm lusting for an end to this linear life,
As delineated is a rare yet delicious spice;
Otherwise were in a great maze as a puppeteers mice;
And the differential unpredictability never fails to suffice,
Or entice.
So on the shores of the sun I question the rain;
As the sun is omnipotent and other weather insane,
And like a bird, space-ship, or a pilot and plane,
I use gravity as my balancing cane.
Or as the waves lick the shores of our earthly sands,
I walk alone on this beach and rest with a hand-stand,
As I see the clouds down below, and the ground up above;
With all of this strangeness,
I have fallen in love.
The flightier folk find solace in pain,
While I move around dancing in the rain;
And the long stories of life,
Or biography,
Perhaps understanding is always the key.
So question me in my fatigue and see what I say;
If you want the truth,
You can get it today;
I'm exhausted, and the truth is like the moons-ray;
It gives me an excuse to find a place in which to lay.
My mind is too musty,
And to wise to go pay,
For capitalist endeavor on such a fine day;
So it's over.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 10:58 AM UTC
just a bit like waves,
it comes and goes and never stay;
over the raging sea,
submerged betwixt the depths of me.
a flashback hits abruptly,
a deserted memory,
caresses like a touch, weakly,
can be delineated only just by me.
either conveniently registered,
or an untimely occurrence;
bears an optimistic euphoria,
or a somber ache.
like an old pal,
that was left astray;
a memory is only lived once,
but never forgotten.
like a ghost, in a glimpse,
it vanishes away;
a devoid mind is a devil's play,
a new seed outgrows and takes its place.
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 4:06 AM UTC
one small leaf
set adrift
from the tree
torn asunder
in wind rain
and thunder
battered
by
life's storm
now balances
pecariously
on table's edge
not yet ready
to become
detrius underfoot
waiting
daring,
demanding
to become
just another
fond,
frail memory
pale
green
perfection
unblemished
bar the untimely
amputation
each cell
delineated
in cellular beauty
taken
far too
young
sometimes
you gotta
hate
natural
selection's
descisions
sometimes
mother nature
is dumb...
crushed
but
not defeated
they
leaf brothers
and sisters
will but
carry on....
for they
are
young and hopeful
ignorant
but
strong
one death
can be absorbed
and lost in living on
the tree
will
stretch
ever upward
for that
is the
tree's
everlasting
song
seek
the sun
seek
the sun
and you
can never
go wrong.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
No voice is quite
like that voice...
pure and unfettered
every note polished
perfect
every lyric deeply felt
delineated
A voice that lifts
caresses
embraces
Soaring with power
stratospheric
in its reach
yet at times
surprisingly soft
yielding
delicate
A priest sent her
a letter stating he
felt the presence of
God every time he
heard her sing
An incomparable artist
she fills our universe
with glorious sounds
and infinite rapture
She is God's greatest gift
to music and the world...
her name is Barbra
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
This atheistic, intelligent, liberal minded
nonestablishmentarian
christened Matthew
Scott Harris, haint gotta clue,
how bias, discrimination,
prejudice didst brew
within me noggin admitting to myself,
(that though tolerant
towards most other people)
amidst variegated hue
mankind cutting crew,
I can not wholeheartedly dislodge un argue
ably the stubborn presence
of disagreeably unwanted notions,
an effort quite few
till to expunge, though not clearly
delineated against gentile nor Jew
the latter encompassing
my genealogical lineage
(as ye probably knew)
though acute awareness exists
that objectionable thoughts
towards others coalesced and grew,
sans initial aural, sensational,
and visual perceptions did ensue
from nearly imperceptible
germinal, ephemeral, and casual
brief interactions, thy amygdala and,
posterior cingulate cortex
(PCC) instantaneously drew
nearly nsync with a single blink
of thine myopic left or right human eye
(which average duration 0.1 to 0.4 seconds,
or 100 to 400 milliseconds)
forged an unconscious initial mount'n view
clocked in at 100 milliseconds
or 328.0839895013123 feet per second
pointing asper an expert mason
hermetically sealing a psychic impression
ala mortise and tenon
amalgamated conglomerate
enterprise glommed zoo
wool logical imprimatur difficult,
but not impossible loo
sin and/or completely dislodge
neurological hullabaloo.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
hollowed chest of broken-hearted rhapsody
eurhythmic harmony of maimed individual
this sorness coated with exquisite luminance
delineated ire on a hopeless romantic
carrying nothing but a wall of felicity
falsehood interspersed to young society
tangled tentons of lonesome planetaries
introverted, flying carelessly to abyss
slitted throat, bleeds continually
forming bath of inexhaustible spite
collapsing world, enhancing grief
crucial words of lacerated crowd
vast space of regretful sparks lightly beaming on a decayed embodiment
the superficies of counterfeit prosperity has fallen down into the limbo
the only thing left - dejected face of a rotten, testy, vacant debris
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 11:38 AM UTC
The twitch underneath a layer of pink flesh
long golden hairs mimicking the movement of shape
beneath the surface
the stretch of synapses firing to nervous system, to joint, to muscle
the journey
one
little
movement
causes.
The wrinkled edges of cells folding over
sharp delineated veins that chord her arms
tightly coiled ropes of blood
pumping from her troubled heart to her tired mind
all of these motions apart of this amazing
mind blowing vessel called the human body.
The muscles
which cry and scream (either in protest or exultation she can never tell)
as the notes flow from shaken speakers to dancers feet
the long low run through grasses too yellow to be pillaged
past the man with the faded hat and kitten grin
to the bed she lay him in.
the motion of fingers as they slide over rough-hewn skin
Skin that caresses back and Lips.
Lips sliding with trembled precision to sweet
forgotten spots on this amazing vessel
of blood, bone, heat.
The rumble of senses opening
moistening
lips still searching, taking, demanding
of him.
The jagged whispered phrases that were lost to rumpled sheets
and the cold, distant starry sky.
This skin, which aches for him is but a vessel of love
to release and open
Engulf the sensual sensations of lust
that mirrors the silky robe of darkness that wraps their bodies.
Beautiful Bodies.
Skin, blood, bones, heat.
To reveal something sacred
to the both of them.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
___the place where i am is kinder than that of outside.___
here, it has no shade of light—where i cannot be seen naked with all these wounds and bruises, all these incarnadine lines in both my wrists, thighs, and all that there is that became my canvas to paint away the heaviness in my chest out of crimson patches.
here, it smothers the gray smoke my skin excretes—hiding the rousing fume of my melting and clawed body.
here, i don't have to peel off my skin to expose all the decaying layers under it—stretched throughout my forlorn body i've been hiding behind poem bandages.
here, i don't have to fold myself to hide the most disgusted fragments of me—my body and bones perfectly fit in the soil delineated by the chrysanthemum flowers—waiting to be buried.
sometimes being here made me want not to be saved and let my body soaked in too much dark euphemism to decompose. besides, any place outside here that has light only unveil all of my deformities.
___any place outside here is tormenting.
any place outside here is cruel.
any place outside here is a curse.___
darling, any place outside here
makes me despise myself more
and just want to disappear.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 9:27 AM UTC