fiercely; the ink slides the word's hooks
and slopes onto the speckled parchment.
It is so dry, and the room smells like a cadaver.
I wrote that the summer has been merciless without you,
as heat licked up my arms and at the back of my neck.
There is a box I keep filled with you.
I don't write that, and instead hide behind wit.
It is dusty, velvet, its skin a harsh, harsh blue.
I utilise it to recover you--and whisper things in foreign tongues,
sounds that remind me of you. German slurs against french songs,
with your favourite instruments playing faintly in the background:
the cello, the flute. I could never understand how a well
I was a balloon;
I was so full of life and love
that I felt I could just burst.
Then the cord holding me together was cut loose.
I whizzed around spastically,
dramatically, insanely.
All my emotions left me at once.
Then I tumbled and fell, ungracefully deflated.
I was no longer a balloon.
I was just a dead piece of used plastic.
which is familiar,
maybe a bit stronger,
sharper, crueler;
for a while it held a blunt knife
and clubbed at my chest fruitlessly;
we'd always mend it again--
but
there's nothing left for me to offer you,
you know all the secrets of my body, heart
and soul. There's nothing left to keep you here,
here in my empty room, where people pass by
but nobody stays, and you passed by for the longest time
of 697 days.
Now you're packing to leave again.
This time, you won't pass by for longer,
because I have nothing to offer you
except whatever is left of myself.
and that isn't enough
an irregular seed
that stubbornly insisted
on sprouting roots
emerging
and blossoming in your garden;
that is what my love for you is:
a powerful force of nature.
dumb eyed, skinny fingered freak
with sunken, panda eyes painted over with beige and brown.
Hair askew, with each strand rebelling against the scalp-
revolting at different angles in groups of four or five.
Pinches of fat that cling stubbornly to bones
like an ill child that won't release their mother's breast,
and no matter how many meals the creature forgoes
they will not budge.
shaky limbs and a disproportional body--
at war with anatomy and fine arts--
it stands in the mirror and scrutinizes itself.
and for now this state of repugnance will just have to do.
Consciously in my sub-conscience
I dipped into the night sky
and swam smooth backstrokes across the universe;
with my absurdly attuned peripherals I saw you
somewhere in the further end of the Milky way
and as though urged by the Kleptomaniac sleeping in the rear end of my
sub-conscience, I reached out and stole your heart away
from your luminous brethren.
Now they can only glimpse you
as I hold your heart to the ocean
in the moonlight and watch your heart beat
and glow like a darker daylight.
They watch unblinkingly from above,
and maybe they believe I can't keep you for long.
Subconsciously in my conscience,
the Kleptoman
In the Winter,
on the basement floor, I lay
Exhaling happiness, exhaling warmth,
breathing hurt and breathing loss while
slowly,
carnivorous insects
consume the butterflies in my gut,
and once again I am lost.
There is nothing beautiful about me
I am saggy, burnt skin,
carcinogenic particles stick to my limbs
and rest on all my faults.
I am wear and tear and rust;
a translucent jar,
cracked at the corners,
with peeling paint,
and if you lifted the lid to look deep into my heart,
you will find that
it is black, dark, dusty, cold and empty.
I am rank, I am scum, I am rot.
And every time you look at me, and whisper things that I am not
I feel like the dark pools of quicksand people sink into.
I feel like melting wax, like dirt and ashes, I feel-
There is nothing beautiful about me.
I am ugly, you are not.
fiercely; the ink slides the word's hooks
and slopes onto the speckled parchment.
It is so dry, and the room smells like a cadaver.
I wrote that the summer has been merciless without you,
as heat licked up my arms and at the back of my neck.
There is a box I keep filled with you.
I don't write that, and instead hide behind wit.
It is dusty, velvet, its skin a harsh, harsh blue.
I utilise it to recover you--and whisper things in foreign tongues,
sounds that remind me of you. German slurs against french songs,
with your favourite instruments playing faintly in the background:
the cello, the flute. I could never understand how a well
I was a balloon;
I was so full of life and love
that I felt I could just burst.
Then the cord holding me together was cut loose.
I whizzed around spastically,
dramatically, insanely.
All my emotions left me at once.
Then I tumbled and fell, ungracefully deflated.
I was no longer a balloon.
I was just a dead piece of used plastic.
which is familiar,
maybe a bit stronger,
sharper, crueler;
for a while it held a blunt knife
and clubbed at my chest fruitlessly;
we'd always mend it again--
but
there's nothing left for me to offer you,
you know all the secrets of my body, heart
and soul. There's nothing left to keep you here,
here in my empty room, where people pass by
but nobody stays, and you passed by for the longest time
of 697 days.
Now you're packing to leave again.
This time, you won't pass by for longer,
because I have nothing to offer you
except whatever is left of myself.
and that isn't enough
an irregular seed
that stubbornly insisted
on sprouting roots
emerging
and blossoming in your garden;
that is what my love for you is:
a powerful force of nature.
dumb eyed, skinny fingered freak
with sunken, panda eyes painted over with beige and brown.
Hair askew, with each strand rebelling against the scalp-
revolting at different angles in groups of four or five.
Pinches of fat that cling stubbornly to bones
like an ill child that won't release their mother's breast,
and no matter how many meals the creature forgoes
they will not budge.
shaky limbs and a disproportional body--
at war with anatomy and fine arts--
it stands in the mirror and scrutinizes itself.
and for now this state of repugnance will just have to do.
Consciously in my sub-conscience
I dipped into the night sky
and swam smooth backstrokes across the universe;
with my absurdly attuned peripherals I saw you
somewhere in the further end of the Milky way
and as though urged by the Kleptomaniac sleeping in the rear end of my
sub-conscience, I reached out and stole your heart away
from your luminous brethren.
Now they can only glimpse you
as I hold your heart to the ocean
in the moonlight and watch your heart beat
and glow like a darker daylight.
They watch unblinkingly from above,
and maybe they believe I can't keep you for long.
Subconsciously in my conscience,
the Kleptoman
In the Winter,
on the basement floor, I lay
Exhaling happiness, exhaling warmth,
breathing hurt and breathing loss while
slowly,
carnivorous insects
consume the butterflies in my gut,
and once again I am lost.
There is nothing beautiful about me
I am saggy, burnt skin,
carcinogenic particles stick to my limbs
and rest on all my faults.
I am wear and tear and rust;
a translucent jar,
cracked at the corners,
with peeling paint,
and if you lifted the lid to look deep into my heart,
you will find that
it is black, dark, dusty, cold and empty.
I am rank, I am scum, I am rot.
And every time you look at me, and whisper things that I am not
I feel like the dark pools of quicksand people sink into.
I feel like melting wax, like dirt and ashes, I feel-
There is nothing beautiful about me.
I am ugly, you are not.
There is nothing beautiful about me
I am saggy, burnt skin,
carcinogenic particles stick to my limbs
and rest on all my faults.
I am wear and tear and rust;
a translucent jar,
cracked at the corners,
with peeling paint,
and if you lifted the lid to look deep into my heart,
you will find that
it is black, dark, dusty, cold and empty.
I am rank, I am scum, I am rot.
And every time you look at me, and whisper things that I am not
I feel like the dark pools of quicksand people sink into.
I feel like melting wax, like dirt and ashes, I feel-
There is nothing beautiful about me.
I am ugly, you are not.
The Rules
1. You must post the rules.
2. Each person must post 5 things about themselves in their journal
3. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post, and create eleven new questions for the people you tag to answer.
4. You have to choose 5 people to tag and post their icons on your journal.
5. Go to their page and tell them you have tagged them.
6. No tag backs
7. No stuff in the tagging section about "You're tagged if you're reading this". You legitimately have to tag 5 people.
_________________________________________________
1) I break rules. [The rules above are no exception.]
2) I like platinum and red hair be
1. Boy.
Why is there always that perfect boy, who you know you'll never get to keep because they are perfect and you can never amount to that much perfection.
I keep screwing myself over with this whole "love" thing..
I hate to be left behind.
2. X-men.
Get your own motivation, boys. Star Wars and Star Trek contain aliens not mutants.
Still, quote.
"So what do they call you? Wheels?"
3. Star Wars.
I will always love this more than Star Trek, although Trek is completely superior. We owe cellphones to Star Trek.
...Who cares? I like to keep things old fashioned.
"You killed my father!"
"No. I am your father."
"Noooooooo. DX" :icon