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Things that never live are dull and lifeless and anything that sparkles is trying to convince you otherwiseLiteraturethe leaves from family tree turn blue
you do not remember me the way that I remember you, the years split like Siamese twins and we both walk different paths I guess maybe I have tainted. but maybe that’s alright by me if it didn’t make you try to change me.Literatureinformal stars
There are things that emerge in the jaws of silence and cavities do not make them any less sharpened sometimes you have to stop breathing to realize your lungs start to swell just the same over dust and hysteria; hollow catacombs we are programmed to life. But, love, maybe life is not programmed to us. Maybe we are the exception, left to only chance and the hope that we can bend our bones into predators, a self evolution to withstand [I never thought we should pray to survive ourselves ]LiteraturePerfume
she remembers perfume: steam-blush born star to warm by breath & melt glass smiles, an exploring window to child handsLiteratureThree Night Poems
"Wonderings" My blood Smeared onto my pallid fingertips Glittering in the night. The moon outside is watching With obvious distaste. I know I am unwanted, I know I am ignored. Still, is it so wrong to wonder if they Love me? But with the moon overhead, Her radiance revealing shadows, I have to lay and wonder… Who do I hold dear? "Nocturnal" The snores and peaceful quiet Of the night that I hold dear, Listening to the wind As it makes the branches sway In restless whispers. They are like me; Restless, Lonely Enjoying the quiet of the night, Swaying in the nighttime breeze; Where I remember me "Desired Dreamless"LiteratureWandering Expiry
I know that you think that age will rob me with its wrinkled hands; that it will leave me pruning like some child left in the bath. But childishness has roots in me. I was made malnourished, and I am finally sustaining. I am tired of dispensing little pebbles of myself into sallow lakes where blue reservoirs reside. I scrub the dye from my skin from the nights when I drown; when I wade until I no longer see my own exoskeleton – and submerge. Where is the flood? I am used to being broken in one aspect or another, and my cartilage is adhered with superglue, but I do not want my ashes to become only shambles and remnants of a time where
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