Aren’t you just the cutest little fear filled spook dressed in my favorite reds and porcelain milk for a softer, silky shell, a breath or two out of winter’s den. You feel free to keep haunting, nonetheless.
Conversations with stars when the grey winter clouds hide awhile ❤
Fantastic fantasy grabs ahold
Leaving nothing but this mirrored,
While separating one
Onto a mountain top,
With a back drop painted with well intentions.
But it ends up looking more like something,
You painted with hazardous paint,
From your childhood dreams.
That you eventually must eat.
The convulsing doesn’t seem to stop,
Nor does the hole in your chest
Pump an adequate amount of blood
Until you pour more idealism on top of them.
Then you spend so many moons and moods trying to feel human again.
You really aren’t.
You’ve been cast by your school bully,
Just playing their interpretation of you.
Everyone eventually so shocked,
They just sit by,
Speaking in hushed tones to your facsimile,
Hoping for you,
The breaths will slowly return,
The sky will clear-
So you can figure out what you need to finally do
To take care of you.
tired and dirty ❤️
Was hoping I would want to write more when I arrived but it seems as though I’m still just caught in the ocean of some strange tide.
However, happy I did not surprise anyone because really that was a ghost from a former life I should not have ever wasted a thought on. I think I’ve always known I had no loyalty to seek there. Being so busy now, it’s just exhausting expelling my energy on mummified peach seeds that once brought comfort. Plus, I’ve learned a lot about love since then. I want the kind, that just fits. If it’ll have me eventually that is.
Suppose that’s growth or me seeking more fun in my life? Who knows?
I’m gunning for more unsolicited adventures in my life, what a riot just little pit stops were even
My story lies in the sorrowful
Screech of the violin’s mourning strings,
The vibrato of lung’s
When trilled to such
In the cascading twilight
Between what was
And what’s to be.
They all believe
They’re the author,
Of the epic tale
Of the sun cresting
On morning’s dewy mountain top
Never seen by man.
I’m sorry every daling
That never heeds
Men don’t dwell at such extremes
Until they learn to see before learning to speak.
You are barely treading the surface
Of the soul’s design.
(P.s. I don’t believe it’s wise to tell someone with the same mix and revolutionary mind as Van Gogh : they don’t feel the right way. You’d be beyond wrong. I can cut my ear off for a returned devotion if I want to love like that, thank you. Apologies if you don’t like love’s give and take mentality xoxo)
Go on, cry wolf until they all believe you charming lad.
Sooth sayers see you underneath
Those shabby clothes
Bought by another you use like a tool
In the name of love.
Aren’t you such a tragic hero on the scene,
Living on the caring blood of the naive?
After hours of scrubbing my father’s rental home, because the prior tenants made an unbelievable mess.
It’s still my heart and soul that ache the most.
Partially closing a wound,
Only momentarily in the sun and his pool with my giggling wee ones
That grow up way too quickly now ❤
This video is about the best I can sum up my self so much so it’s stuck with me for an entire decade. I finally found it again.* it’s only 6 mins, but prepare yourself for it’s effects to last well beyond the week.* ❤
I attempted my first spoken word almost slam piece. It’s always weird to hear yourself recorded isn’t it? Even weirder with an altered attempt to use the words to evoke. I’m not sure it’s something I’ll continue since it’s so foreign because I miss my voice’s fluidity when listening to it he he
But here for those that do not follow me at the other place if you’d like to hear.
Maybe it is the chills,
The fever burning my body on and off.
Maybe it’s the sleeplessness,
And the tightness in my chest,
The inability to take more than a quarter breath.
Maybe it’s the agonizing pain in my chest,
My over working oxygen starved heart.
The tinges that make me wonder if I’m going to survive.
All from running way more than anyone should while fighting to live through infection griping me tight as I fight the illness.
Now giving way to things I don’t want to think,
The looping memory of me in the end days
So long ago – as I left your cruel, heartless, untidy mind behind.
Remembering myself in a den for more days than I care to grasp at now.
The dank darkness almost obliterating my ability to see,
Heightening even the smallest of sensations and turning them to deafening pin pings.
Yet, you still believe we should be friends because we are required by man’s law to speak with civility.
So, I’m cordial and enlightening in order to ignore the next treble phone ring ,
Somehow there you are right on time,
To continually torture me.
Vibrating me into hysterical day time nightmarish epiphanies.
I cringe because it’s you,
And roll back over because I just want to sleep.
Despite the memories that still haunt my dreams
Despite the mind’s supposed ability to solve it’s worst
Destinies, encountering-s, fallen fantasies
By systematically sorting them while I suspend this conscious waking reality.
You’re always like a side swipe accident with a car crushing car and twisted irreparable steel in my mind.
And maybe the scars on flesh still ache
Every time it rains now matter how I attempt to
Place them as far away as possibility allows.
I just want the fever to break.
Or maybe every last stored recalling
Side dream gone to aging already.
Even a memory wiping machine I saw on a
Tv show once that dictated the daily thoughts
And lives of men based in only good memories
Until they accessed it’s deep web hard drive for truths
That left them unraveled and undone.
And like the man at the end,
I’d just cut mine out.
Captured Phantasm: Alicechan
The soundtrack of the forwarded telephone ring-