Thursday, December 30, 2010

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

.


She wasn't lying at all, so he took out his flask and drank two little sips before entering this abysmal stage of confusion. The curtains were backwards and the candles burned up from the bottom.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Monday, December 06, 2010



I possess an infatuation for tacky objects... hygienic frumpy units of goodness. Like discovering something that looks dirty, and sanitizing it, but leaving the rust. Also, I like to start sentences with like, so bite me (stop being so literal, if you bite me I'll cry).

Thursday, November 11, 2010

The most delicate, intricate pieces of my life are because of the qualities you might be ashamed of.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

I'll lie to you.

My biggest secret you can never know.
The monopoly business in my mind.
It's a type of agency, beautiful and intellectual,
insightful and sexy.
It's something I am, it's wrong and deceitful,
hurtful and needy.
It's my biggest secret you can never know.

*Biggest = unthoughtful, deepest, darkest, life altering, interrupting

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Little ears be careful what you see?

The lips that lied painted pictures as they pressed against my ear, in a seductive voice they painted memories before they happened. I kiss the lights goodbye as the voice lullabies my mind with its colorful words and tasteful untruths. The lies didn't taste like cake, they weren't sweet against my taste buds, but lustful; like fatty pasta drenched in a delightful cheese. That kind of lust. That kind of guilt. That kind of pleasure.
And so, little ears, be careful what you see, and big ol' brain, be careful what you taste.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Sunday, June 13, 2010

texture ecstasy

I have obtained this seemingly tangible craving for dust and grit lately. This coarse lust I compulsively abide by. I intend this in the context in which I have placed it, no metaphors... You know that dirtied gritty feeling left on your hands after removing a pair of rubber gloves or writing with a piece of chalk? I covet that feeling between my teeth, grinding in some manner most would find chaotically unpleasant.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

b _ _ . h _ _ _ _ r.

Romantic in the original since of the word, romantic for the world.
He's beautiful, but something antagonizes me so unpleasantly.
I'm in love, not with him, but then again, I would throw anyone overboard to glimpse at him while he works his magic, memories of watching him tick exasperate me so detrimentally.
My fear of him departing again, I don't want him but I need him to function correctly.
Stay around.

Friday, March 19, 2010

real.

What do you see to?
What do you declare?
What if you're off beam?
Turn off the lights and close your eyes.
It's been a lingering long night and you have ran around this lack of town.
Is it fake, if we fake it, so we can feel it, because faking it made me feel it.
I feel fake if fake is first and turns to real..
Fake it with me so that we can feel it.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Beat. Melody. Road. Beat.

A repetitive beat.
A soothing melody.
You're a kiss away, a grammar mistake too late and a couple thousand miles down the road.
Everything's an everybody and we're all off beat.
I noticed.

Goodbye winter, dear. I anticipate your arrival.

Entirety converses about the gloom of winter and so if I were winter I would fumble upon gloom as well.
If a sum of folk proceeded gossiping, preaching "Scarlett Atmosphere abides in our existence as a gloom generator"... Well then, I wouldn't desire to be Scarlett Atmosphere.
Subjectively, I venerate the characteristics and atheistic's of trees during winter, (no not when the sparkling snow comes to devour their branches, though that is quite beautiful too) but when the branches stretch out long and naked for everyone to see. They remind me of something strong but not bulky, something towering but not prideful. Something natural but not trendy. People beg the bare trees to put something on because they don't see the beauty of it's nakedness. When the trees start to bloom everyone pretends to praise the tree, but only talks about it's bloom. I like the tree. The real tree. The bare tree. The naked tree. The individual branch, the texture of bark.

Monday, January 04, 2010

Over, under, under, over, over, over, into, over, over, over.

Sometimes overachievers don’t belong with underachievers,
Because this underachiever is an over thinker.Over thinkers spend more time thinking than achieving.This over thinking turns into overanalyzing.
And I pray I’m not overreacting but possibly love is passing,
And it’s all over our heads.

(Turns out time was behind it all)