I do not want to feel the dread of loneliness. Just love me for who I am please. I can longer work away my sorrows and despair and change who I am. I am all I can offer. You are all you can offer and I accept you. Let’s just be together.
My brain is in flames. I let him touch me. His fiery, European passion and his smooth French accent really developed this evolution all in one night. I am not myself therefore becoming myself. I need to watch some porn and open up sexuality again. I had been dormant and cold. It is natural to feel so out of place with who I thought I was. And I really wanted to have sex tonight. But I would have felt disgusted with myself for letting his get all of me too soon because I don’t know if he’ll want to be real for me on all levels. Or should I try just a purely sex-based relationship? Flames shall decide my fate.
Nutrient rich subsequent sustanance of the ornithology enable books to be eaten.
Have you got a lantern to light my dark pathways and avenues of my morbid expressionisms?
Please dismantle my particles so that I will cease to exist.
In this chronic lonely condition, it is all my own fault for being who I am. How can I cure myself from being too much of me? It frustrates me so.
All that I intend for is to have a friend.
But everyone is temporary and they know as well as I do.
They will tire of me.
Each one gone quicker then the next.
The sad, soft, sparkling decay of a couples love shortened by time. Silence speaks to us both, having given the most. She retreats into a shell. He lifts up into his wings and flies off for greater contact. Nothing more to do, she ties knots in soulless shoes. He keeps busy counting change to pay out for rent in a cheap hotel next to a bar. The sunless days pass by unfazed. Unilaterally bedazzled, shortcomings dropped off in May, his shotgun rally to deport the leftover emotions, shout him away! You do not exist to him! Marching ants are working to keep this world in progress of living since the honeybees die and butterflies are scarcely seen. Her rare occasion to proceed with bleeding out her tear ducts, seems as though she may be living in pain.
Too miserable for eating any food, she invites foreign objects plunging into her flesh to cut out more of beauty. Preserve her heart as story – involve the women of the Rusalka – only they will understand and value her contribution. Struggles of the heart, mind, and body result in evocative intoxication of emotions. She should be honored to explore the various realms and complexities she possess within the undulating moods, quite like the ocean and atmosphere, growing roots too deep and yet she yearns to leave. What she fails to hold belief in is herself, her faith has lead her to her suicide. Let it be, most people cannot survive what life throws at them. Please relish in the myth of her. She wanted death most of all.
Life is a suppressant. Surpass all the meaning.
I reached for the gold, and only earned bronze. What my disfigurement has done to me shall be the thoughts of no one. A take a walk in the cemetery so bleak and gray, misfortune swallows me and I am in dismay. All the skeletons surround me, they crinkle and crack, wolves howl in the fog, I am bound by fate.
A dimly lit path leading me out of fright, a warm encounter with a ghost of a friend shields me from the devil, I may have found my way back to home, yet my peace is forever rattled.
Checking dish eclipsed above my bed, hanging chips quiver in the dull concealment of mass munching time. You took a long cruel look at me, a pause before saftley cautioning me that bears rely on the good deeds of other, however, unbeknownst to you, you cower in the orgasm of your serpentine brain. the orchestral effects the heart rythm, spin the brain, create a train! My wicked mind-game’s intentions ziplock the homegrown sugarcane with sarcasm to boot, yet her majesty has not risen to greet the sun. Monotone the pop song radio hits to the ludicrise latchkey kids. They detest in proclimation that the Dalinianation of the homogenous throne disrobed the mannequin with every last breath of my wording device.
I never want to address the shrouded figure in the room. For it is death, that continous drone of forgetting the guilt you try to shed off the old skin. Fashions are always changing, haircolor is greying, death knows to capture you at your happiest of days.