Awful shades of green and yellow and I know that I should be sleeping but I find myself haunted with what these words should mean, or what I want them too. Sometimes I remember us (not you, if you're reading this) laying in the back of that ratty porsche I had fucking for hours because we were young and dumb, and I won't finish that cliche. I remain haunted. This isn't what I want, although it really is because I feed off these feelings of madness and I need it to find my way home. The blurred lines become clear when we fuck. They also become clear when I'm sober and I'm thinking of someone else while we fuck. I can't tell you that. I don't want to tell me that. Greatest apologies for the nonsensical nonsense that swirls through the synapses of my think-box for more than thirty seconds at a time. Ginsberg would be proud. You wouldn't. I'm not putting my queer shoulder to the wheel but I respect the desire. I will never find that sort of motivation. It's all empty now and I'm left here to let my fingers dance chronologically across the keyboard in the hopes I can explain nothing.
i was asked to write a sentence. A true sentence. A sentence that i am entirely sure is true. The truest sentence i could think of. it took me a while for i am unsure about most. But there is something that is true. truer that you. however i cannot use words to describe it for it is a feeling and no, i'm not talking about love and all that bullshit, im talking about the feeling when everything goes quiet, your lungs feel as though they have collapsed, every muscle tenses and in that blissful moment you feel as if you are invincible. it is the truest feeling i have ever felt. i know it is true because if that feeling was not true i wouldve given up pursuing it long ago for you see, everything is only as true as you believe it to be
the pendulum swung, the cockroaches scuttled and he thought. He thought of all his fingers. Each one tapping against his emaciated calf. his long unruly hair scratched the discs of his spine which were protruding from the ghostly flesh. whispering to him, the cockroaches told him of sunlight and of food. he did not understand. He did not understand much for one cannot know much if they have never left the boundaries in which one is born into. Deprived of experience and therefor wisdom, the most intelligent being rotted away beneath silky cobwebs
i swear the mirrors are changing. They contort my figure, they persuade my frown. Swirling through the reflective surface. Rising from the bleak night, the sun appeared that morning and my face glowed yellow, lips stretched up my cheeks and long black eyelashes tickling my pink eyelids. Now sat beside the mirror, my lips stretch down my cheeks, my face is pale and sickly, short eyelashes in clumpy mascara which smeared over my eyelids glistening on the purple bruises. Its the same day, i have not touched my face, yet it appears different. Im hiding from them, the mirrors, they trick me, they change me
I came into the world wearing blindfolds and ankle shackles. But I’m through complaining. The world is a complaint factory, where each mass produced drone spews forth their slanted gossip. I’m wearing blindfolds, striving for a glimpse of nature. The world is a stage for wall builders, who show off their many creative designs for blocking people out. Poor hot people looking for an ice cube while wealthy people think deeply about God in their air-conditioned homes. And the bitching and moaning never stops. "I don’t believe you," he said, as if we hadn’t just met. I’m telling the truth, though. You can tell by the contortions on the faces of my audience. You can tell by the loosened shackles for which I was bound. You can tell by the blindfold laying on the ground.