I’ll crush flower petals between my eyelids and label the dust literature.
You’ll buy a thousand copies and regard me as a genius.
I’ll carve open my wrists with diamonds and pour the blood on a manuscript.
You’ll call me a fool for trying too hard.
But either way I’ve tried to show you the beauty of life, and it was your choice
to cherish what you already knew over something novel.
Funny, beauty seems to run in the family.
I am the scriptures lost in the infinite chasm of
life’s resounding principles bound by barbed wire
and the astounding findings of sciences unresolved
quarrels with a creature known only to man as the
virus; dead but still living for the sole purpose of
infesting others with a message that should have been
forgotten. My cells may be dead but you can place
all of your bets that I will return with the force of
thousands of poets and dreamers shaking the streets
with broken feet and shattered glass canes. My purpose
here is clear; infect the souls of those too lost to find
their way home to a burnt out cave in the middle of the
highway between yesterdays next best things and tomorrows
next best regret. For I wish death unto no person, just
a limitlessly self perpetuating swollen tumor of dreams,
dreams of love and rebirth, dreams of youth and vigor,
dreams untouched by the virgin hands of man. Dreams
I’ll never touch with my bare nerves. Dreams I’ve sought
but never had, Dreams we’ve all wished to experience but
never had the wherewithal to. Dreams; that is my message.
Only in dreams do we see the life we wish to forget, and only
in dreams do we feel the death of what we choose to regret.
Overhead the wingspans
of heaven’s angels form an archway
for misguided souls to bandy
empty compliments with one
another, where love and lust meet
under the causeway of feathers
to exchange kisses for comfort
and open arms for closed doors.
The hopeless meet under the
dim light of dawns eye peering through
the atmosphere; to what the cosmos
left behind. “A pity,” she thinks.
“Rabid dogs and vagabonds are
all that’s left of the stardust I dropped.”
But the generously spaced fools
misplace their trust in her words
and see only faith and doctrine in
the syllables she carelessly drops.
The sun pokes her nose where angels
roam and finds only what she tried
to blind herself from. Only the shallow
conform to reality, and only the deep
will find themselves buried under
the organic waste of a religion of
falsely prophetic wisdom used by
a narrowly avoidable fate. The sun
is disappointed, in the mess her
children have made.
Might as well hang myself
..a new portrait of what
I thought I’d lost. Let’s
all make suicide jokes
and dye a cold unbearable
life black to give it some
culture. We all need a little
beauty in our demise, a
smidgen of hope when all
is wrong, a dollop of love
when our hearts can beat
no longer. Nobody here
really wants to leave
behind what they’d never
started. They would rather
pick and choose the outcomes
to fit their own image;
we paint the posters we hang.
Too bad I never had the hands
of an artist, just the callous
views of the executioner.
You are a lovely woman.
THANK YOU.
We stood outside of a bar that overlooked the dull city streets. We were stuck on the patio because the insides of the rat infested beast was crawling with cougars and parasites, waiting to latch on to the next man’s neck. My veins were exposed, and I’d rather not have a blood sucking harlot attach to my sweet spots.
Her name was Susanne, her eyes fluttered faster than her wings. She drank an empty glass full of life and proclaimed herself as the most bored existentialist to ever walk the face of the glassed planet earth. She told me she drove a red Kia, as if it mattered. I was interested in one thing, and one thing only.
The scar above her lip; it reached from the lies she’d held in the back of her throat all the way back to the illusions cast on her wrinkled forehead. Our limp arms hung from the railing atop the balcony of the dingy bar. We reached out at little cars scurrying back and forth like worker bees in search of a new queen. Hell, I guess for that night I could consider myself one of them; chugging down gasoline like it was 150 proof and burning away the fossilized embers of what once walked the same halls as I. I was in search of a new queen, too.
I thought I’d found her, until her claws had begun digging into my empty palms. We idled next to one another, after first contact. We exchanged our fair share of glances and excuse me’s until finally the loudest silence you’d ever wanted to hear was broken by the sound of a shattered heart.
Her eyes rolled back and her tongue poured blood like a fountain into my crisply ironed sweater. The streetlights turned black and the sky began to tear a salty mist, singing the open wounds on my sacrosanct palms. I thought I’d been doing well, considering I had the charm of a brain dead fourth grader.
But she was offended by my attempts to exchange empty compliments for comfort sex.
The air grew numbing, and my eyelids began to crack open. I had woken up for the first time to the disingenuous nature of the dating game. Mutter the wrong phrase and her name will forever scar your back.
And stain your shirts, too.
Sad, I cleaned up my act to be slandered once more. Fitting.
I struggle to remain relevant
in the pursuit of what purists
rave is as good as the gold
encrusted cups they sip from.
Those who have never experienced
the vice grips of a mans feelings
contorted and dismayed to
fit into the iron casts of
emotional shackles, can only
witness the light reflecting from
the rusty armor plating, weighing
down his wings. For only the outside
can see the beauty of love,
and the secrets it emanates.
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say
that I’m no longer a spot upon
your rage fueled sun, nor am I
a measly hair upon your brow dripping
with the sweat of lovers past.
I’m nothing but a distant memory
trapped in a drunken thought
your sobered lifestyle refuses to
accept. Take me, eat me whole.
At least I’d have some meaning
in your digestive tract.
Only in my head
are there unicorns doing backflips over the moon snorting rainbows and getting
high off of pixie dust whilst riding Orca whales through the planets core and high-
-fiving fate for a job well done.
Only in my head
are there happy smiling people slicing their wrists on the bible and bleeding for
Jesus with a smile on their face thats the same size as the cups they engorge
themselves from.
Only in my head
are there beautiful vistas of industrial parks glowing with the heat of radiation
therapy and cancerous politicians who’s handshakes crush armor and gates and
the walls of Jerusalem.
Only in my head
are there automobiles spewing out dollar bills and wiping their asscracks with the
poor man’s breakfast while foreclosing the home of the next president’s son
for the sake of justices.
Only in my head
are there taxes on emotions and feelings so whenever you feel up or down you
pay for it regardless, forcing us to live a life abruptly stopped in the middleground
between ignorance and apathy.
Only in my head
does reality meet fantasy with a cruelly designed plot and characters overstepping
their boundaries as human beings.
Only in my head
does life appear a little clearer with the help of the surreal.
Only in my head
does life appear to make a smidgen of sense.
She said goodbye and sealed the door shut; locking me in the stale air I’d been inhaling and exhaling the past few hours. I’d been meddling about her golden sealed letters for a while before then but she caught me red palmed and empty handed. I was guilty of espionage, treason against her secrets. They were shut away for a reason and unbeknown to me, it’s illegal in 49 of 50 states to impede upon what she reaps from hidden gems of her past.
It never mattered much anyway, she left the day after. I had been meandering for quite some time trying to find a new road home. She’d cut off all ties and blocked all paths between my wiry eyes and her palindrome grin. Everything matched for her, it all had made sense. Sometimes things fall apart and we kick the dirt on top of the mess as if it’ll really cover away what had happened.
But compost reeks, and emanates the stench of deathly regrets, a stench so profound it can burn the spirit right out from underneath your nose hair. I guess this’ll be the last time I stalk my way through her laundry basket; it’s not worth finding what she’s yet to wash.
After all, I’d only be finding remnants of where I had left off before my lungs collapsed.
my heart has been racing the past hour and a half. why.
I’m a little fed up with the life I lead; I think it’s time for a change.
But there’s nothing left to augment when your hands are constantly tilling your grave. And there’s nothing left to kill away when the best parts of you had already died with your past relationships. And there’s nothing to left to bring back to life because it’d all been put towards finding an answer to a question that didn’t exist.
God damn, it’s time I learn to self medicate.
loljk I’m too good for that.
Anyone care to change that? I’m an open book!
I’ve caught dreams every now and then
in a net of twine and allegories. Locked them
in cold storage to be frozen in time to
forever retain their surreality. But the world
is heating up and burning away at their
icy shackles, the embers are impossible to
grasp in frigid palms. They slip through
the cracks in my fingers and fade into the
dust clouds of their manacles. It seems
as if time stumbles forward, dreams lack the
resonance to bounce within the ribcage
of reality. The further they are agitated, shorter
they will stay. I told you I used to catch
them, but alas, the world is simply to sultry.
When the new moon cradles the old,
you will find me lounging about your porch
pondering the extremities of the life I lead,
questioning how I would look as a husband,
how my children would heed my word and
follow my bruises, how my trail of coins
and spare change will dictate the love that
I feel. I will have the clairvoyance to tell you
that the sun revolves about the stars and
the earth tags along with no signifcance
outside of the peculiar paparazzi mood it sets.
I will possess the optimism of a drunken five
year old existentialist who can tell the difference
between the color red and the color of despair.
Let me tell you that it doesn’t take a kindergartener
to decipher the meaning behind the blue shift;
the stars run from us for a reason.
We are the annoying younger sibling of a fallen
celebrity in the celestial climate. We garner
our fame from the armor she’d shed. She said
we’d be something special, but I can tell you this.
Twenty years from now, begging for a kiss will
equate to begging for a shopping list of things to
improve. I’m sorry to say it, but when the new
moon cradles the old, I’ll be here wondering
to which buyer my time had been sold.
Under the limit. Over the edge.
Overestimated, under the knife.
Torn wide open, bleeding out
horror stories and of what glory
and god can do to corrupt a
plain man’s fate. Its tremendous
what effect a planned intervention
can have on the pysche of man-
give him a reason for his madness,
he’ll call you his friend.
when my Bio lab makes less and less sense. HOW IS THE DATA NOT DIFFERENT, MICROSOFT.
You know what that means?
xbox alllll mooorninnnnnnnn<3
The hairs on my chin mock me- they grow
faster than expected and reach out to the
world like “I’m here to set a few things straight
with you all. I may not be the most refined of
all public outcasts but I can bend over backwords
three times around just to prove my point.”
Funny how maturity and condescension all
point towards the idiocy felt by peach fuzz fingertips.
Whether it be fanfiction, original stories, drabbles, songs, poems, books, or anything that has to do with creative words, then reblog. Let’s gather all the writers of Tumblr together.
