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a face;
and the very chemicals of her complexion
are of doubt and self-abhorrance.
"you don't really want to die,"
they tell her,
as she takes a withered hand to her tear-strewn cheek,
"you don't know that,"
but the words die upon her lips,
just the essence of sorrow, for now
and she's a wreck,
famished for attention,
dying for a reason.
but she keeps to herself,
the twisted fantasies are far too morbid to experience twice.
a destruction saturated with agonizing pleasure
and it's people like them
that make her want to prove them wrong
count it :: one more day of fucking freedom
&& this is far far from my best, but i didn't want to leave you too long.  |
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| eww, lack of muse is le sucking
uhm, www.xanga.com/xsecrets____dontmakefriends biiiiiiiitch.
so comment there if you'd like. i feel like such an idiot. everything's colliding and i just want PEACE. bahhh. [ how hippie-ish did that sound?! ] but anyways, i'll think of something good... the mother of it all, because i definately haven't been writing my best ever since summer came along, damnit. |
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| sorry for the lack of updating.
im getting a poem published this month. how cool, right?
=]
later, kids |
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| do i need a reason?
is there a method to madness?
is there a recipe for disaster?
no, it's just there.
one day, you just wither away,
do i need a direction?
is there skin behind your makeup?
is there breath behind your lies?
is there life behind your eyes?
or am i forgotten already?
do i need a song?
is that the only way you can feel?
is music your only remedy?
is there justice for this torment?
no, i'd die for you,
and you would never shed a tear
i dont feel like making it pretty. just read it, absorb it, and comment on it. it's muddled. i'm full of questions. i want my reader to be full of questions too. |
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