poem needs a titleI ran to you for safety in hopes to find sanctuary, a warm fire in the cold of the night. Instead I find myself even more alone and much too weary to fight.poem needs a title
For the battle lies within the winding catacombs of my mind and, slipping off the cliff into despair, I but find that the key is not to look ahead but behind. The answer lies not with you. For false kisses do not but graze my lips. They plague my heart with a thousand different incisions. Each one leaving rips.
And the price of a ride on your gypsy wagon is too high to bear. Already in debt, I have nothing left to give fo
hollywood perfection...In complete amazement, I am captured and can do nothing but look on. For his music is so beautiful that it transends me to another dimension, apart from this harsh world. His face and body are works of art as if carved from marble by Donatello. But apparently that is not all. He knows at least four different languages... I am in awe. He is so deep and worldly that he is beyond my comprehension, my reach...But is he that godly? No, it's not possible. For he's just like the rest of us. He's not even famous yet and he lives in a place where everyone wants to be the next big thing...No, he's nothing special....just another artist trying to get ahhollywood perfection...
not finished...I exist in a world apart from the sing-song voices of the scene with their sugar-coated looks and their store-bought glamour. I see in a deadened black and white spewed with old cigarettes ashes. I am adrift from the clamor surrounding me, the loud noises manufactured by artificial people. Although seemingly insubstantal, the pandemonium fills my hollow being, overflowing from the excess. Yet I am apart...I am possibly the excess like a puzzle piece which just does not fit no matter how grandiose or great your imagination is. I am outside myself. My soul laid to waste in a sea of indifference, yours and my own. I am on a pilgrimage searchingnot finished...
not titledI am nothing but a discoloured hue riding on waves of uneasy apprehension, distilled and subdued. Streaming colours trickle in abounding brooks and one must act as Ophelia to deny insanity's hooks.not titled
Open their mouths and breathe in the fatal saturation to escape society's homogenous decapitation. Though transition being inevitable, perseption is reality's keystone.
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Save the drama for your mamma.
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The world is going to Hell, and I'm doing my part.
I really like your art, "A Glamorized Purge".
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I may not have hope, but I have opportunity. The opportunity to set things right.
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Why can't we not be sober?
Just want to start this over.
Why can't we drink forever?
I just want to start things over.
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