Created in a hotel room. I am being consumed, inside out. Everything is circumstantial and so, she is taking over; Getting lost in the words that are MINE. Would you like me, if you knew me? Wanted was to reach out, -your take- but you never converged. Denunciation -your give- has never been in my mind. woes out of separate thought(less) revolutions spin out on different sides of closed doors. Chatterson, knew. when to stop. I seethe in the oppressive air, stiflingly humid breath at my lips or lingering words that belong to me, not her. I knew trust would make you run. LEARN ME, if you think you are so elite. FIND me, for I was once so tangible. replaceable. Once the anonymity is spent, the finger wide crack ices over in this winter we call spring. Ironic rebirth of you and I, if we had endured. I have always been this way, you never stuck around to see it happen.
kept or
contempt of pen names.
Warning, This is not a toy.
The sense of friendship and family is really breaking down. I am not a superficial being. I am not to be abandoned, alone in the streets of Newbury, to find myself. I�ll wander here forever looking for you, instead. I do not know when it�s over, or, maybe I refuse to see. What�s in your pocket right now? Reach. Into your own eyes. I�ve been carrying three things sense the day we ended and I began. Foreign currency, Chap Stick, and a sewing kit; the kind they give you in the hotel bathroom. Complete with the little button and several shades of thin, threatening string. ( Nonchalant waves in the melody, expressed by your minute lashes bring my fingers to yesterday. Sunshine played on yellow walls, shadow on top of shadows. I hate the fall. ) The post-it above the door was an issue in her life. On tiptoe, carefully, she peeled each one off, storing the dusty names in the matching envelope. The women with yellow hands gazed at the camera, gingered hair and runny noses. They sacrificed their wombs to birth the war. ( Those names are kept still, judiciously.the urn beneath the bed. ) Ashes,Ashes. It all falls down. The money in my pocket is peach and beautiful.Interchangeable, but not worth the dime. Mine is warm, carefully folded,carefully held. The auspicity of it keeps me sane; its weight grounds my void,while I experience ( my rite. ) My Chap Stick, too, radiates heat. Stolen and washed of its sin � twice, from the machine � The needle and thread bonds us, no matter who you think you�ve become. Are you hungry? ( Smear the wet into your pores. Children run through the places within us during the storm. Temper, temper, tempest. I�m glad for the drizzle, for it soaks the heavy tears descending earlier than I wanted. Staunchly caught in the throat, only the bash comes. The tangles of hair, together, look true and smell like devotion. Notes played in the kitchen shaded the view of our certainty. I bathed in the rain, that day. Emmanuel�s bath. ) Friendship has become an antonym of itself. Hindered by dirty jeans and new shoes, we conceal over our true thoughts while we try to express them in the ruins of our cryptic sentences. ( Your spit amalgamates with mine. Skewered my trust, I saw this coming for miles away. Twenty-four days until cycle is complete and you render, completely free. ) Privacy is in abeyance and inanimate, but how does one piss in a glass house? You know who you are. ( Caught in the twilight. Our strings weave a blanket of fallen starts, across a heaven of false stars. ) End the space for it commences with or without you.Contemplate the vastness of what lies above, not behind. We are the onlycult/ure who has shaped a bubble around us. Who are you keeping out of that room of yours? I came to ask for my books back. The innocence of it all grasps the warm, rich tones, leaked only through the keyholes; under the locked door.Share the unrealized beauty of yourself.
[Sing white light into my soul.]