this seems as good a place as any.
too easy to be anything true, living in rooms posterd and paintingd to cover dead beiges and eggshells and creams, sleeping on eastern-style floor mats to show western-style enlightenment packaged to be smiled at in conversations heavy with practice and the most sincere efforts to appear authentic, in attempts to feel what should be felt, but theres nothing nothing nothing but amusement at the nothing. wearing mask of deep meaningful silences covering mask of secret strength covering mask of desperate hope covering screaming wrenching tearing gnawing fingernails breaking nothing.
smooth liquid appearance of wisdom is the crying relief in secret balm for monotonous tuesdays creeping into nights of alcohol-fueled confessions of the half-truths we more comfortably hope is what is us. the tender reassurances of direction and the just-let-speak soothe only the few reals of what words so eloquently with perfect anguish float with the web of silk smoke in rooms only occupied by wants. should be shouting and crying but whispers can be respected and whispered pleas for forgiveness for what cant be said are too real so no shouts or pleas no forgiveness. respect and wisdom and safety and secrets form smoky figures to love and hold and hate for being you and far too unknown.
smoky figures howled away to rise up a man of straw, sick with kindness, heavy with compassionate listenings appearing wise and hoping books and movies and stories and songs can make him the man he wants his soul to devour. shriek envious at the wolves and forests and wind, wild jealous of the unashamed bear who is alone-and-never-alone. wistful sighs crack with desperate imaginings of life beyond taking orders on scraps of paper, sitting alone, and so very so, in suits choking on lies bubbling up to gush from between teeth bleached trying to be human. heart-hounding flashes of logic and rage force the writhing beast upward surging glinting madness in promises of a more primal god with a beast of his own to tame and love half-smiling fiercely for the fiery heat it brings when all other warmth is driven from the stirring voiceless soul of another dried-up stream.
in darting wrinkled nights at lofty cigarette-filled lips stare longing, turning love to loathe and hold to hate to write ballads of grinding teeth and looks through the bottoms of pint glasses. disgusted rendezvous with the legs and mouths and breathless guttural utterances whose owners have unusual names give bitter definition to words like vitriol. lust over truth, craving comfortable smiles and interweaving fingers to the scent of soft orchids. sunrises of turkish golds and camel reds illuminating the vastness between lovers so previously twined, embraces wrought of ancient iron and fog revealing the quiet quiet truth. sneer at your hopes finding only shadowy eyes that know far too much to wear anything but hair dye and faded jackets. choke on the world you wanted when you were younger and hated the blues.
mirrors of who you are not confuse the smokeless fires and despairing contortions of lies in early morning heaviness that hangs, speaking wordless loud as lions pining, crying out epic poems in their roars for jungles theyve never seen alive. foreign ears listen to the lips too cracked to belong to anyone youve ever loved or hurt for love as spectrums deepen of cool colors below red-rimmed eyes of simultaneous agony and indifference to match horrifying clean haircut and blistered charming smile.
hands creaking, shifting the split leather shifters of interchangeable cars full of ashes and coats and haloed wild-haired companions slick with glazed-over realities and pomade. yes! yes! the choruses careen over shivering asphalt from room to darkened room. whiskey and wishes blur into the single anonymity so cherished, so cherished! pray the pools are not so shallow as they should appear and dive soul-first into depths of art and madness only to surface on carpeted beaches miles from places whose only title yearns to be home but cannot be home.
wishes for motorcycle-clarity and sleek polarized vision catch in aching throats and the tired tangle of limbs and sighs that wakes in cold apartments to swallow tiny pills, those miracles, those round or square or cylindrical or rectangular white flags taken with too-tepid water tasting of metal and defeat, all in hopes of a brighter tomorrow where breaths and smiles and words of comfort come easier. speak to those who did what you couldnt and hung the proof on the walls framed in mahogany and oak. speak of the terrors, the guilt, the shame, the shame, the shame, how the sighs dont help like they used to, and no matter how much you fuck and cry and scream and fight and sing and paint and type, the lion will grow weary of his roar, stretch ragged paws, and die.
too easy to be anything true, living in rooms posterd and paintingd to cover dead beiges and eggshells and creams, sleeping on eastern-style floor mats to show western-style enlightenment packaged to be smiled at in conversations heavy with practice and the most sincere efforts to appear authentic, in attempts to feel what should be felt, but theres nothing nothing nothing but amusement at the nothing. wearing mask of deep meaningful silences covering mask of secret strength covering mask of desperate hope covering screaming wrenching tearing gnawing fingernails breaking nothing.
smooth liquid appearance of wisdom is the crying relief in secret balm for monotonous tuesdays creeping into nights of alcohol-fueled confessions of the half-truths we more comfortably hope is what is us. the tender reassurances of direction and the just-let-speak soothe only the few reals of what words so eloquently with perfect anguish float with the web of silk smoke in rooms only occupied by wants. should be shouting and crying but whispers can be respected and whispered pleas for forgiveness for what cant be said are too real so no shouts or pleas no forgiveness. respect and wisdom and safety and secrets form smoky figures to love and hold and hate for being you and far too unknown.
smoky figures howled away to rise up a man of straw, sick with kindness, heavy with compassionate listenings appearing wise and hoping books and movies and stories and songs can make him the man he wants his soul to devour. shriek envious at the wolves and forests and wind, wild jealous of the unashamed bear who is alone-and-never-alone. wistful sighs crack with desperate imaginings of life beyond taking orders on scraps of paper, sitting alone, and so very so, in suits choking on lies bubbling up to gush from between teeth bleached trying to be human. heart-hounding flashes of logic and rage force the writhing beast upward surging glinting madness in promises of a more primal god with a beast of his own to tame and love half-smiling fiercely for the fiery heat it brings when all other warmth is driven from the stirring voiceless soul of another dried-up stream.
in darting wrinkled nights at lofty cigarette-filled lips stare longing, turning love to loathe and hold to hate to write ballads of grinding teeth and looks through the bottoms of pint glasses. disgusted rendezvous with the legs and mouths and breathless guttural utterances whose owners have unusual names give bitter definition to words like vitriol. lust over truth, craving comfortable smiles and interweaving fingers to the scent of soft orchids. sunrises of turkish golds and camel reds illuminating the vastness between lovers so previously twined, embraces wrought of ancient iron and fog revealing the quiet quiet truth. sneer at your hopes finding only shadowy eyes that know far too much to wear anything but hair dye and faded jackets. choke on the world you wanted when you were younger and hated the blues.
mirrors of who you are not confuse the smokeless fires and despairing contortions of lies in early morning heaviness that hangs, speaking wordless loud as lions pining, crying out epic poems in their roars for jungles theyve never seen alive. foreign ears listen to the lips too cracked to belong to anyone youve ever loved or hurt for love as spectrums deepen of cool colors below red-rimmed eyes of simultaneous agony and indifference to match horrifying clean haircut and blistered charming smile.
hands creaking, shifting the split leather shifters of interchangeable cars full of ashes and coats and haloed wild-haired companions slick with glazed-over realities and pomade. yes! yes! the choruses careen over shivering asphalt from room to darkened room. whiskey and wishes blur into the single anonymity so cherished, so cherished! pray the pools are not so shallow as they should appear and dive soul-first into depths of art and madness only to surface on carpeted beaches miles from places whose only title yearns to be home but cannot be home.
wishes for motorcycle-clarity and sleek polarized vision catch in aching throats and the tired tangle of limbs and sighs that wakes in cold apartments to swallow tiny pills, those miracles, those round or square or cylindrical or rectangular white flags taken with too-tepid water tasting of metal and defeat, all in hopes of a brighter tomorrow where breaths and smiles and words of comfort come easier. speak to those who did what you couldnt and hung the proof on the walls framed in mahogany and oak. speak of the terrors, the guilt, the shame, the shame, the shame, how the sighs dont help like they used to, and no matter how much you fuck and cry and scream and fight and sing and paint and type, the lion will grow weary of his roar, stretch ragged paws, and die.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
roxiebeee:
This is brilliant. Glad you shared 
chinactsunflower:
your comment made me feel better so thank you. im trying not to worry about the ex but you just wonder like.. why'd you choose the ugly chick over me ya know/ just sucks. and then some guy you think likes you also picks the blonde chick but notthe fat blonde one so then i wonder if i should dye my hiar.