Molly Parker.
I saw Max today, and for a brief moment my heart ached. As she stood there, clothed yet naked, I couldn't help but fall in love. She was...liquid poetry. Each muscular curve of her body was emphasized by her movements, which in turn emphasized her perfect and unique femininity. She was woman, and I ached and bled for her in that infinite instant.
This pain I feel, not knowing whether to masturbate or cry, is this the poetry of my soul? When I look at her and see beauty and grace and sensuality, and sweet agony erupts from my heart onto this page, is that art? Love? Madness? When I look at Amanda, I see the sunrise, red and gold and pink and radiant. When I look at Molly I see midnight, warm and dark and seductive, like the feel of satin. When I look at Edea I see a great goddess of mischief in the guise of a tiny nymph, yet under it all, her heart is soft as down.
Why do I see things this way? Why do I express things this way? Am I genius? Or freak? I feel like Einstein or the Marquis De Sade, misunderstood and loathed.
I am the violent expression of me, wanting you to be.
I am the lost soul, trapped in a cage of doubt and fear, desperately awaiting the angel of redemption. How violently I rattle my cage, and scream and bleed, and ache, because I need you. Because I want you to exist. Because silence is my closest friend, and my most hated enemy.
Already I hear your voices in my head, "Freak! Stalker! Loser! Ugly! Worthless! Pathetic!" Hahaha! I hold the razor, and I know better than any where to cut. You will never get past the scar tissue I have laid for you.
Freak? Or poet? Brand me. I have made of myself a masochism, so that you can hurt me.
I wonder, will love make it past the scar tissue?
I saw Max today, and for a brief moment my heart ached. As she stood there, clothed yet naked, I couldn't help but fall in love. She was...liquid poetry. Each muscular curve of her body was emphasized by her movements, which in turn emphasized her perfect and unique femininity. She was woman, and I ached and bled for her in that infinite instant.
This pain I feel, not knowing whether to masturbate or cry, is this the poetry of my soul? When I look at her and see beauty and grace and sensuality, and sweet agony erupts from my heart onto this page, is that art? Love? Madness? When I look at Amanda, I see the sunrise, red and gold and pink and radiant. When I look at Molly I see midnight, warm and dark and seductive, like the feel of satin. When I look at Edea I see a great goddess of mischief in the guise of a tiny nymph, yet under it all, her heart is soft as down.
Why do I see things this way? Why do I express things this way? Am I genius? Or freak? I feel like Einstein or the Marquis De Sade, misunderstood and loathed.
I am the violent expression of me, wanting you to be.
I am the lost soul, trapped in a cage of doubt and fear, desperately awaiting the angel of redemption. How violently I rattle my cage, and scream and bleed, and ache, because I need you. Because I want you to exist. Because silence is my closest friend, and my most hated enemy.
Already I hear your voices in my head, "Freak! Stalker! Loser! Ugly! Worthless! Pathetic!" Hahaha! I hold the razor, and I know better than any where to cut. You will never get past the scar tissue I have laid for you.
Freak? Or poet? Brand me. I have made of myself a masochism, so that you can hurt me.
I wonder, will love make it past the scar tissue?