| Im paranoid. I feel like Im constantly being watched. Everywhere I go; everything I do. How Calvanistic of me to encourage thoughts of any kind of elitism within my mind. Its only destructive. Damn the petty satire that eats me away each day. And I close my eyes and hum to the American tones we are taught to like and we hear sounds thinking we've made them our own. How individualistic we have become. Froid heretical ego has finally gotten under our skin, and what dark monsters of myrrh we have become. Cloud of smoke comin your way, I see you each day and suddenly stormy skies and white lies and theft beyond reason sucked from our own human consumption.
"Im just trying to feed my baby-birth my baby." I once said, but then the residue in my tongue no longer tasted so bitter sweet as the day of isolation for soon thought the day come of consummation and retaliation and resurrection. "What if I stumble, what if I fall?" thought I. I did. Many a time I fall and cry and get back up to grow some balls. Ready to fight to the death. O what damn pride might do to me. O control, o Calvin. "Don't bore me, don't bore me- Im in need of Canvas and paint, or a male prostitute, don't bore me." All to conjure dreams within oneself, what to like, what to dislike, we all become each other's demons, and our own demons are becoming and when we become we deny who we are. Ready to hope for another cause, the cause becomes our next agenda to pass the time in our mind, this life day to day. But how does hope shape us anyway? Mystics and Messiah, let me have your demons. I am Westley, hear me roar, I want to fight to let the whole world know--I know not what.
Follow me till the end of night. Watch me scream in fright, lay my head just to wake, feeling all things big mistake. Pretend to play, to run from tortured regrets, eat drink and be married lest we die. Travel the world, sin and then some again. and again. Perpetual cycle run it's course already, die to me already. Spike my tea already. Let me remember all and forget the general, the details linger for our Charismata. Everything sacred, hold nothing back, only my hand, whoa to thee that letith me starve till Im dead-let it linger in my head-we're here for eachother, here for eachother, live a little longer, live a little stronger. Feet up and pat em down, take that wretched crown off my head and feed it to the birds before they take my eyes instead. Lord forgive your servant, save me.
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| They are taunting me.
Toying with my life as if I have nine of them.
How much time do you think I have?
Mourning over ghosts that broke my heart and still waiting for someone to let me be lose.
I cannot live in a lie.
We will have fun together.
Pastoral leadership was not my ideal 18th year of life.
Could I not just be free from it all?
Do what I want?
I dont think Im sure what that is today.
Well, another day of the working cycle and then yet another 100 people to nicely smile to without caring.
Genuine blood pulsates in me but only comes circulating when lifes' dull edge gets the better of me.
Lord deliver, please. |
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| Call me a columbine flower if you may,
To die for or today?
I died a little past May.
The count of my live posies are but a few,
But I hold those close to my heart like I do to you.
The schematics don't buy love,
Nor intelligence, nor anything material a woman might have to offer.
And as I search for the Soul of the Earth,
Something if known everyone claimed dying for,
I will bang symbols and chimes and refuse to play the silly game I mimed
And Ill take pictures to put on my walls
And my future will be at stake
And oh my darling youll have to break what you thought were feathers and bells became how you fell into this box.
This cage you cant climb over
But someone will set you free
And your wings will soon fly
And your pain will be on me. |
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| its not that im werid..you mistake me.
dont let the sunshine go down without telling me your what i did.. |
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| I tipped my bottle one day but nothing came out.
Something has been spinning in me oh god what could it be..
You are the next in line. What has happened to me that is. Jackson or Job once beat a cool beat with two pairs and a single.
Sounded lovely they did until the riot. It began subtly just like mine.
Begin to notice the persian rug had a kink. Someone had been lookin. Looking through their furniture and called bs.
Someone thought their face would peel so he took a shot.
The bundle of flowers in my heart has wilted..Or are they just drying?
Someone said a loud cry of sanitized freedom would crack screened cellar slide shuts but I thought only bloody murder would play the better occupant.
and then there were some..
Why must I always prove there's another way? Iv gotten to accustom to lowering the blinds at night to make a righteous answer of your boils and pains Job.
I just do not know you. I just do not know you.
Braid my beard now. The haughty fluid is dripping from my pores and I need a release from these straggled dead things hanging from me.
If only I could have that choice. The choice to hide myself among a piece of death and it cover my present emotions. I often wonder if even a blessed smile might even be better off unsaid or just..covered..up..
Please tell me.
Do I want a man? or a manservant? I'm not sure the difference at this point. But whoever he is, whatever he does, let his addiction be more than questioned affliction unfortunately showing itself proverbial in my presence. Let him never choose to buy persian rugs and let him call me more than just a lady.
Let his lips speak tenderly like hot oil massaging my back. Let these dry flowers be spread all over a floor, possibly taking shape of a tall and limber tree. and let that tree sway beautifully back and forth to the beat of our hearts.
No more betrayal.
No more insanity.
We don't have to work no mo
The lavender skies will take the dust off our rugs and the millstones off our chests and clear the scars from our face. Our face.
A little light will come. Our bottle soon pour
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