What goes around comes all the way back around
Fail.
Once again, I set out to write something nice. Something sweet. Something that could convey the innocence and beauty of my intentions towards specific individuals. And what does it come out as?
"Fuck me."
My mind: Refuses to make pretty things. Only dirty pretty things.
The Hall Song
I'd like to take a time-kissed residence
Against your vestibule chest.
Lost time to commiserate, a love to elucidate,
And a wave that shatters at its crest.
In the hall, still hoping for the best.
And the minstrel, he writes of sweet clarification,
Hard-pressed to find the right vowels.
Floundering in the troubadour's illumination
Like a winged-thing that's lost in the clouds.
The shedding of the skin will suffice.
Midieval tongue on your lips
And I hope you know my creaking, dark corridors alight
With the feeling of your fingertips.
I think I could lean into this.
We'd pause in the quiet auditorium
Silent except for the breath.
Not one to endear, still the whisper's sincere:
"You know, you still scare me to death."
Like a wave that shatters at its crest.
And the minstrel, he writes of sweet clarification,
Hard-pressed to find the right vowels.
Floundering in the troubadour's illumination
Like a winged-thing that's lost in the clouds.
Butress this shade, give receipt for the wait,
Clench the drapery tight in a fist.
Hard-pressed to break you, still more to foresake you
Floundering against your hips.
I think I could lean into this.
--A
Once again, I set out to write something nice. Something sweet. Something that could convey the innocence and beauty of my intentions towards specific individuals. And what does it come out as?
"Fuck me."
My mind: Refuses to make pretty things. Only dirty pretty things.
The Hall Song
I'd like to take a time-kissed residence
Against your vestibule chest.
Lost time to commiserate, a love to elucidate,
And a wave that shatters at its crest.
In the hall, still hoping for the best.
And the minstrel, he writes of sweet clarification,
Hard-pressed to find the right vowels.
Floundering in the troubadour's illumination
Like a winged-thing that's lost in the clouds.
The shedding of the skin will suffice.
Midieval tongue on your lips
And I hope you know my creaking, dark corridors alight
With the feeling of your fingertips.
I think I could lean into this.
We'd pause in the quiet auditorium
Silent except for the breath.
Not one to endear, still the whisper's sincere:
"You know, you still scare me to death."
Like a wave that shatters at its crest.
And the minstrel, he writes of sweet clarification,
Hard-pressed to find the right vowels.
Floundering in the troubadour's illumination
Like a winged-thing that's lost in the clouds.
Butress this shade, give receipt for the wait,
Clench the drapery tight in a fist.
Hard-pressed to break you, still more to foresake you
Floundering against your hips.
I think I could lean into this.
--A