(no subject)
The lamenting ball of gas fizzling and burning skin flanks leathery browns and reds, bodies flutter and stagnantly trickle paths through seas of pavement the consistency of crazy glue. Glistening with thin layers of damp sweat, armpits smelling sickly sweet of perfume and salty perspiration, they shrink objectively from the touch. Slipping haze, graceful, the trembilng and dying days of summer's toll. My calloused fingertips pluck melodies of songs, singing of ill fated lovers and the death of the twilight. I catch a breeze and sway with the shiver of aniticipation for the solstice.
My soul begs for repentence to the chaotic fluxuation of the universe. Bending whispers of sweet nothings kill the rivers of noble heroicism. That's right, women can be noble and heroic too, the world has forgotten that. But nobody's looking for a diamond in the rough, no one's craving a rescue from a heroine weilding beauty and truth. The beauty of the balance between pain and joy, and the truth of life in death and death in life. Always carry a dagger and carve your evidence on the back of your thighs, dear, that way they won't know they're going to die until you've got them where you want them.
The air is thick and warm but heartbeatsclangingtincanchests slow to an arctic chill. Not the rosy glow of winter touched cheeks and eyes gleaming with watery lids in the coldcold air, but flat as a windowpane, colorless as air and translucent as can be ripped out with little or no residue. Forgive the weak, they know not what fate they've given their blood and empathy. Forgive me my criticisms and forgive the dead hearts of this tiny earth. Forgive our apathetic speck of an existence, and blink it into nothingness.
But there's beauty, and there's love. Yes, I still believe it exists, though I can't say how and I can't say where. I've forgotten it. I've lost touch of it, feeling I never knew it in the first place. But then I remember I must have felt it sometime, otherwise I wouldn't miss it this badly. If I never knew joy, how could I know to crave it's return? The interludes of pain and obstruction are really reather heroic and romantic anyway. We all love a tragedy, don't we, so how about a tragic heroine? I'll play the role if someone agrees to be saved.
My soul begs for repentence to the chaotic fluxuation of the universe. Bending whispers of sweet nothings kill the rivers of noble heroicism. That's right, women can be noble and heroic too, the world has forgotten that. But nobody's looking for a diamond in the rough, no one's craving a rescue from a heroine weilding beauty and truth. The beauty of the balance between pain and joy, and the truth of life in death and death in life. Always carry a dagger and carve your evidence on the back of your thighs, dear, that way they won't know they're going to die until you've got them where you want them.
The air is thick and warm but heartbeatsclangingtincanchests slow to an arctic chill. Not the rosy glow of winter touched cheeks and eyes gleaming with watery lids in the coldcold air, but flat as a windowpane, colorless as air and translucent as can be ripped out with little or no residue. Forgive the weak, they know not what fate they've given their blood and empathy. Forgive me my criticisms and forgive the dead hearts of this tiny earth. Forgive our apathetic speck of an existence, and blink it into nothingness.
But there's beauty, and there's love. Yes, I still believe it exists, though I can't say how and I can't say where. I've forgotten it. I've lost touch of it, feeling I never knew it in the first place. But then I remember I must have felt it sometime, otherwise I wouldn't miss it this badly. If I never knew joy, how could I know to crave it's return? The interludes of pain and obstruction are really reather heroic and romantic anyway. We all love a tragedy, don't we, so how about a tragic heroine? I'll play the role if someone agrees to be saved.