Feast or Famine
He was slick satin, soft and gliding. Easiness like the sun peaking over the horizon, warm and calming. Gentleness with a spark of the devil in his eyes, cunning and vibrant. He was stepping off of a cliff, the excitement of free fall, the tranquility of pulling the parachute ripcord, dandling carelessly in the air, wind through the hair.
He was quietness and warm cotton, woven through my fingers like a baby's blanket. Desperate for nurturing, a soft voice, delicate hand. He was closed eyes, vibrating lashes, parted lips of pink. A mountain top dusted with large-flaked white snow, yielding and fragile, acquiescent in my hands.
He was aching and death. Usurping flesh like coarse wool, biting and lulling. Fierce longing with strong hands and tender words, lips wet with tears. Stolen whispers, protective arms, intent on watching me unravel in order to hold the thin, wiry threads in his hands.
---
It is entertaining how malleable some people are, screaming out I am a lump of clay, mold me, tell me who I am. They put all of the value of the world on the words certain people speak without giving second thought to their own gut feelings and intelligence. But no one person holds the world in his or her hands. I may have my weak spots, yet no one may tell me what to think or say, how to feel. I do not blindly trust people, as much as my nature tells me to do so. I have become more cynical with each day that passes.
Where has my innocence gone? I seemed to have misplaced it between bathroom blowjobs and hurtful betrayal.
What a catty group of gossipers we have all become. Everyone seems to have an opinion on just about every situation. I wonder where people believe they have the right to determine what is right and wrong, healthy and unhealthy, thoughtful and thoughtless. Is there some sort of sin measuring stick someone failed to pass me? Perhaps there is a jury that someone above forgot to put me on? Although, I suppose it is hard to sit on a jury when once spends a great deal of time in the in the examining chair. Deliberate, congregate, enjoy your time at the justice banquet, just be sure to not get too intoxicated by the wine.
-Juska-
He was quietness and warm cotton, woven through my fingers like a baby's blanket. Desperate for nurturing, a soft voice, delicate hand. He was closed eyes, vibrating lashes, parted lips of pink. A mountain top dusted with large-flaked white snow, yielding and fragile, acquiescent in my hands.
He was aching and death. Usurping flesh like coarse wool, biting and lulling. Fierce longing with strong hands and tender words, lips wet with tears. Stolen whispers, protective arms, intent on watching me unravel in order to hold the thin, wiry threads in his hands.
---
It is entertaining how malleable some people are, screaming out I am a lump of clay, mold me, tell me who I am. They put all of the value of the world on the words certain people speak without giving second thought to their own gut feelings and intelligence. But no one person holds the world in his or her hands. I may have my weak spots, yet no one may tell me what to think or say, how to feel. I do not blindly trust people, as much as my nature tells me to do so. I have become more cynical with each day that passes.
Where has my innocence gone? I seemed to have misplaced it between bathroom blowjobs and hurtful betrayal.
What a catty group of gossipers we have all become. Everyone seems to have an opinion on just about every situation. I wonder where people believe they have the right to determine what is right and wrong, healthy and unhealthy, thoughtful and thoughtless. Is there some sort of sin measuring stick someone failed to pass me? Perhaps there is a jury that someone above forgot to put me on? Although, I suppose it is hard to sit on a jury when once spends a great deal of time in the in the examining chair. Deliberate, congregate, enjoy your time at the justice banquet, just be sure to not get too intoxicated by the wine.
-Juska-