This was an entry I wrote before when I still had a blog.
Specks of Passion
When you shout at me I hear a buzzing sort of noise, not the ones I hear during my sleep but somewhat the same sort of nothingness, the type I ignore most of the time and yet it's still there, waiting for me, swallowing the same oxygen from a pretentious room full of stuffed toys. They provide me emotionless guilt, and it drenches my shoulders like a eagle perched on a sickly branch, so please tell me why I follow all the time even if I curse you in my thoughts. These things I etch in my brain like a mourning rune, equipping me with an enchanted weapon that burns to the touch. Yes to the one who rubs my back afterwards, telling me that I know it's just him, so I don't need to feel hurt at all, no, because pain is an essay. I write to this day, closing my ears with muddy barriers of excuses. It's much better moving on than succumbing to the wish of my hidden wisdom. I create no words for my inability to be sensible.
When you shout at me I hear a buzzing sort of noise, not the ones I hear during my sleep but somewhat the same sort of nothingness, the type I ignore most of the time and yet it's still there, waiting for me, swallowing the same oxygen from a pretentious room full of stuffed toys. They provide me emotionless guilt, and it drenches my shoulders like a eagle perched on a sickly branch, so please tell me why I follow all the time even if I curse you in my thoughts. These things I etch in my brain like a mourning rune, equipping me with an enchanted weapon that burns to the touch. Yes to the one who rubs my back afterwards, telling me that I know it's just him, so I don't need to feel hurt at all, no, because pain is an essay. I write to this day, closing my ears with muddy barriers of excuses. It's much better moving on than succumbing to the wish of my hidden wisdom. I create no words for my inability to be sensible.