(no subject)
The blooming outside of the springing summer is a betrayal to the withering heights of these harsh disintegrations of the mornings of my ever-winters. the new way of deception breaths in like hedonism in a wave of heat. Listen. To the leaves growing, the romances spring and blow away. To the weathers disparity and detriment on those depressed and frustrated gibberish eye contact. And the news never covers this, but I want this summer to fade quickly into the A/C, to commit suicide, to be murdered.
Men wave to breasts that flirt through bikinis and they rarely see the faces, they wish to meet vaginas to grind into sand and leave them where they were found, strewn across the beach, or, more violently, at the bottom of the ocean. But who can blame them? Its perfect. Women wave to abs that flirt with embarrasing honesty or arms that guide walks like soldiers, they have their conversations in contractions and seizures of impressing strength. When the breasts beauty is in proportion to the abs or the arms, they make plans to wage a beautiful war on their bodies, but more often than not, the Men win and throw breasts away, through their memory and conquests: this is "summer romance". AND those who dare to look in each others eyes are soon lost and estranged as though lost in each other, but, unlike the common wars that men and women wage, the love is made with bodies and minds, not just their parts: they have the chance to feel whole, which makes their battles all the more intense as summer is replaced by falling leaves.
This is the mapping of our loves, our loses, our comings and our lefts, but soon these candy dreams will make war on who you were before:someday they will be fulfilled:someday they will be fulfilled? Someday. Will that day come in a day after your passing? Maybe. Be Hopeful.
The stories make time through their telling. Reality is just a melding of our minds and bodies: a deadly synthesis that sparks denial and reproach, depression, and all that is dialectical. pheromones are silent mating cries that make or break first sight. they comfort and upset.
But who am i kidding? Jealousy just rains on me with every hand held and every shoulder with an arm wrapped around it.
Why isn't that me? Why can't i be someones everybody?
Men wave to breasts that flirt through bikinis and they rarely see the faces, they wish to meet vaginas to grind into sand and leave them where they were found, strewn across the beach, or, more violently, at the bottom of the ocean. But who can blame them? Its perfect. Women wave to abs that flirt with embarrasing honesty or arms that guide walks like soldiers, they have their conversations in contractions and seizures of impressing strength. When the breasts beauty is in proportion to the abs or the arms, they make plans to wage a beautiful war on their bodies, but more often than not, the Men win and throw breasts away, through their memory and conquests: this is "summer romance". AND those who dare to look in each others eyes are soon lost and estranged as though lost in each other, but, unlike the common wars that men and women wage, the love is made with bodies and minds, not just their parts: they have the chance to feel whole, which makes their battles all the more intense as summer is replaced by falling leaves.
This is the mapping of our loves, our loses, our comings and our lefts, but soon these candy dreams will make war on who you were before:someday they will be fulfilled:someday they will be fulfilled? Someday. Will that day come in a day after your passing? Maybe. Be Hopeful.
The stories make time through their telling. Reality is just a melding of our minds and bodies: a deadly synthesis that sparks denial and reproach, depression, and all that is dialectical. pheromones are silent mating cries that make or break first sight. they comfort and upset.
But who am i kidding? Jealousy just rains on me with every hand held and every shoulder with an arm wrapped around it.
Why isn't that me? Why can't i be someones everybody?