Lost Love Lust

Tags: writing

• dirty ends.

  You watch the clock, the typical tick scratches the sides of the brain.
  This thing. This thing called time.
  A picture frame, the artists you seek to blame.
  Dark martini, no fucking lime.
  It is not the loves that you proclaim, but the true creations of disdain.
  A telephone ring, a partner in crime, the key to the line.
  Assign, Refine, [...]

• propriety.

  To innocently log onto this technological piece of paper once more.
  To give out thought, feeling, suppression.
  Like the drawing of blood from the mind and soul, to write is a passion, a frustrating
  yet beautiful obsession.

  Perhaps a flower, that takes much time to fully blossom.
  Often it can show realistic desire, or endless dreams in-accomplishable.
  But in end, for what [...]