Lost Love Lust

Tags: writing

• attack.

  My words are weapons. Sharp blades that slither along the synapse making their way towards the center. The center of the mind, the aura, the being. Everything that ends, has a beginning. I am a reversal, a rebellion, a renowned reconnaissance route reveling rurally. I begin with smiles and end with doubts. I speak and [...]

• 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 [...]

• 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 [...]