These books we read are just dead tattooed trees
Let us smell their corpses with blissful felicity before displaying them for all to see Follow me through the journey of their darkest adventures Splattered with coffee stains over their tightly bound remains Great plains of undulating declaration Vast prairies of narrative fornication But alas, there is no black dye upon this tree’s skin Has no one written your story yet, Josephine?
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I'm bereft of feeling
and I wish not to antagonise the meaning behind this reasoning of self imposed loneliness and demeaning self loathe One day One day in the very near future I'll start to give a fuck again Start to feel those feelings again that twist and pull and soothe and curl around our internal organs like an emotionally imbalanced octopus. But not today Today I file all emotions between Fuck This and Fuck That |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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