All ready to
But you can never reach the
Your soul is
You are an
Chained to the
can you tell i still love you?i keep a picture of you in my cigarette pack
sometimes i blow smoke against your matte face
as if it'd creep up your nostrils
or down into the depths of your ivory lungs
so you'd be dying with me
and sometimes i cut your eyes
from other pictures
and glue them in place
just to burn them out again
sometimes i just look at the picture
with an unlit cigarette resting on my lips
i used to be in the picture
but we cut it in almost-half
and took the side of each other;
i wonder where you keep me
(you used to use it as a bookmark,
is it still in that bukowski book you never finished?)
i keep your picture in my cigarette pack
and sometimes i just ignore it.
seven o'clock is looking pretty good right now.i want to take a road trip to bury all the raccoons and possums dead
on the side of the road.
i don't want to drive though,
i want to be in the passenger seat
with my feet on the dash, the tips of my boots
putting dust scratches on the plastic,
and looking through cheap sunglasses
at the sun setting beside your face
somewhere obscure in Arizona
where armadillos have died atop the gravel.
i want to read music, out loud like books,
and sing poetry.
i want to watch clouds melt against the sun
and fall down on the windshield as rain.
i want to bury all the dead things
on the other side of my skin.
did you tell the neighbors to cut the lights off?i thought there was some significance in anatomy
but it really doesn't come to much.
there's just some skin, muscle, and blood covering bones and lungs.
your freckled jacket drapes the galaxy within your ribcage.
there's not gravity,
but i'm still falling.
when i was four i thought the sky was blue marble.my father feels guilty
for spending my childhood
spending time with my brother and cars,
he feels even worse every time he yells at me;
he yells at me a lot.
my father buys me books
to try to buy my love (or maybe my forgiveness)
but he doesn't realize that he's just paying me
to love other people;
some dead poet he doesn't know shit about
and probably wouldn't understand.
but thanks though.
i'm going to need you to breathe for us.don't fall in love with me
because i don't do things the way your exes do.
i'm not going to take you to some fancy restaurant
with a suit and tie and valet to park the car
i'll take you to a library instead
we'll go shopping together
and try on some other people's grandparent's clothes
we'll get new names and fake shitty accents for each reflection
i'll convince you to buy an ugly jacket
by telling you your face is so damn pretty
no one's going to look once at that color blocked windbreaker
you'll wear it in the car,
but fidget uncomfortably when we stop
so we'll switch coats outside the art museum
you'll take my picture next to some abstract piano sculpture
constructed of old park benches
and tell me that i'm brave,
but i'm just a coward who likes to make you laugh.
i care too much about what people think
but not when i'm with you
because those strangers are just echoes of your shadow.
we'll go into the bell tower of that catholic church by the harbo
i was freezing in an art museum.i met a boy with heterochromia;
one eye was green and the other was blue.
i was watching him from across the room and he was staring right back,
his eyes peeled away my skin
and turned my soul purple.
i could feel the color fading as he walked away
and when you found me my soul was lilac, and you thought it was bruised.
i never told you about the stranger i fell in love with
for fifteen minutes
i remember you from last night.you remind me of a swimming pool;
deep and cool.
i'm sorry, sweetheart
i can swim,
but i don't like to.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
after the explosion
are these suns,
a faint projection
from an unreachable darkness,
And then everything is simultaneous;
the entangled mess,
And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-
The pilot painted across a desert,
A desert painted across the pilot.
Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-
The expanse outside echoed inward,
Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman
(or the memory of a woman).
Or maybe just the T.V. relay
as I struggle to sleep,
from both dimensions
glowing and whispering:
The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.
Fixing the damageYou feel damamged
Just like me
We can change that
We can fix each other
So don't give up
We need each other
Mary x Male!Reader
"D-don't you dare look at me!"
I jumped, scared. This ball of fluff----she was talking to me? With a shaky breath, I smiled uneasily at her. "Hey, now...I'm not gonna make fun of ya, or anything."
She blinked, and looked up at me, her eyes shining a bright red. "Y-you won't?" "Nope."
The girl's name was Mary Kozakura.
And she was like a puffball, ever so innocent.
"___! There you are!" Mary looked down at me, smiling sweetly. She was holding a tray, with various yummy-looking food treats on there.
"I-I made these for you, actually..." She was blushing. Wow, she's actually blushing!
"Thank you, Mary." I went to grab a small treat, when suddenly, Mary accidentally slipped on her own two feet, making the treats and tray fall and break in a quick, rumbling earthquake.
We were quiet for a moment, Mary covered in sweets, me looking at her from the couch, gaping.
"I'm so sorry, ___! I didn't mean to do that!" Mary began to stand back up, but fell
glass in the throatthere's something about that
hollow quiet in the night
that bite of air
beneath the clouded moon:
something like calm words,
falling through the gaps
between stained teeth
something like a dull thud,
a stumbling fawn
bruised by a wheel.
something about that
clinging crowding darkness
a sweet invitation:
prey on us sinners,
at the hour of our death.
happyAs someone who is diagnosed with severe depression,
you cannot expect "happy" to be in my vocabulary.
But you must realize that
we all have a different definition.
Happy is not being the richest kid on the block, or
the most popular one in school.
Happy is not always having a smile on your face
or a twinkle in your eye.
Happiness, to me, comes through tears.
Tears from finding out I still have good grades.
Tears from realizing that the friend who ignored me for three years
is now my next-door neighbor.
From discovering that my brother
isn't ashamed of me and who i am.
But happiness also comes in 'if's, 'would's and 'should's, as everything does.
If my mother would accept me
and not see me as corrupt or broken.
If my father would call me because I haven't talked to him in three months but
I only matter on holidays, apparently.
Happiness is when I would be able to have a friend
without fearing when the hurt would come.
But recently, I've discovered my definition of 'happy' ha
Arcadiai. You know how sometimes you want to be a playlist for someone? To be a fifty-three minute and forty-five second track on ambiguity, longing and nostalgia. A homemade mixtape they’d take with their late afternoon drives, when the borders between the dusky setting sun smudge into the perfect shadowed sky. You’re not there with them; your scents not intermingling with each other. But somehow, they’re closer to you than the salty and sugary wind you breathe, while thinking at the same time whether or not they’re in their own world; their own genre.
ii. And maybe it’s because we’re all gripped with a little bit of hypergraphia that goes vomiting on every awkward angle we have. An intensified gripping of intra-fireworks display only happening in our own ossified skulls. It’s thinner than a paper-thin margin how exhales of exhaustion could immediately turn into staccatos of hysterics.
iii. Yet that’s the imperial of music: multi-handed
Fame Versus Infamy Fame or Infamy
If your name could be remembered across the stars
How would you wish for it to be edged in the astral eyes.
Will you contaminate this shared existence with 10,000 plagues
Or will you rise to the skies and pluck at the golden cloud known as success.
Positive or Negative, Good or Evil, the Lime Light or the Cracked Streets.
Insanity vs Sane, Good Will against Power Corruption, the ultimate question.
What is your answer? What will you decide? Bring the World to bleak Ruin or make the World a Better and more Comfortable Place?
Both lead to widespread recognition.
Now, for your answer.