The jazzy beats are on again -- Fighting with the next door neighbor's children's screams -- Over an off-key diva two doors over, Over the nonstop yammering of a raging mother.
These are the storms, the storms -- The thunders not of comforting chaos but A huge Fucking mess Of a living Leaving the lonely with her rattling bones in the night, Staring out weary Of this world around her. Wistful of mists,
Imprisoned -- Caught in a craze of fighting over A rusty crown For a dusty castle. ...
Flipping in the ridiculous and almost Drunk with Laughter --
Smoothly slipping as if From lips In prayer, In agony wished for And rewarded.
The moon waxed and waned And the waves moved their Back and forth with it as The city never ceased its breathing -- Neon lights eating At the sky -- Some replacing the lamplights of our past times, ...
Foolishness - It must hit harder when there's no darkness to hide in. Harder than the slamming door, Harder than falling into bed with his body above me. And hope is a silly thing to believe in, When time has proven nothing but Our skills in spilling ink And secrets in the night.
But his pull - It was harder, As he grasped me as I tried To get away from Whatever.
What are we.
And it seems Like the distance is closed by our sickening edge - The twisted terrible things from these...
The story starts: Swaying on a street dark and lonely Under rain, barely in it, very out of it. I hum along to the songs I keep For moments like this - I twisted my hands - Scraped and bloodied and I tried To catch My breath In the freezing.
I sat down to hold the sobs in, And old neon lights and dreams taunt me, Then - Darkness.
In front of me, blocking glaring Lights - He offered a hand - Sinister smile knowing - And I took it.
I know, I haven't been on a lot, though I promised that I'd be back more often, writing more, posting more. I even put it in the "goals of the year" of my bullet journal. Well, with how things are going, I think it'd be more approppriate to call it my bullshit journal. I guess, if you don't care about my bs, it's best that you stop reading now.
I found Deep Underground Poetry when I was 16, as I've mentioned, I think, a million times before. A wee girl, wide-eyed to the strange new world before her. Now, I'm a 21-year-old woman. Jaded, consuming memes and...
Laid down in the comfort of darkness, I hold on to a spark, to a flicker - Not knowing - That someone will see its light.
My days, his night, And the sun-drenched place Meets freezing cold and snow - In this little space - Somewhere - On the internet.
And warmth settles with every letter signed - And smiles inspired along with sighs. And a heart lightens. And a day brightens. And in the soft rush of The distance between here and there, We meet - We settle down in borrowed...