Upiór | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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Or am I just that bad at life?
Oh Lord on High, why won’t
You bathe me in your Holy light?
Or am I predestined, meant to thirst,
Meant to starve, only to come alive at night?
O, Lamia. Sanguine.
Fragile porcelain —
Concomitant
Crimson syzygy
Malleus, a whisper
Will you deliver me?
Are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me, devil?
Can you not forgive me at all?
If all I know is what I have been taught?
Exceptional at tying the knot
A perfect marriage? ...maybe not
The cord, taut
Imagine I sway and rot
I should have known,
Having forsaken me
I would not get what I seek
What I have sought
Are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me?
Are you proud of me, devil?
A Perfect Blue | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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make it candid
Say all the things I wish
someone would say to me
It's quiet,
but if you listen closely
there's a chance you'll hear
Everything I, to you
am too afraid to say
The Paper Man | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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It is dusk and the crowds they usher along past the paper man. A present stature, subtle and ambient in silhouette, but do they see him? The paper man exhausts in intervals, leaving a curtain of fading smoke to swirl around the next passerby. He gazes miles into his thoughts somewhere between the cracks in the pavement, never batting an eye; only his arm raises to inhale like a neon sign, animated to advertise and to lure your eye, but no one sees the paper man. The paper man. The paper man who sees in black and white recalls a time when he knew what to feel and even wanted to but just didn't know how. His memories they aged cemented in sepia between the annals of wants and wishes and those of experiences, all colored but one in the same. He had heard of a god and its love but never seemed to have felt it. A devil that wasn't much interested either. The paper man didn't feel real and maybe he wasn't. He smiles just like you and frowns all the same. He probably even has a name.
The cigarette rapidly cools as it is pressed into the wall. If he leaves now, he should make it by dawn.
The choir laments.
It is dawn and the paper man stands before the shoreline. No more seen now by nobody than he was around everyone. The paper man walks into the sea. Each wave returning from the shoreline walking him further into the deep. As the sun rises he looks down at his hands just below the surface of the water. His distorted figure more so as his hands spread, loosening and coming undone at each fold. Now he knows. His legs soften and buckle and he starts to sink, floating here or there at the mercy of the ocean's random push and pull. His face submerges and flutters along with the random bits of current. As he sinks he looks toward the surface. His eyes widen. One more memory. He gently files this one, a perfect blue, safely between the others.
The choir mourns and observes as the paper man comes unraveled evermore.
The cigarette rapidly cools as it is pressed into the wall. If he leaves now, he should make it by dawn.
The choir laments.
It is dawn and the paper man stands before the shoreline. No more seen now by nobody than he was around everyone. The paper man walks into the sea. Each wave returning from the shoreline walking him further into the deep. As the sun rises he looks down at his hands just below the surface of the water. His distorted figure more so as his hands spread, loosening and coming undone at each fold. Now he knows. His legs soften and buckle and he starts to sink, floating here or there at the mercy of the ocean's random push and pull. His face submerges and flutters along with the random bits of current. As he sinks he looks toward the surface. His eyes widen. One more memory. He gently files this one, a perfect blue, safely between the others.
The choir mourns and observes as the paper man comes unraveled evermore.
Diseased | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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Your sweet, take it back.
Another fable, another lie.
Whisper in the dark,
I beg you bite me in the light.
A bad prayer,
hoped that it would take me there.
Invitation over that thin line,
an unfortunate destiny.
You broke my skin,
when I let you in.
When I let you hurt me.
I let you hurt me.
Asha | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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Like the warm feeling of a thought of what could have been from a missed connection, the wind whispered a secret so soft I could hardly make it out. In that moment, I thought that just maybe it was something special — as to what it was, I will never know, but I believed it.
Nuclear Shadow | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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Force the petals in the flower and then pick them again.
Taciturn | October 13, 1582 11:11 | author: 6155692138627431029
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I enjoy doing things alone.
I suppose with so many things that are uncertain in life, I know that I can expect loneliness to feel exactly as described, every time. I know that I will be where I need to be and on time, every time. I know that after the sound of fumbling for the keys, the seal breaking between the door and the doorway, the knock of a couple of steps onto the floor and the ambient sound of the city closing behind that resealed door that I will feel alone. Every time.
I go to dinner alone and often. The loneliness is already understood and really not even a thought because the loneliness rises to contentedness, but only until I make the reservation. I have far too much anxiety to announce my loneliness to a hostess, but not enough to sit and be observed eating alone. Most times, reservations are for two or more and I need that reservation. I choose: two. It is only then that I am reminded of my loneliness and the contentedness subsides, but only for a moment.
Sometimes I will eat dinner at a place I have visited prior, but I hardly look up from my plate. I fear I might start to see a pattern, a familiar face. I do not know why it bugs me, but if I had to guess, it would be loneliness and familiarity are exclusively content with never getting to know one another. Sometimes with familiarity comes expectations and expectations can go unmet. I can lower those odds by cutting out variables and the math gets messy when I rely on anything other than myself.
There is some kind of comfort in hearing laughter at another table, mention of a name of a person I will never know and how jealous of or excited for someone is of them. A farewell, bell on a door. A greeting for the next table served.
I wonder what they think of me.
Does the waitress whisper? Do they want to know what I am reading? Maybe they think I am sad. Maybe they think I am confident. If they ever figure it out, I myself, would like to know.
I suppose with so many things that are uncertain in life, I know that I can expect loneliness to feel exactly as described, every time. I know that I will be where I need to be and on time, every time. I know that after the sound of fumbling for the keys, the seal breaking between the door and the doorway, the knock of a couple of steps onto the floor and the ambient sound of the city closing behind that resealed door that I will feel alone. Every time.
I go to dinner alone and often. The loneliness is already understood and really not even a thought because the loneliness rises to contentedness, but only until I make the reservation. I have far too much anxiety to announce my loneliness to a hostess, but not enough to sit and be observed eating alone. Most times, reservations are for two or more and I need that reservation. I choose: two. It is only then that I am reminded of my loneliness and the contentedness subsides, but only for a moment.
Sometimes I will eat dinner at a place I have visited prior, but I hardly look up from my plate. I fear I might start to see a pattern, a familiar face. I do not know why it bugs me, but if I had to guess, it would be loneliness and familiarity are exclusively content with never getting to know one another. Sometimes with familiarity comes expectations and expectations can go unmet. I can lower those odds by cutting out variables and the math gets messy when I rely on anything other than myself.
There is some kind of comfort in hearing laughter at another table, mention of a name of a person I will never know and how jealous of or excited for someone is of them. A farewell, bell on a door. A greeting for the next table served.
I wonder what they think of me.
Does the waitress whisper? Do they want to know what I am reading? Maybe they think I am sad. Maybe they think I am confident. If they ever figure it out, I myself, would like to know.
life in jest. folly and fumble. be better every tomorrow.