Tuesday, April 29, 2014


We're all victims of our own crimes
Rejected pieces
Broken smashed pitiful cases
Seasons past bruises black and blue
Failed remnants of forgettable efforts
Forsaken armies boldly dying
Bolder than life's arrogant ability to cause brevity
Is it an idea you can wrap your arms and legs around so you suffocate it and there's no scope for objection?
It it just a platform for you to grow in the most awkward position, inevitable towards dungeons of unprecedented doom?
We are all just clouds of convoluted consequence
Mixing merging massively molding in one magnificent mountain of moss
Disgusting demonic decorations
Fierce like fire
Wishing upon unopened wounds
Writing never needs to imply things
Implication is definite and is chased after
This writing is like a pond
Stagnant, and stubbornly sure, feeling so stable about being stuck
These are just words
Chewy, edible words you need to quickly spew out before they're swallowed subconsciously
Never to be dealt with again
Just because they are unworthy
But you know what
Unworthiness is beautiful
No one knows Him
And those who do
Never know how to truly see Him
And you know what
Anything you don't see
Is automatically beautiful
Because of it being unknown
The appeal of the unknown is to the extent the known is not