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The sordid thoughts and mental stumbles of the girl. |
Size: 18 Entries
Created: October 17th, 2007 at 2:00pm
Modified: January 4th, 2008 at 6:42pm
Access:
No Restrictions |
Falling back, full fledge into writing, this time capsule holds the thoughts she cannot shelter and have no home but a page. From the twisted, addictive mind of one girl, staring out a window into space and time, she gives a little of herself.
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October 22, 2007 at 1:03am
October 22, 2007 at 1:03am
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| Angered words slipping from our lips, our hearts screaming for retribution. We hate and spew such antidotes upon eachothers laps. The drive home was brutal, as times like that can be. And in the safety of our home, we stare into eyes of question and soften, for but moments passed, to recall the person we loved so long ago. Embraced in sheets of cotton, entwined, our legs should be, we kiss and hold and call out love notes until the night has ended and day has sung a lullaby. We've touched once more. |
October 20, 2007 at 2:00pm
October 20, 2007 at 2:00pm
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| Night to day, the chariot awaits, things to do in times of unison, working toward reconciling ones lost relations. To feel the beauty of my skin against my skin, for my skin, to know time shall not fade an inner peace. Frumpy to fabulous, one could only hope. |
October 18, 2007 at 11:14pm
October 18, 2007 at 11:14pm
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| Kill my words with your pretentious antics, your sneers and jeers of retaliation. Stab them and cut them as they are, send them into exhile like warriors of tribe indigionous to these lands. Slaughter a cart of words, deficate on such matters that dont matter to what matters in this world. Listen not to these words as they mean nothing and everything and nothing at all. Kill my words in sorrowful attempts at breaking the spirited bones of a silent fem, to leave her cloaked in doubt for what runs through veins of virtue. Because your pitiful pity coagulates on the throat of a godless preacher, in the eyes of a heathen in an Armani. Kill my words and latch a grip to the meticulous as I wander into slumber, knowing this much is true. Kill my words because death is the transference of energy, help them move and grow and soar. Kill my words daily if you will, slay them like mythical dragons as I hope you would. I'll soon send out the reward myself. Slash my words but wear the blood of thoughts demise within your hands with pride. |
October 18, 2007 at 3:57pm
October 18, 2007 at 3:57pm
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| My vision's are not yours my dear, not yours but mine. As mine eyes see and feel and taste the opals from gemmed necklaces of royalty. They have met dragons and vampires in the dead of night in alleys of quaked villages. They have danced with orphans and carried the sick, to meet and greet the peasants and nobility just the same. They see scarred children and fairies with dust, they taste lilacs and ice cream, soar with pigeons and sparrows. I see what I see because these vision's are mine. Not yours but mine. Because my students critique and eagerly await a lesson or two, they live in this school, through corridors of untapped intellect. They watch with eager persistance and hope for more and more to feed upon. These visions are mine to keep, mine to see, mine to feel and taste and love. Oh, the sights I know. All I see when I open my eyes. |
October 18, 2007 at 12:43pm
October 18, 2007 at 12:43pm
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| They smirk and giggle, giving me that false thought of acceptance. Saying I'm good enough so long as the cash flow is like niagara falls. I would scream if it weren't for the duct tape over my lips, because stifling me is easier then hearing. And hearing is easier than listening. And walking away is quite the opposite of never coming in the first place. But they smile and laugh and tap my chin with a "good job kiddo," though they never stayed to watch the play. The play of the story of the script of the life of the girl, no they never stayed because heaven only knows this life would be too boring for simple minds and artichoke hearts. You're making me sickly and I need some medication for the plague that is your negativity over charm and bliss. I would rather fall into nothingness while trying then never to have tried at all. Touche dear lady, blond hair and snowy eyes, touche! |
October 17, 2007 at 10:57pm
October 17, 2007 at 10:57pm
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I can hear you coming, moving so quickly, vibrations below my feet. Opening my window to get a better listen. I can hear you coming, moving so quickly, reminding me the night has come. I can see you whistle and hear your black paint, I can smell your gears and taste your speed, moving with no destination at hand. I can hear you coming, moving so quickly, the train from the abyss, secluded in the ducts of an office building somewhere in Argentina. I can feel you hit me, drag me, push me, grab me and force me down. I can recall the moment of entering the engine, of feeling the heat and wanting to pull the lever to hear wheels screech and moan. I am listening to you now, that train from nowhere and await my turn to ride into the night. Silence again as you leave my town and travel listlessly into the perimeter of yet another damsel, waiting by a window. False hopes for a way out of this binding. For I'd sell a soul for a ticket on the train that gives me motion, a train that gives me a chance, a train that tells me...there's always somewhere to be. "
If you lived here...you'd be home by now." |
October 17, 2007 at 2:09pm
October 17, 2007 at 2:09pm
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| God turned on the sprinkler today, to water the children of yesterday. In hopes of making us grow into bitter battered little soldiers for a war into night we don't wish to fight. God turned the sprinkler on today, to soothe the violet ruptures fallen men have called kisses and love taps. God turned on the sprinkler today to give a sense of hope in the cracking of the sky as a breakaway into oceans of freedom. To wash away these sins of breathe, to wash away these sins of thought and reluctance to be the better man. Listen closely, to the banshees screams of deluded tortures and whimsical pirouettes. She shall stand in first position and frolic as swans would do, though the rain drags her down into rivers of mud and beds of rock. God turned on the sprinkler to show the world, the simplicity of forgiveness, to wash it all away, his dry erase board of life, left in the past to fade into anothers memory. God turned on the sprinkler today as ravens fell and mass begun, as clouds formed and demons made the sign of the cross. God turned on the sprinkler today to make me feel a little less embarrassed for my tears. |
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1334292-Vividly-Yours/sort_by/entry_order DESC, entry_creation_time DESC/page/2
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