Sad Labels:
daunted
,
introspect
,
suicide
With soap still under her nails she dug little holes. In smaller ones. The hours thick with fat. Tasty angels with their wings to suck on. The smell of sober making her nauseous. Knowing over doesn't wait for the right time.
It just happens.
Clean. Curious liars imagine the truth as it would suit them. Loose fit utopias name their charities after their victims. Trying them on with the price in the pocket. Without underwear. Or any reason to ask if over is near.
Love is suicide. Or life is and I get them confused.
A ripe watermelon waiting for someone to spit out its last seed.
Figured I'd pop by a few of my old favourites on this balmy Sat morning.
I see you haven't lost a single milligram of that incisive talent of yours.
How dare you write lines like this one and not send them to publishers?
'Clean. Curious liars imagine the truth as it would suit them.'
------
RuKsaK
i miss when you still wrote stuff on the web ruk.
why did you stop?
while it would be nice to be officially published, there's far too high an effort/rejection to satisfaction/pride ratio.
love in the air --
an angel spitting out
watermelon seeds
or choking on them?
Post a Comment