hmm.i need to scan some of my photos and put them up.
spacedplease, leave me here, underneath the willow. a forthfront attempt at redemption.spaced
you see the truth.
you know who.
and even with shut eyes you delve into the minds of forksaken allies; those once-upon-a-time friends that have renounced freshly lemon-scented blood.
that brochure is obsoletehey-hey, it's that lone frail finger, found in sounds of tin-foil digestion, pointing out swollen dissections. every direction it aims, its apologies are always interpreted from miscalculated evaluations. tossed away like lacquered angels. they tumble down like a mildew-mosiac of abandoned closet corners... now. he tore from her with a spurious haste to mislead the empires of buildings scorned and then erased, but here is all we have to reset the clocks to function with reduction of emotions gone haywire. the only vexation is it's always wasted effort in karma's kingdom.that brochure is obsolete
cataracts.you're lost in a shadow of solace with no air or thought to breathe. yet, whose merriment can be deceived through late night eves of cheeks and tongues... a perpetual kiss? it's little late for imperishable nostalgia. who was he that beckoned the grave-diggers with gauze wrapped over fists and wrists flicked back on limp limbs? i counterstrike your act of vigilance. you never thought you'd see less than grey. it's a sad seclusion, but the antidote is long lost in waves of broken trust and tormented phantoms of ceased causes.cataracts.
i mop with my left hand.masked mannequins, slip loose, fall through; fall hard. tripping over homicide is a full time job. corpses offer lethal amounts of tribulations and obligations. tip-toeing through roommates of lust long lost. whose arm should propel the dagger first? whose feathers should insinuate heartache? it's quite a silent complication to overdose on migraine medication. hearts punt but don't revive on the account of your suave endeavors. lucid lies? isn't that what was intent? it's not relentless as gloves spritz repellent to a hapless wind. who sought this dismal fight? ... no more mystique in the eyes of parasites. it's a clear misfortune to be alivei mop with my left hand.
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visit [link]
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lend yourself.
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I was born a porno plumbing plunging philantropist potato plugging poor probably pissed probably poling paters' progeny.
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<3
heart.
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