inarticulatehis words were like bars of thunder, deafening. they were repeated so often, like the psychology of one who needed them to pretend it were true, so tides of faces could retain their obscenity. repeated, until words were whipped into lethargy, meaningless. he craved for those subdued sighs, those that gave the final will to the reader. no words no words, they cannot question you, doubt into anything because there will be no human language left to criticize from…no established ties, just mimed prose
i didn't know how to tell you i didn't know how to tell you things, so i tried to speak them through the authors that were talented enough to read my intentions, perhaps seventy years ago, maybe a century.
he livened the paper with her pen tip, and she quoted passages that thundered through her nerves--that was the way they spoke of truth, and it was always the same texture as unvoiced desires. burning, burning to be a universal healing, yet fearing with ulterior exhaustion.
and so they realized their love was not love but a need:
a lonely selfish undesirable warmth that could not be fulfilled
they hated the world yet could not breathe surrender
when she left, she inhaled the familiarity of his bedroom
'if you get lost in a sea of scathing voices, i'll save you'
when she left, he composed her last goodbye:
whenever i come upon your collections
i am reading the lyrics of our delusions
and your voice, exhaling into my senses
reply, please rewrite the words, the scenes that should hav
a requiema delay in reality, a melancholy cadence in the chambers of a gilded chapel
as if the lost soul departed from the material world and now casts its shadow within a corner of the present conscience. there it stays, haunting and guiding the troubled soul with its chilling obscurity, 'forgetting' is not available. it is the oddity, the streaks of memories one delivers to another's eyes. the mourners grieve for their hollow windpipes, carry soft words of sorry wishes unspoken, excuse the inconvenient, and remember the unattainable with a raw trembling heart
is this an awakening?
what is the passing soul
will you forgive me
distraction? is this the different that we craved for. the change in expressions we yearn to seek
our cravings show a peculiar void in ceasing interests
'death' is so overused, it has lost its suicidal allure
respiration, haunt me with your soul, i can only inhale through shallow sighs
dear brown eyes, i finally taste the void of loss, silky petals silently waiting for wi