

Servants of Unspoken WhispersGrey dims blaze through swollen eyes Though many lids rest, refined Here they wait 'til they arrive And I scribble bleak lines.Servants of Unspoken Whispers
Sweet red bags of dying glee Carolina memory Sawdust sliding slippery Dreams taste much like this.
Angels sleeping two rows back Does heaven pierce through the black? Does ale make a midnight snack Or just an urge?
Brown ice gazes quite coldly Through the murk of faded hopes This damn coffeepot glacier Fits nowhere.
The wind reeks of old treasure Of pictographic censure And soft chim


Sore EyesIt's a sweet mercury deluge Sweeping away gilded mottoes and requiems Slaughtering all sweet and tantalizing doldrums Only a sore neck from smiling. Moments of bitter absolution Evaporate with every dirty glance. One could, and has, sworn by such sights. No permanence could be squeezed from such situations. Every time, the same story with different actors When it does work, it is a clockwork miracle Or something else and wicked altogether. Rotten hopes breach this brief sanctum Trailing trampled, trivial thought. "Here lies such sweet remembrance, Deep in theSore Eyes


SentimentIt is forged from sideways glances.Sentiment
At times, it can be profitable, Mere rubies drip from the fiercest excavation.
Tiger's Eye lies and onyx truth, Hidden between the slightest shades. Endless variations explored to find trick doors for autopsy.
Here is the truth: Yearn for nothing to become a devout servant. Dry leaves Rustling underfoot Are truly mad.


Stale AmbrosiaIt's amber now Not the whispering subject but Sweet description; Baleful, throbbing, undying. It speaks of tigers and mice, Their virtues, Their souls, perhaps. More gold than silver; Molten, Yet not without impurities. Some things never boil out. They are Symptoms of buried devotion simply exhumed for a macabre demonstration Only to retreat to dusty catacombs Of cardboard and plywood.Stale Ambrosia
All because now it's amber But the dreams are jade.
Reaper: Clover

The Barbiturate BalletDo not pity me. Do not pity me and my loss of short-term memory. Yes, I should have learned from the poison-dove nosebleeds burning up my hair as it went I have lost keys; I have lost lovers, brain cells. I lost my mind but I found it again, drenched in mucus and shivering under your bed.The Barbiturate Ballet
You are gone by daybreak.
I am glad that in the daytime you can easily drift from tree to tree like leaves or raindrops or a little bird that always avoids my outstretched finger. You falter like shadow bars, the ones that mutilate my bod
Thanks for the fav and the add to your friends *^_^*
Kisses.
--
slightly insane and mostly incoherent
hello.
--
Everyone's values are defined by what they will tolerate when it is done to others.
~ William Greider
I really appreciate it
--
In the place where long grass opens, the girl who waited to be loved and cry shame erupts into her separate parts, to make it easy for the chewing laughter to swallow her away.
-Beloved, Toni Morrison
I haven't visited that poem in quite some time, and thank you especially for the watch. I really appreicate it.
I think your poetry. You have a unique style, and a way of twsiting words that makes me want to keep reading.
--
In the place where long grass opens, the girl who waited to be loved and cry shame erupts into her separate parts, to make it easy for the chewing laughter to swallow her away.
-Beloved, Toni Morrison
I read your journal and almost the same thing happened to me, except in my case I couldn't submit literature for a few days.
--
“Now me lay down
to sleep.
Mow da zeebas down
like sheep.
Give dem to me
nice and dead.
Me no happy
‘til me fed.”
-Bedtime prayer of crocs (Pearls Before Swine)
--
//thezimchick
{the truth is out there}
{and so are sheep!}
I totally have to catch you on AIM. This is crazy. Take care, my friend!
--
And even if it doesn't sound like
Jazz Music,
my baby will be crazy 'bout this
Jazz Music
--
Maybe I'm not, but your all I got left to believe in
Don't give up on me, I'm about to come alive.
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