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Literature
Witness Not the Watcher
“Has Harry told you about tulpas yet?” “That Spanish thing?” Ryan had seen a restaurant in town. “I dunno if it’s Spanish, but it’s like…” Anton leaned in closer “…an imaginary friend! Like he’s gonna think about this anime girlfriend really hard—he’s way into anime—and that’ll make her real. It’s way sad!” “Yeah, sounds weird.” It did sound sad, but Ryan hadn’t actually heard Harry say any of this. He wasn’t even positive he knew who Harry was, except that he strongly suspected he was the fat guy with the Bleach t-shirt. “You here for pre-drinks?” asked Anton. “No, I’m…” Ryan had been thinking of heading down to the club later, but since it was 4pm and Anton already had a Strongbow he got the feeling this might be one of those days they never made it out of the communal kitchen. “Was there a torch in here?” “Don’t think so.” Ryan spotted it by the microwave and picked it up. “What do you want with that anyway?” “Gotta grab a book for ‘Literature in Translation,’ but all the
Literature
1981: His green beautiful eyes..
Roses are red. Violets are blue. When will you understand my unconditional love for you? Your deep brown eyes glisten.. In this position, I want power. Allowing her to take over. Drove her a bit crazy. Daises, daises. These phases of love turn into Obsession. This confession of hell, isn't this what you wanted? She parted them. Again, alone. Owning monsters. The wanders of curious teens in property of others. These colors may describe the lovers. Brown curly hair, dark chocolate eyes. Her smile, red lipstick, pink eye shadow. By the arrow, hit in the back. Drank a bit too much, causing an incident while driving. Thinking, trying to survive. Your no longer innocence. The ignorance by her, causing death. Her health. She's insane. The main pain has came again. When he had murdered her. This may have occurred by his insanity, madness. The sadness was left in her. But the goodness had left. The incompleteness is left in her. Her sweetness was given to others, a gift. She was art.
Literature
Male Dysmorphia
A hulking tower of insecurities is as real as a Razor-thin doll of ill-informed innocence The double-blue dodecahedron that's rarely kissed Tempestuous illusions cackling in the tears of muscle tendons Prodigality devouring the health of those who taste stability Sullen souls questioning the filigree in their blessed lives' Conjectures pleasured with stares from brides and grooms The fear of unshakable loneliness Hatred doesn't discriminate; an irony that we place at the Entrances' of temples, wrapped in neon foliage as if to keep The meek from learning how to mature When a vixen struggles to accept the flesh, compassion floods Her cluttered sky-- just how it should be When a casanova curses his catalyst, the audience is evenly split; Those who feel the crippling weight of traditionalism and those who Endorse his destruction through various breeds of verbal sewage-- Ignoring physical limits, laughing at disabilities, and shouting at the Void like a semi-pacifistic wyvern
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Another poem. I'm on a roll tonight. 
Mature
© 2011 - 2024 mirokus-number1
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