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Maybe two thirds of 750
wasn’t my best move.
Maybe a bottle while I waited
to move shouldn’t have been
consumed, but damn if
it didn’t feel good.

There it was, numbing the senses;
dying the extremities red,
coloring the skin.
The dead lips that kiss the inevitable.
Skin peals away from the
ignorance of a stain.

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blah blah..meh

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This is pretty similar to the face in my dream last night

I’m going to start trying to paint with paint balls again. That way I can better my aim and make art while having fun shooting stuff!! Yay!!

Bright side to having a slingshot

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Everything deserves a photo

It was about time for a new poem :). It’s just a little different but, not really.

 

Anyway, poem time:

 

 

 

Sixteen feet away,

cherry lips spread for

me. Dimples deepen

until they touch and she

 

looks away. Puckered,

she stares down at her

feet. Raven strands

blow behind an ear and

 

she looks back to me.

So I cross, sixteen feet,

through eight inches of

sludge to flirtatious legs.

 

Slowly, I reach the body

they’re attached to.

Gazing over the new born

sun, my mind orbits,

 

becoming dizzier with

every drop of long lashes

against elated cheeks.

I cant help but stare into

 

the stars. They pull me

closer. Creating massive

heat waves between us

until our bodies fuse to

 

one another; tying me to

her. We rock within her

smile ignoring the

shrinking Universe around

 

us. Eliminating space so

that I feel the planets

against me. Soft hands

bring my face closer. My

 

eyes drift to the cherry

simper I couldn’t help but

watch before our collision.

Her lips pull me in; tongue

 

rubbing away my flaws

as she erases me.

Can you see the face?? I took this back in March and never actually looked at it until today. The tan colored part of the plant looks like a tiny man with a face of “The Screamer”..you know if his mouth were closed..

Just a quick dinner poem that went dark side for my entertainment 😉

I stare at the alphabet
bowl that holds soy balls,
watching the fishes swim.
Observing the smoke
that burns, it burns me
as I blow. Gliding into my
nose, it tickles my brain,
making me question my
creation. Considering,
wandering, how in twenty
one years could this be my
accomplishment. I glance
left, to the rings within the
glass. Chianti teasing me
with red, my favorite of
the crying colors. It reflects
to me, a darkened image of
apathy, giggling as I try to
grasp it, pushing for
humiliation. I let my lips
move it. Taking control of the
taunting, I slowly end its life.

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