1. For dvs


    Sincerity and sympathy wrapped with a bow, chasing your empty aspirations until your lungs give out.
    Your eyes a crystalline green with purple crescent moons hung beneath.
    Pale skin stretched and cut to fit every sorrow you’ve been forced to carry.
    Your fingers have turned more pages than could be counted and I just want to see them intertwined in mine.
    But I am afraid.
    You look like the result of Mother Nature and the moon having a one night stand. You’re everything good and pure and safe compressed into a six foot something frame and my god do you glow.
    I am just a degenerate beauty queen with fast hands and a slow heart.
    I would give up so much to hold your beautiful broken heart,
    But my hands are just too dirty.

    Darling, I wholeheartedly accept your words with an unprecedented flattery, but I must interject on your self assessment;
    You’re the righteous queen that my barren kingdom craves. Please do not hesitate to grace the void with your presence. 
    Your eyes an alluring ocean for my weary feet to tread along its shores. And I feel an inferno when I meet your tender lips.
    With soft edges and such a fragile frame, it bewilders me so mad that any sensible being could be so unheeding and vile with you.
    I would pawn off every clock to my name and speak my tongue to an exhaustive collapse just to try and keep you sane.
    Your hell is as irrational as mine, lashing at our bones and scorching our spines with a damned incessant melancholy
    But with your fingers clasped in mine, I have the audacity to venture us through this. I want to make the demons envy us. 
    And do not fret over any blood on your lovely fair hands, the scarlet blotches on your palms hold no bearing on you.
    They are of no consequence, but perhaps it should lessen the burden for you to know that my hands are stained too.

  2. 20:57 11th Sep 2014

    Notes: 136

    Reblogged from findingredemption

  3. —For MGM,

    I grant you my consent to excavate the confines of my visceral remains 
    Awaken my sensations and I will eagerly engulf you within a vivid inferno
    Fervent with an insatiable hunger for such an ethereal girl as yourself 
    Quench my thirst for affection through your continually flowing panaceas
    I do feel grave to liken you to an opiate, but I’m disengaged from the aches 
    My perceptions are only graced by an erupting euphoria in my broken head
    I’m eager to graze your skin with my fingertips in bold exploratory motions
    Until I’ve inscribed my candid gratefulness for the intersection of our entities
    And within every lovely abrasion, I will flow within, thermally seeping through
    Arousing your tender flesh with enticingly induced palpitations in your veins
    I find you the catalyst to secretions of chemicals that can kill the sadness
    You are a swelling of cells in my brain that I hope to violently metastasize
    And you are the radiant luminosity in which I’ve been starkly deprived of

    Its apparent to me now that an angel helps one to resolve shortcomings
    I want to show you the sinner I am; I want to relish in my atrocities with you

  4. 11:07 2nd Sep 2014

    Notes: 88089

    Reblogged from findingredemption

    My heart swings back and forth between the need for routine and the urge to run.
    — (note to self)

    (Source: c0ntemplations)

  5. I doused my insides with booze
    But I still thought too much of you
    Then every purge from my gut
    Spewed you out like bits of debris
    And I got up the next morning
    Without a shred of remorse

  6. The heart wants to hold you captive; the heart wants to throb
    So I cut the blood vessels; I’m cold and I feel good as I ever will

  7. Open your eyes to the cold sweat again
    Glance at the clock with apprehension
    More time burnt out in your lonely den
    Sigh at the desires never to find fruition
    Hang your head like heavy shameful sin
    You dread owning the dismal disposition
    Fraught with the fancies you crave to win
    Bury yourself once more; fucking amen

  8. Destiny is a whore who persuades us into believing in predetermined paths
    You read into events like they were handed to you by God himself
    The death of another is your fortune; your failures were meant to be
    You guard what lies ahead from uncertainty, protecting it like fine china
    But your future is malleable like clay, thus your anxiety is damn absurd

    We are not the product of preordained prophecies spawned by intuition
    The self you’ve formed could have just as easily never been realized
    Your next 20 years can go in any direction, and none of them is fate
    Life is a game of chance with an incomprehensible number of outcomes
    Fuck what is “meant to be,” and chase the risks like you hunger for prey

  9. All of my words have been filtered out
    I am a sunken vessel with no treasures

  10. she’s a ravishing, towering, mountain top
    glazed in sheets of blinding white
    you’re a crushed up crystalline substance
    waiting to be snorted up by a junkie

    just what did you expect, boy?

    she’s the alluring pattern on the serpent’s skin
    an elegant design with colors so dazzling
    you’re the cicada’s discarded exoskeleton 
    fragmented by the summer’s children

    just who do you think you are, boy?

    she’s the glistening in your tired, sullen eyes
    her smile like an ocean sunset
    you’re the pesky itch on the back of her neck
    she scratches you bare and dry

    just lay your head down, boy
    she’s not yours to keep

  11. 23:41 20th Apr 2014

    Notes: 1

    Tags: writing

    life in a nutshell

    You get older
    you realize no one really knows what they’re doing
    things get weird
    and just about everyone loses their god-forsaken minds

  12. If you’re dirt, 
    you must have something going 
    beneath that surface of yours
    you’ve got to show some promise 
    and start budding before she leaves
    or you risk decaying to futile soil
    washing away with the heavy rains
    you could have danced in with her

  13. 00:32 19th Jan 2014

    Notes: 325

    Reblogged from henrycharlesbukowski

    You lose what individualism you have, if you have enough of course, you retain some of it, but most dont have enough, so they become watchers of game shows, y’know, things like that. Then you work the 8 hour job with almost a feeling of goodness, like you’re doing something, and you get married, like marriage is a victory and you have children like having children is a victory, but most things people do are a total grind, marriage, birth, children, it’s something they HAVE to do because they have nothing else to do. There is no glory in it, no esteem, no fire, their lives are flat and the earth is full of them. Sorry, but thats the way I see it. I could not accept the snail’s pace 8-5, Johnnie Carson, merry christmas, happy new year, to me it’s the sickest of all sick things.

    Charles Bukowski (via henrycharlesbukowski)

    This quote embodies the reason as to why I’m so determined to keep striving towards being more educated and to continue working towards a desirable future.

    I want to avoid the mundane, typical life. I want to be enlightened. I want to expand. 

    I do not want to become a victim of the thought, “If only I had done something about this sooner,” when its too late to go back on it. 

    Success isn’t finishing college, getting a career, marriage, children, etc.

    At some far off point in the future, I’ll probably be guilty of all of those.

    But to me, success is dying knowing I cured my boredom with a passion for something. 

  14. Swaying into the new year with all that intoxicating spirit on your gut
    Clumsily stagger amongst figures, absent-minded with their drunken glee;
    You will not remember the hazy hours leading up to or following
    The hand’s stroke at midnight, establishing the time shift ahead
    One digit higher—one century’s increment more you’ve witnessed
    Having brain waves oscillating haphazardly as you toss balls into cups
    With cigarettes between your lips; you exhale the night into early morning
    Your sullen eyes open upon a dimly lit room and your body perceives
    Having been hit mercilessly by a speeding truck on the free-way
    Pondering the former year’s death and the birth of one anew
    The gloom of having failed to accomplish anything worthwhile
    Stabs at your sides; booze seeps through your fumigated clothes
    But arise, you delicate soul, we are not to be victimized by time
    Granted that we exhaust it delightfully with those we cherish 

  15. 23:11 14th Dec 2013

    Notes: 31322

    Reblogged from teachthemtodream

    Expectation is the root of all heartaches.
    — Shakespeare (via psych-facts)