Reblogging what speaks to me

Tendrils of tenderness Save my benthic soul Sinking from preservation Attuned to only chaos Same song never wavers I rather drown in you So paradise can wash up

My palate stays arid Sans your sapid nectar Enduring austere days Alongside sultry nights I'll balance allurement Enkindled heart baring Eyes closed to the obscure Let these lips seek you Under amber radiance

Spellbound by the abyss I hope to look away soon All this apathy feels wonted Almost like alleviation My torment is at a deadlock No further notice needed See you on the other side

To be determined Invariably damaged Recovery nonexistent Eternal for descent Destiny indistinct

Staring up at the night's sky So I can find those two stars Glimmering right by each other That perfectly matches her eyes

Our univocal glances With indecent touches Sets the fervid tone Shrouded in conjury Untamed by soft moans Less feels like more When we match desires Now mesmerizingly lost Between serein and silk

Counterclockwise moves Lodged deep into doubt Hellbent on culpability Standing by and waiting Over depths of disservice I am beyond bottomless Not a sighting or sound Suffering in quiescence Self inflicted degradation

a thin layer of dust has built up on my windowsill, a constant visual representation of my stagnation. despite my best efforts to appear fresh and clean, my clothes are wrinkled and my glasses are smudged and my cuticles are shredded and bloody.

i know i can take care of myself, and i reassure you as much every time that you worry, but i can’t help but think i’m not doing something right because i never notice the dust on anyone else’s shelves or their mismatched socks or their posters askew–

floating on the leading edge of a warm southerly breeze

the towering puffy white cumulus clouds a gateway

like the tiny wren’s trill touches this heart, a harp song

a memorized prayer, my inner spirit reaches into each day seeking

something to make it all better but do prayers find their way beyond the pink full moon or do they fall

under the scent of hyacinths overcome with the transient sweetness

words can settle into poems or soar

beyond the velvet of deep space where prayers gather into constellations of hope

april pink moon

Shear existence and lay the world bare.

Like we shouldn't care.

Why is a ball of mud full of such despair?

Class consciencness is incredibly rare.