Something about you just got under my skin. The thought you’d conferred with your best friend was unnerving, Because who’d know that spot, that thought, without asking?
I want to tell you just how much I love the things your hands create but you’ve pushed me pretty far away and so I’ll have the courtesy to stay put. I want to tell you just how much I love the fugitives of your mouth but your lips stay sealed so I’ll swallow the truth.
Not altogether there
The remnants of a broken mirror Are scattered round my feet, And they give me a picture of My face, albeit fragmented, And lips curling into shapes That match the sound brought Into life in synchronisation. Light was thrown across rooms, My eyes were shown a thousand Times and places were confused Through the uniform cream walls. Out in the hall one would see A hundred faces deconstructed And in a...
kholinar replied to your post: kholinar replied to your post: It’s so quiet and… You’ve set me to something now. There’ll be a piece on this tomorrow, count on it. As for your head, I can only wish. But yes, maybe we’re tuned to the same aolian key… Different melodies, perhaps but harmonious at their root. Probably nonsense. :) I can’t wait already. Rather possibly, and not nonsense...
kholinar replied to your post: It’s so quiet and dark and still outside tonight…. I love cold, dark winter nights. Something about breathing the frigid wind makes me feel like its all an incredibly different world. I like it when it has rained and there are only the echoes of steps splashing on pavement… That and the air itself. Sometimes I swear it’s like you’re inside my head.
The night must have swallowed him up. It’s the only explanation that doesn’t Make my mind reel, my head ache like fuck. It was like he’s just packed up and gone, His old life left behind, now just a shell; Corpse of a friendship, of shelter, of home.
It’s so quiet and dark and still outside tonight. Really beautiful. If I wasn’t so ill that I’m shaking from the cold out there I’d stay all night.
Anonymous asked: Absolutely, dear. Take your time. I simply want to keep my hand in, to use an ambiguous but appropriate phrase.
Anonymous asked: Patience is a virtue I possess. However, if you're looking for prompts, here's a push. How about you answer my question, sexy. If you've forgotten, here's a clue — tsunami.
Prompts- GO GO GO
I need to write but I don’t know what ?
Been listening to The Bed Song by Amanda Palmer on repeat in between sleeping the day away. Her lyrics are more beautiful than anything I could ever attempt to write.
I should throw away all these things that put the weight in my chest but truth be told I’m a hoarder.
Been away for a few days getting tremendously drunk and things. Found wine glasses and a sausage roll next to the bath; I’m not usually one for blackouts, but… Got paid tips today, double wage is brilliant.
Even the cat saw it coming, Ran and hid under the bed. The minute the clock struck There was no switch of fortunes. The static electricity rolled into Thunderclouds. Black. Heavy.
And then oh my God your words have touched me In that spot that makes my spine arch just so, The way you love. It’s been such a long time Since you gave me a mouthful, gave a taste Of the things you put on the tips of tongues, Sugar and venom that you gave to me Like holy ritual would not suffice. Perhaps the wine was too sour. Maybe so, Or the taste grew more...
noplanforlife-deactivated201301 asked: What three events in your life have most affected who you are right now?
Sweet lord, dearest anon (and you know who you are) I am going to answer your question last and when I have time because I think you fucking well deserve it
downloadingcigarettes asked: Well allow me to try and elaborate... I think I find that I can so easily relate to what your write, I could find myself reading it and thinking "Hell, this feeling seems familiar." Or other times I feel like the emotion is conveyed in a way that appeals to the style of writing I, personally, like. It just makes me wonder about how I could write that way, and in that sense it lifts me up...
pocketfulofaimee asked: Why am I a friend?
Anonymous asked: How about a kink or two?
waldeinsemkeit asked: Since we haven't ever spoken, I might as well ask something personal. When you think of things that you would rather forget, what comes to mind? Be that an actual event or just things you associate with the feeling.
downloadingcigarettes asked: I hate hiding behind that... Anon-mask... I just wanted to say that I really love what you write! I find it... Inspirational :)
victoriansilurianlesbianthespian asked: i always think profound things when in traffic tunnels, then i leave bad my mind empties.
Anonymous asked: Love.
Put absolutely anything in my ask
and I’ll reply with an answer at least 150 words long. (I’ll take this post down eventually)
So apparently tumblr reset half my settings. Fuckinnnnnn
When my father got really very drunk he’d kneel in front of my mother and sing “She’s Always A Woman To Meee” in that beautiful off-key that only infatuated and smashed can reach. It makes me sad, because there aren’t many people that will ever be adored quite like that.
123 of you following me. I’m not sure whether to pity or adore you all.
In that quiet four-ay-em You cried into my chest I told you that you piss me off. You didn’t understand it. Though fucking’s so much fun I won’t Ever love you best; It’s your dark side that I want When we’re so underhanded.
Your hands in my long hair Should have been quite poetic But you didn’t know what To do with it all. It just Hung There, and you’d sweep it Away or grab by the handful Though the pull never did Last very long (Recurring themes abundant) I contemplated the teeth And your reluctance, a Pull on the lip the closest You got to compliance. Bad, though not the kind Desireable
I’ve had this awful headache for about four days now. It’s not one that cripples you, intense, but a slow-burner behind the eyes, in the back of the head, and somewhere I can’t quite reach. I tried wiping it away with little pink pills, but it only serves to steady the pace, no longer waves but a long flat line. I tried clouding it up with smoke, music, drink, early morning fog....
An entire week spent Swapping sides of the bed For some newfound insight Was a home to those Who had no choice But to sleep away their plight.
An east-coast breeze and an empty hand An east-coast breeze and an empty hand There’s no explaining away The fact I need to leave or My crumbling wall structure An east-coast breeze and an empty hand A train ticket and no phone. I won’t call, text, write. Staying the night . An east-coast breeze and an empty hand Get lost in a pack of Strange men from a Town you know now An...
I forgot which box I put you in, For moving or for the kerb. It could Have been either, really. Once I left you out in the rain, thinking I didn’t need you any more and Your edges began to blur, your Eyes ran and I couldn’t bear to See that I could have kept them Dry. I, I, I, I had something to Pass the time, even if you don’t Know it til the fourth drink.
Making friends with tab ends.
I could have wished it was you on my lips, but then where would all my words have gone? I always did look at the ground when I talked.
She Won't Shut Up
kholinar: Disguarded dolls stripped down to words, of all their macho clothing. Feel absurd? It’s real, no props. And nothing real needs closing. From wishing glass the skies let pass opinions as she tells us. She won’t shut up. So don’t. This is just something simple, Rex. I wanted to do something and this is what came out. Hope it’s okay.
kholinar: glassskies replied to your post: She Won’t Shut Up Oh my dear Lord yes. Yes yes yes. =) Glad you like it. I feel weird not being able to comment or message lately, but I can at least do this. It’s made my week. Honest.
There should have been an anniversary, a set date, some dedicated time, but there’s no way better to forget something than commemorating it. The pain in my back and shifting glances will be plenty enough.
You got too full of yourself. You’re cocky and kind of short, and you try too hard in big conversations. You’ve got a fake laugh that’s far too loud. You make an effort to dress the part but half the time it looks all wrong. I think someone deified you, and it could have been yourself. That wouldn’t surprise me. You’ve got a new life; if I faced you with your old...
Write something about me, and tag my username.
I just didn’t think you’d hold out. Sorry if I locked the door with your toes still in the frame.
Generic short story title
Melancholia, meet stereo.
Dampened filters, paper, A rainfall washed out expectations And I pass them on The floor A steady home for fitting tenants Brought about by loyal sun-worship, Ribs open to tearing apart Beautiful Baring all but The soul. Waste not want not. A dirty peroxide Has tainted her precious face, She swallowed, and chased her childhood; Long nights, raw stomachs. We found her body in the fountain...
You’ll drown in your own anger If you swallowed hers too. It’s not like love, backward, But reverberating and heat, Simmer below the skin that’s Thinner and thicker, stretched Out as a drum, pounding Four-four and your mission Now has rhythm but no sense Any more of self-control. You’ll drown in your own anger. I’d happily let you.
The world wants you to be European, responsible, friendly ”Ich bin umweltfreundlich” You want to scratch; this isn’t the itch. I take out the laces Bring back echoes, my familiar faces, And spin the wheels on rollerblades As lashes, earlobes, fade. My six-year-old red boots Footprints bigger, still too loose, I walk to work too slow, The road’s too rough to roll.
Here, here, under my skin, Run your fingertips And feel the horns pushing. Slow, slow, belly full of fire, Could spit tongues of flame But I had too much to drink. “Oh my, oh my” the demon sighs Smoke escapes its lips, “What is a surprise?” Again, again, sitting on walls, Why run when you can trip? To move at all is unwise.
When we sat up and watched films And you taught me about lights, The times that I got to know you Were times that suited me just fine.
I am lost, and you brought the twilight, I can just see and you with your cherry- Red burning eyes of which you gave one, Mouthful of spice with the sweet, soft, And something borrowed works its way Through my hair and airways steadily.
“Oi mate this is a pub, not a brothel” And I finally felt that I fit in there, Matched the wallpaper, the flooring.
myverymadexistence replied to your post: I’ve not written my swan song yet 2. You should. a. It could be beautiful. 3. I’d never finish it.