archive★

what’s worse preserving a tale as old as time by living off swallowing scorching hot liquid as it melts all of your veins and vessels while every part of your anatomy and your conscience burst into flames till the only proof you is words of mouth or breaking a chain that wraps around your father that wrapped by his father and wrapped by his father and risk it all over something as sacred as merely inherited folklore

don't want to get too close i'm scared, do you hate me or do you care? think about all the time i spent feeling lost but i'm found again should i jump in the unknown? is it better know how it unfolds? am i too young to be this mad? am i too old to blame my dad?

In a state of drainage by the constant failure of simple tasks on a daily, in bed I am defeated and deafen by the loud fan placed across from my room, fresh out the slammer and freshly constructed pavements that were soaked from the bits of not-so-heavy rain on the way home in a bike I called Cowboy. I had $70 in my name and it’s only the 21st and I don’t get paid until the 30th; I put $20 for some propane on Cowboy but the tank refused to cooperate with lines of bikes standing behind me, though I don’t feel pressured by some queue, I was, instead, filling myself up with a quite rage in me, rather the gas in the tank; apart from the card machine from the parking lot at the place I’m working at and the security guard who condescended me over the defect card machine. Sitting on my bike while the key still inside the tank opener, staring at the propane with an audible sigh, “what am I to do”.

a foreign touch never felt so familiar like shadow you’ll go wherever i go slick is what you’re lacking for each time i catch you looking at me speak your mind rest your head on my shoulder a face so distant yet it seemed to be known for a lifetime like moth to flames headlights to deer silence louder than a lover being lured

take away my music my poetry shallow inside because i have nothing left inside of me personalized souvenir seem deep in the sea you look at me broken, so sad, so poorly in the end i always knew empathy will be the death of me so please take away my music my manuscript written under the impression of dignity disguised as poetry

bunch of bullshit

put it to bed give it a rest soon you'll be healed glory be the mended but once was tortured heart glorious to and from the same heart that continues to love regardless with regards thee highest for what has been but yet rages with passion and contradictory is a fist filled with resentment that started off as tolerance as the mind plays supercuts to remind the soul that it wouldn't be as it is without... love. bracing for impact means death is imminent but not literal so would a little love be considered destructive or it's just the nature of something considered beautiful unless you know where you will land but if you fall i will catch you from where you stand.