I wish I had a stream of poetical unconscious thoughts, that would seize hold of me every once in a while. That way I could create something better, more meaningful than pretty. The aesthetic pleasure of certain words cannot take me as far as my brutality.

The far shores washed upon the formless men a miracle, of fruits made from wonder. The cautionary lies left to whittle the truth into their ribs, once the fruit is had complete free will is rendered.

Tempered tulips
Told me to
To tell you
That we were
Meant to be

I write a letters to myself as an expression in self admiration and love.

- I’ve written so many letters to myself. I can’t wait for the dates to come for me to open them. Next one the 6th of September.

Watch one bone unclip from another
Each socket lose another limb
It’s simple

Watch me fall apart

I want you and me to a symphony of thunder.

- 10 word stories. It was raining and I was thinking of you.

I chose my university on the atmosphere it would provide. The fact that the campus alone was the size of a small town, close to the clubs and vintage shops.

The current pressing natures of reality, has begun to mar my imagination.

Your dreads felt good
Under my curling and
Folding touch
That piece of you that
You don’t know exists
Will always belong to
Me

We will travel the ground
Whilst watching the stars
swerving from left to right
And shine ourselves lifting
From a world made of cycling
Up into starry flight

The golden glimmers that rattle across low and bubbled ceilings, plead for the entrance at my slighted alter. But the fire cannot glean entrance where water has too long lived.

I - how awful to think only of myself. Such a greedy pronoun, I,

Am - unsure entirely unaided and unknown, I am,

Not - certain but I could have sworn those eyes were following me. But I am not,

Sure - he’s looking through me, as does everyone else, then again. I am not sure,

If - those feet and pointed signs are directly directed at, I am not sure if,

He’s - looking through a window I want to slam closed. He’s tugging at my, I am not sure if he’s,

Staring - is he? I-am-not-sure-if-he’s-staring.

He paid me with watered down copper coins, and lists of the wonders on the tide.

I want to hear everyone’s story, even the broken and the angry.

It is a wretched agreement, signed before we have a say. Sealed before we can retract. And all the escape clauses are damned to somewhere worse. Or so they tell us, but I doubt anything could ever be as bad as this. So sign me up for the train to underworld, even Hades I’d miss more than this.