an example of why i should just write a story instead.

perched atop my desk, you rest
it's late in the evening, and i'm in search of
a sweet thing- you aren't so flawless,
but the day is ending and i've cut all my losses

you're there when i need you, you're vast and
unrelenting- your love is unending.
but you're cruel when you misspeak, you're
the issuance of death and the formality of ends

sweet thing, you're faceless
and last i heard, you're sour to the tasteless
it comes from deep down, in the sine of
your intestines - you brag of good intentions

silence bound to a button, you can be
twisted to a whisper - only a whimper.
you are a voice in the dark, moving bodies
swimming around, you are resonating sound

Words Unspoken, Silent Devotion

/they say home is where is where the heart is/so i keep my heart inside me/





It's one of those odd feelings I have to(night?)day, I can't quite describe. I guess I could call it "forward". I'm moving towards something.
I dream so much more now. Peculiar things, stuff that doesn't make sense. I dream of being in love, which is the most out-of-the-ordinary of all (that's never happening again). She's a shapeless thing in my dreams - I keep coming back to her and she's got a different face each time. But I love her dearly, and passionately, and it's in my best interest to please her. She causes euphoria, nostalgia, and excitement. I don't believe in dream interpretation, really, but I do believe in the power of the human mind. I am definitely in love something, and I think it might be music.