It's admiration, and desire, but also disdain, charged and expedient. In such close quarters, speed and sweat in a rush of time. Again. Go. Again. Go. Again. Senses, angst, fury, foresight, brute, ballet, smiles, lies, face, dance, show face, perform, connect, disconnect, faster, grace, smile, lie, face. Characters of the curtainless stage, non-slip studs on a flooded runway, two actors of a rolling set that never seems to stop, it just keeps skipping. Beautiful glorious pointless fucking tragedy. At what point do the people of the play start to play the players? During lucid nightmares of unpalatable desires. Yes it's a strong desire but it's an undesirable desire that will go no where. It's a burden to the bone babe. O' struggle to steer course towards a secure or more practical destination. Dreams. Get away from these Heart heaving swells, the magnitude of thunder. Ice in every glass shakes as it pounds and booms by. Panting...We can hear ourselves breathing. Glass cracked lightening fingers on my side. Heaving. Stop.
Breathe.
Wake up.
Shake it off.
Go,
Again, go, again, go, again.
I attempt catharsis, I pray to Calliope, I thank her and ask her how, to engage and ensnare my erratic passion of muse rather then let it rip and bite at me, tear me away to a hellacious void of despair. Bullshit. I write about him, or I illustrate these moments and dreams, the lyrics I create, the beat and the song. I create them all to release this plague, release the deamon from my dreams to find the solidarity and resolution of friendship; balance. Dear fucking God. Dear God dear god. Try it at least.
I let them loose on paper, as real and stronger then they could ever be untrue, those emotions and thoughts, pains and insanities tainting around my soul like blood clots. Spilled all over the floor. Dripping down the skin.
I want to burn them all. I want to see the paints turn brown and the hazel of his beautiful eyes flare, rage up in flames red.
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