Here, skin to skin.
Heaven has never such a rival
that welcomed as much sin,
Nor threatened its revival.
From two, now one,
entwined here together.
Is this just for fun?
Are we in for stormy weather?
So much uncertain,
so few thoughts heeded.
Should we drop the curtain?
Or is this all that’s needed?
Let us enjoy this place,
forget for now the future.
I want the memory of your face
pinned to my heart, sutured.
frail little body,
how strange you look draped against the cold stone floor;
it is not your place.
when your face is angled down like that
I can't see you smiling.
when your mouth kisses the ground like that
I can't hear you laughing.
what I would give to hear you laughing.
Day 4 : Love HAIKU
When I'm gone no need to wonder
If I ever think of you
The same moon shines
The same wind blows for both of us
And time is but a paper moon
Be not gone
きた、、、俳句。。。苦手。
まして愛について、っていちばん興味ない。
(Queen 手を取り合って より)
#ShowYourHeart
Whispers Of The Self-Conscious by WindMeister8, literature
Literature
Whispers Of The Self-Conscious
“Look at her, she’s so ugly.”
“Yeah, just look at her clothes.”
“What does she think she’s doing here?”
“She’s a loner.”
Whispers of people talking and laughing about me reach my ears. I try to ignore it as always and look the other way. But no matter where I turn, I hear the same whispering, I see the stares of people, and I feel their eyes on my back.
I try to walk normally, swinging my arms rhythmically. Soon, the natural movement becomes more robotic. Forced and unnatural. Everyone is looking at me and I long to be out of the crowd. By the time I reach the train station,
well, they can't all be happy, can they? by knownrecidivist, literature
Literature
well, they can't all be happy, can they?
he loved her with all of his
artificial heart
as she stroked his
porcelain cheek
but his painted lips
couldn't speak those words
so she never knew
so she never loved him back
and if you must know
they died alone
If I could, I would
choose to have no father,
so there would be reason
for the blackened hearts
in my hands, sleep tastes
like citrus fruit, I see grey
when I listen to King Krule
on cassette, and read
Kurt Cobain's journal like
a stalker but lay your head down.
It's past bedtime.