She's a tortuous beauty.
Backing up,
flitting away from the disastrous spoils of vanity.
A hidden force takes place of luck.
Her body becomes weightless as she embraces abnormality.
A crucifying confession speaks between volumes.
Vitalizing ones heartstrings.
She tunes it to her liking,
Stirring her maroon nails across the beating instrument.
Her words embarking as second skins with phthartic wings.
Psyched about difference,
For a little havoc that discombobulates the mainstream,
She circumvents.
She rages free from emotional limbo.
The echo of surrealism is what she represents.
Fuck the silhouette of disaster.
Its husky breath will not scare off the ethereal beauty within her.
The beauty to rock a blinded heart.
To unbalance rigidity.
To smile in the dead of night,
Wickedly.
YOU ARE READING
Whisperings Beneath It's Surface
PoezieAccounts of hauntingly genuine poems based upon my memories, dreams, nightmares, and imagination. Nothing is trivial in this world. For everything blossoms meaning. All it takes is to observe something, and it may whisper to you below its surface.
