tw: suicide mention
god balances the empire state building on his tongue, the windows and silly humans crushing against his teeth until he strains them out to use as fibre for his ropes. god is not nice(maybe he is?); god just is. by 'is' one would mean to exist, to be embedded in the nature of your strange human atoms and the air between the spaces when you splay your fingers. by 'is' one would mean that god is inside the workings of your brain, making you fuck up around that tenor voice, making your trip over your feet as if attempting to play fantasie impromptu on the earth's piano keys, making you fall into the arms of belle(god, what eyes!), making you feel empty enough to line up your veins, one after another, until all that forms is a road into the sun which you follow willingly. god plays with your brain with his fingertips grazing the keys of reverie, taking away inhibition, letting the blood pour out like angel falls, covering his hands until they dry up and crumble off of his nails. god twists you up and wrings you out to polish his seeing glasses, taking the sky by the kilogram to slather over dark matter(a good influence always helps). god makes you wonder if he exists–he messes with your faith like strings of attachment and fucks you up until you can't feel anymore, and trust me, the pain you emote makes you live and die all over again.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
