Dried flowers from yesterday morning
- Reads 13
- Votes 2
- Parts 1
Once upon a time someone told me poetry was everything that came from the soul
I believed it
This is then the child of insomniac nights and the smell of rotten flowers
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drowned energy » poetry
the story of the fluid insomniac •started ➡ april 28th, 2016 •ended ➡ april 28th, 2018 •highest ranking ➡ #320 in poetryComplete
paracosm-delusional nightmares
{poetry : completed} "𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞." in a tiny corner of the world, but in the vast corner of my imagination, this is my paracosmic delusion, something that i've created out of indignant, dejected and euphoric emotions. each word in this book constitutes my delusional nightmares, the ones that i know aren't really there yet i write about them anyway. this is me, my barest and deepest feelings, and my monstrous thoughts. ✦✦✦ [all rights reserved | ©2021 ] [ cover designed by me ] [ peace \/ ]Complete
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The bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks. I miss the days when the gods were content with the strokes and curves of the fluid dispenser. They seemed to have joined the fast-lane train, and thus demand new meals. While I lay down and hit the keys with a mystic rhythmic sway, I hear the sounds as they hit my ears. No. They're not forceful. Not now, at least. Like music from the slow strumming of a guitar, these sounds bring messages. And memories. And musings. And a medley, sometimes. And so it is, that I'm made to scribe. For when gods speak, their words are immortal. Oh. Wait. They're just thoughts. I thought as much.
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