He speaks with a purpose that dema… with soft, soliloquy of word to sh… the emulsification, the blood of b… and women carrying the weight of m… Storyteller. Anthropologist.
there is neither peace nor dream in a day. truth spattered, canvas inundated. bubbles fluid, liquid no longer...
it is a numbing a piercing of the proverbial heart with aching, dull shard a cold depth swallowing lungs contract, fluid-filled
for the beauty of the day we wept huddled mass one, singular in thought we
my heart has rooms that sigh filled with dust of disuse, of mis… Waking world
The metaphorical heart Burnt in frozen grasp As the stale air, travels, labored far from memories, moments of horror caught
She walked the raised concrete streets, built from the backs of someone whom she didn’t know. She walked the raised concrete streets, surrounded by creatures of origin. The rain cascade...
his exit, his entrance stars in solemn shades countdown in pink orbs we, burning out suns commencing solitude
the taste of purple inundation eatery fingers flowing in scratching clutch we hold
fallible fallen features flawless foes feel, feel, feel formulated
it was a blank page. Her hardened gaze caused no words to appear. No flourishing language to embellish the explanation.No distractions to explain the lack of written monologue. Not even...
yes... a million times over, I sai… to him, to them to everyone, to no one I gave pieces of me Perhaps
there is a chamber there is a heart we dream it we taste it ours, unconditionally
starlight sings silver catalyst for dreams the woosh of the window unit roars with smokey tang on my lips, I shi… shoulder to door pane, perceptions…
and in that tear, everything broke every shard of pain, every loss the losses yet to come her voice, her heart caught
