You asked me if I would buy it. I would. I will. I would. You ask'd if I would draw it, Cap-sure it. I would. I will. I have. Your smile makes gods weep. Your s-mile makes sucks weak. - Hey, everyone. I think I am back.
Tag: creative writing
The Cult of Sheep
Barlow’s eyes are shimmering, the light a sinuous display of something towing beneath. His smile pious-like, marked with an etiolated kindness, this precarious softness and this mark of an adulterating isolation that only those who'd experienced can recognize. A secret for the initiated. But Barlow is not a monk, he is dashing in his blacksuit … Continue reading The Cult of Sheep
It was on a Thursday evening, 9th August 2012, when I went to a digs party off-campus with a couple of my friends. I had a vague plan of how I wanted to end it that night, of how I would kill myself (I'm not going to disclose what that entailed). This was a significant … Continue reading An Inconvenience
He's so far away So far.. he might as well be God. Apparently ubiquitous, but demonstrably aloof and nebulous. What the fuck do you want? Do you even want? Are you even in there? Are you even here? As you sit across the kitchen table behind the Sunday Times newspaper (stop sipping the coffee like … Continue reading Inner Monologue
Brawling vet. Sweat, breath, blood, Bear the placenta. Oh, sunken eye, hard cheeks and rugged jaws. Grow pain, Pensive lines and darkening dimples. The road slams at you and all the ways scatter - fizzzle sparkle - into the ether, From whence you came, The sister to that which made you undone.
Depleted, I can't give more than I have given. Can't be anymore than what I am given. Wasting limbs and sore thoughts, Encroaching demands and taxing expectations. Spending on that which never pays. Working on that which yields nothing. And somehow I'm told this the way things. Hi everyone. I just want to tell you … Continue reading Deplete
Rooted, Facing forward, growing backwards. Clockwise hunger From the gaping mouth. Of the blackening light and the veering soul. Concussed conscience. All the shimmering and whispering of a smouldering home and scything teeth. And there you watch as my skin melts into its pores.
Feed me my cracked heart I scoffed the soot, I drank it all Churned it all. Burned like ash, Breathed like earth, Cracked like hearth. Peeling. Hollow. Find me, A sharpened knife A daggered grave, An endless grief. Straining. Hollow.
The guy sat next to her on the bus. The journey ahead was long, 12 hours overnight. He took out his phone and googled "How to speak to a hot girl", after a quick glance at the search results he added "on the road". Glossed over the results again, erased the last three words and … Continue reading Bus
Not everything should make you happy. Not everything should make sense. Not everything has a point. Not everything should make you happy. Not everything should make you happy. Not everything should make you happy. ...make you happy, ...make you happy. ...make you happy. And that's fine.