Every once in awhile, I'm struck with a sudden burst of introspective inspiration, during which, i do little but think. If I'm lucky enough, a pad of paper may be nearby. The first product of the first of these periods was my first journal post.
This is my latest~
Cold, sad eyes' stare burns in the back of my head. I try to shrug it off, but fighting fire with fire is not the same as ice.
A cold shoulder could push scabs past myself and into me, which is some strange story not like my shell of skin, of personality.
A broken heart is a frozen heart, maybe not mine,
But the beams of wandering eyes could be so hard to define.
tracing crystal scales back to the place they once would stay
in balance simply perfect is done a harder way.
But once you have locked a silvery strand in your fingers, it should not escape
Your grasping grabbing hands, locked in place, but just as well agape,
Could trace one string back to the puppeteer aglow
Is just as simple as finding a white whale atop a hill of snow
Frozen green grapes rolled in grains of sugar
Might just be bittersweet.
Shining scales could be so sharp
When their owner you should meet.
Trying and prying, you may just make a contact with such a strange alien as to be but theirself,
When faced with a skinless, faceless man to peel back their personality.
One man must have once said that any alien should welcome a man, and never all of them
Into other appendages, if even;
Such a beautiful creature should not have arms, as to crush a man with,
But rather, a gravity with which to direct them. To them, if one could be so lucky.
A diamond in a bed of charcoals, your alien soul could draw me,
Softly,
Into your firm embrace,
With nothing to take into me but sweet green grapes.
If I would compare you to a Summer's day, I could only ever fear being locked outside.
A concept surreal as yours might only be good in small doses.
It is only nature, not natural, to want something and fear what it may be,
To know what you are whole could prove too much for me.
So I will wait, ever so silently,
At bliss in my simplicity.
To say ignorance is bliss is to tell a half truth, a white lie, or only the second dimension of a thing.
I could die inside you, without the same fear of not waking up,
As a lazy Sunday afternoon could not be spent well without the whim to fall back asleep again.
Maybe I could flip the pillow over, settle into comfortability, and doze in you, and not fear your warm wholeness ever ebbing my interest.
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Braingasms
Conspiracy Theories, Poetry, Poetic Thoughts, And ponderings.
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