words

draconian - harsh
droll - amusing in an odd way; jester; wag (a person given to droll, roguish, or mischievous humor; wit.)

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draconian toils

Vulnerability of the masculinity

"Hey Tom," she whispered to me from a sly degree. "Miss me?"

I caught her gazing from above. She was leaning over the rail of a staircase that seemed to pry ajar from the wall. The steps ran in a downward carousel to my feet.

I could see her grinning confidently. She wore a tightly fitted sleeveless top from Forever, her breasts subtly hanging out from beneath her exquisitely defined collar bone. Her skinny jeans were faded, though; she always wore the same pair--the ones that snuggled against her legs that flaunted the S-curve.

Falling in and out of like can be so trivial.
There comes a point when all I think about is endless possibilities,
and then another point when all I think about is my id acting up.

It's as if love is really just a feeling:
like, it comes and goes when it pleases
to save for bitter endings, or to butter up a banal existence.

A surface impression: a first impression.

That's all it could possibly take.

A feeling; a transient feeling.

Tainted

I'm not who I seem to be.
Within my golden casket,
a sarcophagus encrusted with
fabulous artwork, divinity-strewn,
a farm of loquacious maggots
chew, swallow, and digest my integrity.

Treasure map

That taciturn stare,
it wears me down to the
latest drips of a
cultured vial
-the ones that I see in the hospitals.
That (glistering) way
you fix yourself in my kaleidoscope eyes.
That (devious) laugh,
that (meticulous) demeanor,
your regular attire.
So regular to the eagle eye,
so regular to the passer-by.

E.W.H. Myers - A Renewal of Youth

^ I read a few of his poems randomly in Langson today. Mmm.

Inspired me to write more... "Romantically, stereotypically, rhythmically" when it comes to poetry. (I feel like my poetry is just written WORDS, but not beautiful syllables to hear. If that makes sense.)

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Here's my spin on the old classics:








I lament thee,
soft-spoken soldier,
with lips of remorse.
Yet, like the majestic waves
spilling gloriously onto the Earth's
canvas,
My souvenirs of you
are packaged neatly into
Pandora's file cabinets.