shadowed-angel

Circles and spheres. It's all just circles and spheres. The world keeps on turning and turning. It's all so boring. But it's kinda pure, if you believe in that sort of stuff.

Wrong you smell of wrongness making me choke at the acrid violation of my senses The tangles you cause, tear through me. I feel like I'm losing something as I come away with threads of what was and isn't. You burn and itch and feel like ooze on my skin I just want to wash you away. Only time will tell though how new I can be.

I feel that you don't know your home so you wrap yourself in isolation so it's the only thing you have. It's easier to submit than to seek out your heartbeat. It's not admitting defeat, giving up before yopu try. To not feel the life in your footsteps is to never feel lost without it. I long to reach out To the rhythm of the Earth To lose myself in its richness And vibrance. To be dazzled and moved by a sense of union and belonging to breathe in colour once again. The spirit is weakening under its hunger feeling lost and trapped in the constraints of time. Small and frail it hibernates, until it is resurrected by the sun

I'm sick of this! I want to be wrapped in inspiration rather than reading other peoples muses and being jealous of the way they move me I want to dive head first into love and rip it apart so I can find the words that fit and weave them into something magical To lose myself in a book or in the scratching of a pencil constantly learning constantly yearning to be better at this creative thing but I simply don't have the patience the attention span. I'm too fuelled on frustration sooner quitting than breathing and trying again Why does my turbulence have no discipline?

I'm alright really really I'm used to the undelivered promises and the taste of bitterness (it tastes like the coffee you would always burn) The denial of pleasure was always such a thrill until it became a game of scorn and then it just got boring. I'd like to reach into your centre and pull out something that matters but it's just a pipe dream something of a fairy tale. I know this pettiness becomes me like your jealousy suit It's what keeps us warm at night as we lay across the bed. And all these meandering thoughts that flitter around you don't equate to anything You're just wasted energy

I watched the ash dance precariously on the tip of my cigarette as I fought to get rid of it. I take pride of the diseases running through my body, as I know it's not what I'll die of A whisper and a prayer sung into the night as I sit in insomniac trappings There is no desire here as I sit in silence struggling with this new technology The pressure in my head reminds me of what's happening in my body as it throbs in time with the metronome As colour dances with the smoke I realise there really is no end to this

I want some interactivity! And not this boring museless mind. I want to be challenged but only from the comfort of my complacency. I read whispered pleas, cries to our human desires, and vicious bitterness that only stems from truth. and I still can't capture a sigh. The dam is about to burst and I just can't figure out if I want to go with it or fight against the current I hate this social scene But the normalcy is safety and I’m too timid to contest it no matter how damned wrong it is. Does this make me a coward who sees all to clearly? I long to reach for tangible gods but fear abusing them. Such capricious sprite

I have a ritual whenever I’m awake at dawn. It’s not much, but it’s just one of those things that is precious. I open my window, put on “Endless Skies” by VNV Nation and watch the colours change. Sometimes they don’t change much due to clouds, but I do it anyway. This morning I missed the sunrise, but I still opened the window, put the song on and instead watched the clouds race across the limited view I have. And race they did, the familiar shapes twisting and changing in seconds, becoming new, always metamorphosing. Usually I prefer the golds, pinks, reds, oranges, purples and blues of a clear dawn. But for

This Is Nothing New "I'm going to destroy you, little one," the thick French tongue wags over his shoulder. The pregnant pause of silence beckons his waterfall eyes to her countenance behind him. "You know that, don't you?" The girl, her heavy head down-fallen, honey horse mane all around her, she lifts well-to-do eyes of tarnished pennies. Behind them, Paris burns. He turns with style, wine glasses of deep red in either hand, stained stems between his fingers like sacrificial rose stems barbed with sharp thorns. Grinning teeth catching the night-heavy traffic lights. Halogen high beams in constant revolution from the boulevard bellow thro