wanderer my unsteady hands are graceless; my canvas spacious, my facelessness gracious in the midst of an outdated sensation. i'm aimless, but i like to think i always was.
i don't know if this is good there are fleeting moments of fantasy; passions submits to brevity, and i to gravity. but there is hope in knowing there are more between the lines to share.
I used to derive a sick sort of masochistic pleasure from re-reading my old poetry. It was something I used to punish myself with, in a paradoxical way. "Look at how good you were. Look at you now." And yet... "Look at how awful you were. You haven't changed." And I thought that's how it… Continue reading hello, old me
i've had this blasted blog for 3 years now i move through life with catalogued motions; conscious beats of my heart punctuated with beatings of my brain
death beware of the allure of the void; it ends when you do, and then it begins.
sad time is passing imperceptibly slowly; i am pondering what a thousand ruminating minds have pondered before. (i wonder if they've thought of me as well.)
@mossyemerald my words follow a rhythm, short, stiff and steady; why must i accompany your melody? (but i am nothing without it.)