Worthy foe or wasted felon
Fasting waste of a foul wench
A hopeless tale
Nobody
Left
But
The finale
The last human
The final collective
Nothing left in her limbs
Lungs plunged and pierced
Laid on the pride of the land
Her victory over him
What about them
The unknown spacestaraviourcraft
staring
gazing
lying
but
The End.
-J.
I wonder if it’s true
My hypothesis set,
When you have nothing to say is when you should write.
But isn’t it the essential truth
The absolute difference
Words are selfish and sole.
Through the frayed brown rope
Linking the glimmery receivers
Exploding
From me.
Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.
Mirror this back
The truth absolute
The difference essential
My words are irrelevant unless they touch your soul.
My conclusion, is your decision
-J
Is this my outlet tonight?
Just writing my thoughts on a screen and not a piece of paper.
Hello, my name is [redacted] and I am an addict;
addict for woorrdddssss.
You may be like “okay cool, why should we care?”
I will tell you,
But you must want to listen
Now here I go.
A way it works;
so, this is something new for me. A journal of kinds, a journal of my thoughts. And I know that people don’t like to read things unless it is interesting and hilarious and resonant and loved. Spoiler alert, this isn’t a story, this is reality.
This world I live in is, simply, created by the owner of this universe- that is the owner of this story. It is a labour of passion, a task of tears and will wring away your heart. But otherwise, why would you want to read it?
If I spouted off complete and utter bullshit for the masses who would want to read that?
The thing is that people do. You want to read about my fucked up life and my fucked up thoughts and know my innermost secrets and hear about the smallest ridiculous details of my day.
Something fantastical is in the air tonight. Something smells delicious I can feel my salivation. Something stunningly magically incredibly beautifully itself.
I want to share, it bubbles inside me, I need to expel it from the electric nerves wrung through my brain matter through the protective armour of my skull and my precious mind and spill it out through my eye sockets so they run down my face to stain my lips with that sweet rosy glow and intoxicating taste.
A short piece of work. A sweet demon. A mischievous angel. An adoring woman.
Isn’t that something fantastical?
Isn’t that just so fucking lovely you wish, you want, you reckon with,
pools of ink
dipping my eyelashes
for sweet release
-J
something fantastical 