blackpearlrayn

Staring at a blank paper Is an artist's worst nightmare. The artist is the shaper, Their thoughts somewhere up in the air. They are searching for inspiration, Sometimes they are even searching the skies. It takes a lot of concentration, But you can always see the passion burning in their eyes. Being an artist does not always mean you're creative. It just means that you want to create something, And never want to give up.

here's my heart; side effects include: paranoia and angry poetry. sweat stains and shampoo. intentional amnesia, scars. discoloured bitemarks. heart-shaped hickeys. fresh flavourless flesh. substitution: manipulation or replication of generated spacing ages placing ages: on immature, disappointed and replaced or misplaced. i lay on my bed, with you in mind (with everyone you replace or everyone to replace you) i lay on my bed, writing nonsense in the form of broken stanzas-- of haikus japan would frown upon.  you know what? fuck syllables.   fuck you, too. (oh wait, i already did that. oh

i could laugh forever except laughter always makes me cry. i could dance in the rain except the water drenches my clothes and makes me cold and wet and miserable. i could wish on a star except it's too far away for the sound to travel and no one would ever hear me. i could try to love you except i'm too afraid.

it was the day i swore to never love anyone; i heard doves chirping goodmorning lullabies to some deaf pigeon. i opened my window, and shot them twice. once, because they are wasting their time and mine.  so why not put them out of their misery? then once again, because at six am, i do not want any fucking birds making noise or making love or making a mess of my mind as i try to sleep another dreamless night.  one for every damn bird in this cyan-scribbled sky.  two for every earaching coo.  three for every winged beast singing elegies that remind me of gods that remind me of holidays that remind me of the times you lie

i can't control where i live, who i sit by, what i like, who i love & you can't control the countries your father trades you to, how far away the moon is, what your body looks like, who you love oh, you know this already. let's blame it on biology– it's the fault of genetics, of chromosomes. let's blame our alleles for playing favourites. Let's cut to the chase: your body on his bed. Let's cut to the chase: it all ends with a sigh. Let's cut to the chase: you're beautiful, girl, we both know this, we both know how science plays favourites. but you're mine

i'll admit it: i killed you. but i couldn't help it, i swear! it was dark, and you weren't wearing any clothes, and we were making love fit in a crossword puzzle, like how i fit my keys in your glove department. how i fit my heart in your ribcage, or how my hips fit in yours, or how you fit in my bedsheets like some inflamed contortionist, your hands tied behind my back. i ricocheted off your leg; you figured out 8-down: what's a six-letter word for 'a result of adultery' you thought babies, i thought murder my ink mouth said: "put down the pen. draw constellations on some other boy's freckles, because mine are