Evanescentgreen

"Now" is the bastard baby of the chronological prostitute , for past isn't present , and present isn't the future , for consciousness is the companion of present and perception is the extension of it , and of course the wild imagination is a soon to be used to be companion in a future of unexecuted memories. Feelings, the psychological power and strength that one organ can trigger it by the outside, for it is a response to a systematic stimulation. Memories, the fictitious tangible pages of our latest and greatest events, for our molested sins and cruel actions, for our melancholic dilemma and evanescent drama. Grudge, that awful acid taste like sentiment within the cores of our human nature, for those times where we render different and stray off glowing paths to reach a temporal pleasure by proving our entity and taste the hollow spoon of superiority. The universe, a big playground for kids who will never grow old, for senior citizen who will never return to vigilance, for embryos who will never but decay at the first sniff of oxygen, it is the battlefield that has no winners nor losers, the galaxy of void, the silent screams of sewed lips, the unaware state of the mind, the vibrating molecules of a zany matter. I cum breathing in the form of a liquid upon my hair, a liquid produced by the juicy grin I felt while kissing my own lips, for the parts that shifted and limbs that drifted afar from me into me. The grotesque, the eerie, the horny body which imprisoned a sphere of pure sheer light, surrounded by intestines and fragile bones and paper thick tissues, between 4 meaty walls with a heart above and genitals
Below, for exquisite intellectual elements may become the mere commodity that can be used on a daily basis, ergo, the skull was found between my thighs through my heart, till it reaches my head, the crest of the body.

Hearing the sound of keys
Turning from black to white
I can only think of a sheer blight
Looking at book shelves
At my left and right
I thumb up the pages desolately
Of my recent late unfinished nights
I took a vow of silence, and let the ink talk
Vivid words, more vibrant than the eye of a hawk
And now I took the vow
Yet my hum is screaming now
Consequently I'm aching like a fading flame with anticipation
I can only blame myself for succumbing to dissipation
I'll surely stir off my bed of fire
With no lust, no snuffles, and no desire
But the upcoming flood of words will be marked
For it was the cause of my fuming poetic darts