mySeity

They who scale mountains content themselves with the feeling of love, not confirmed with action. They can fly the arrow- never mistake- truer than any romantic. But height is a lofty mistress, and the keenness of the wind is ever seductive, because it whistles the story clearly that gets mangled below. Who -wants- to get mangled? We are not beasts of burden, even if we've worn this fur for thousands of years. To dive from the clean, clean edge into chaos is unthinkable. To frolic among the tumbling bodies and risk trampling and being trampled is enough to curl back and reach for the highminded pleasures of love Oh, bu

if the mirror one day'll come to me          then maybe I can see through my so-solid self I can't just sit here and wait for my emotions to turn acyanopsic and feel the air, eating the light sic something must follow my name          for surely I'm not just another being                    put on the surface of earth for spiration to take up the oxygen so someone else can perish

falling would be a sin and sleeping would be the greatest of them all silver can tarnish, gold can melt and the eternal, beautiful, living sun will explode one day the past is something we want to forget          although we have wasted within it                    half of our existence... we are taught not to lie while writing fiction and fairy tales are the most reveled in dishonesties and just being is a mistake but we would not berate God nor tear apart the holy churches which we've built with rough and dirty hands he tried. she tried. we tried a billion times over. and which side would you still prefer to see today

wondering why I never took that smile out of my thoughts and made it real I didn't know, really of why time seemed a cross between memory and dream who ever broke the lined boundaries or taken a hand without knowing identities in the stopped moments of summer          when childish hauntings skip another season cream and warm breaths, that made a tomorrow I've seen and saw the eyes pass then away another missed fantasy, or another illusion I could never tell (it didn't seem like a fairytale ending)

we could just watch each other spiraling away with the air given by time and impatience and worldly time again and whisper into each of our own nightly scenery (which really are not bedrooms when you use your imagination) and feel our thoughts collide on their way to eternity, where they'll disappear           for another generation, a thousand years from now                     to discover and disappear once more... I thought that I could feel you heart pulsing from even across the ocean but a single tie from the left--- can't affect anything without the right for then you feel like the other side a slow motion, devotion, doti

this should not be a diary, between her, Seity, a selfhood in her fingers and the hourglass dreams she's turned about for this is no confession; only her elixir, her hope, and the way they came to be well, once upon a day in an insignificant year and fairytale this girl looked back and saw        her fantasy's asphyxiations and she questioned.. -the stars if they would blink faster, had she died tonight they listened, just long enough to close their eyes to let golden lashes brush against the tops of hard cheekbones for selfish hearts slept even in the core of stars she touched a window, wondered if it would let her bre

her songs don't go as far as to the ancient night they thrive and breathe upon the never-ending light           staying from her eyes calling, catching abraid changing waves (in which some dreams are made...) if she could ask one question that forever haunts her mind the real and imaginative sides would be far away behind for her sight permits her to see beyond solivagant rains and herself to bear the burdens of life and take the blames it's only one word that comes out as the world spins around thousands of times before she speaks and finds (a sound) nothing to lose and everything lost in a tangled web of lies only this, and nothi

I. only if writing doesn't quite reach ---your fingers nor words twist their airy selves into a muse then you dear being, may be far and wise to see beyond what makes us fools what crafts writers and gives them a tool to wield, -not really lies- but phrases that hold no truth           even as in comfort neither ironical nor flamboyantly cruel for until they're brought to light... no one would ever know nor wonder if a rose were indeed sweeter                     under presumed names... II. ask them next time how really love can hate or be stained darker than--- anything? how hearts really break (you know that first came fr

I. next time you go for a walk in the rain on cracking pessimistic sidewalks.... and unwittingly your companion abuses your ears let not your soul start unleashing torrents of long, (wild, stormily uncautious waters with souls of their own) merely say, come hither my dear, sarcastic friend and whisper...it looks like suicide to me... maybe the clouds will forget and wonder and blow elsewhere           (and maybe your companion will melt into liquid mercury...) but shouldn't somewhither be a newly made pavement imbibing sunlight and hearing the same abuse over and over again lo, can't you just hear the angels crying at the treatm

it's like, liquid silver solus mercury finding its reflection in the soles of its shoes and nothing calls back--- even when you scream into the depths of a cavern thats s'posed to echo... gone, gone, gone is your whisper and the only answering irony is rolling like the invisible specks of dust flip around when they're trod on in their dreams