No need to bash me over the head
with your ideals just to prove
you have a backbone.
I'm squished beneath the details and
damnation that you wield as some
medieval tool of torture.
Petals of a rich, vivid fuchsia slouch in drunken dishevelment, glutted on sweet rain.
A pyre for dreams and discord, for savage expectations and risky opportunities, sends shadows to dance along the walls, entwined with the…
Never have I wanted so much to die. A heartbreaking echo from years past whispered in my memories, of a time the sea tempted you to wade in…