I thought I saw Ursa Minor in Lampe Park last night, but the trees blurred my vision to the point where I couldn't tell whether it was a constellation or a phallus pissing on a posy of roses.
Stars don't make sense. If amateur philosophy has taught me anything, it's that they can't be social constructs or a figment of your imagination because they exist.
They're dead, but they exist.
and they'll be here until all my jokes about cancer or death in general catches up to me.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
Oh man. That phallus line is too perfect :3 I actually appreciated that ending too, it felt very securely earned. I get so much glee out of reading this, you can't possibly know. The mix of the philosophical with the dark humor cynicism hits me in all the right bones.
we talked for 10800 seconds, we hugged for 25. who knows if you enjoy it at this point, too preoccupied with one word to act like anything other than a striving teen.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
third poem PS: This has a Nietzsche reference I'm really proud of, which results in one of the only lines I will ever write that makes me giggle like a little school boy.
Spoiler! :
If love wasn't a social construct, I would carve Romeo and Juliet quotes into my arms with a butter knife and live in a tree fort in North Dakota.
Society can't corrupt us, "death2capitalism!death2capitalism!"; thus spoke the Kama Sutra of emotional preservation.
There are no planes to Dakota, but with feet or not, I'll crawl to and fro ignoring the sand that soak into my wounds.
It is the east, and Dakota is the sun; arise, fair maiden, and lovingly slay me.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
Rumor has it, there's a romantic theory to everything. You either sleep with a bunch of strangers or sit, sulk, wonder at Halloween parties wondering what was the exact moment your life derailed off the tracks and your trolley killed five people on the siding.
Fall asleep in your car at the back of the school parking lot, fingers crossed that nobody honks and disrupts your peace.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
I enjoy smells and signs of rejection, so much so sensory overload takes place whenever alcohol is in a thirty mile radius.
Today, you smelt like vodka. I still had a tendency to adjust my head to fit your shoulder (or bosom, depending on the situation) and linger strands of hair whether you like it or not.
Romantic theory states we look for affection in moments of stress, and if my forehead burrowed into a neck says anything, it's that life is weird and Ed Albee is right.
"Words say little to the mind compared to space thundering with images and crammed with sounds."
Gender:
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