Letters are funny things so much like onions. They come in a papery skin with a soft flesh inside begging to be opened up. But don't you dare cry. They're only flesh and paper.
Trite observations are like salt and pepper; You're bitter when served fresh, and darling, your spice is out of style. A letter is better than pissing in the snow And telling the bride in mind, one knee in piss (you stupid git), "Will you, marry me?"
note: Kamas requested the response to this. Have fun.
salt reminds me what it's like to live without air or perhaps how to gurgle gasoline. It cracks between your teeth like lace paper might, I wouldn't know, I haven't tried.
(words are tempting when they drip out of your mouth. If I close my eyes it just smells sweet and I forget what it looks like)
gasoline got stuck in my heart valves a couple weeks ago because they didn't know where to go.
"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles." ~ Charles Chaplin
You used to call her Little Lace her face was white as snow. But the devil came and went away and that was long ago. Perhaps you're old and bitter Perhaps you don't think anymore But I know that you killed her; Little Lace beneath the floor.
The little lace was red, was red, was red. It was scarlet like her mood, her mood, her mood. I couldn't help staring at her bed, her bed, her bed. Because on it was her blood, her blood, her blood.
The knife lay on the ground, the ground, the ground, And my hand picked it up, picked it up, picked it up, And I smile, I smile, I smile, As I stab it into her heart, her heart, her heart.
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. - Carl Sandburg, I am the People, the Mob
Why stop, my sweet? The night is young No rules to be obeyed. Though the paper faces grin and flash she screams at the blade. Another heart to pocket another deal is made. The mood is set to scarlet at this bloody masquerade.
Sweets! Look how they disappear, As soon as they reach her lips. Her little ears lean forward to hear My ever-wretched tips.
She is but a childling, a child of a child, Innocent among innocents, a wretched fate. Her nature is that of one too mild, Without loss, or suffering, or hate.
But here, look! Her eyes fade, Her voice whispers, her breaths slow, And I carry her off, my wish made, Granted by none but what is called woe.
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. - Carl Sandburg, I am the People, the Mob
Bleeding children in the closet; Bleeding children in the close$; Bl%%ding childr%n in th% clos%$; Bl%%ding childr%n in th% clo&%$; BL%%DINGCHILDR%NINTH%CLO&%$;
All I'm reading is the same old feeling (andit'sdrivingmecrazy), "oh what a murder is I, I killed this child with pretty little words" and thinking I'd be better off with a hard drink.
I think my only mistake would be leaving blood stains in the carpet. It's been a long time now since I tried to scrub them out with cloth and nails and teeth.
Take it in now won't you, the human beast. How it cripples before it stretches out, the way its arms pop from their joints the way light fizzes to the touch.
My limbs broke in three places when the sun went down yesterday but you know, it's been a while since my vision blurred my window painted streaks so gently.
.
"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles." ~ Charles Chaplin
That rosy dress I bought for you last tuesday Is looking grey now on monday, & damn the dance was called off when the mayor was found to have murdered his wife sunday, did you leave that note saturday that you were cheating on me on wednesday?
It was just right that I put you in a box of shoes and wrapped in my flesh, so I could feel your heart on the inside. And your bright red dress, I licked my lips with lamb chop bones and acted like a fat kid eating beans, when I saw how pretty you were drying in the sun.
[if I gross you all out I might win by default : D]
Observe, the common coffin Just a box for holding bones. Filled with empty promises the body lies alone. But heaven! cries the common man. You'll live forever more. But flesh is but a mortal thing and fate has time in store. Flesh will slowly shrivel and the heart will turn to dust. Maggots will eat your eyelids with a feudal hungry lust. And you brains, once oh so clever will turn to soupy mud only to be delivered to the hungry sub-earth grubs. Oh, Heaven! Do relieve us we can't face the truth today: no matter where the soul goes, our bodies do decay.
(EW. That was gross. I'm leaving...no I'm not! Take that, ye April Fools!)
Her room is a coffin of memories, In there, she is forever trapped, In that room, that room of worries, All her emotions are forever mapped.
When I see her lamp, It is only to recall her happiness. But now it is rather damp, Damp with regrets and sadness.
Her grave is not her coffin, And it never will be, For lying here in a box of tin, Is her dug out body.
(Not as gross as the two of you, but this guy's got some serious issues, so there. )
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. - Carl Sandburg, I am the People, the Mob
Pretty thing, you're royalty. Raise your little gloved hands to the sky. They're silken- more than most can afford. Or are they just clouds? It doesn't matter, because at the end of the day Even the princess can't stop the hounds from taking her away. Laugh at the clouds while you can- they're filled with slow poison.
Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. — Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind
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