mushroomfaeries
on our first date, you took me to the cinema. it took you thirteen minutes to put your arm around my shoulder, and twelve more after that to move that hand down to my thigh. it took you eighteen more minutes to kiss my cheek. later, when we got back to your place after the film, it took you five minutes to lock the door and push me down. it took me three years to scream.
I've written a thing for blue grass. Bluegrass is different, but I'm not sure what it is. Fields of wheat, pretty sunsets, sad people. Sad people are always drawn to fields, I find. Something about the solitude and the impossibility of ever being really alone. Anyway, I wrote an entry before I signed in. The problem with this website is I always forget to sign in.
rouge plastered across her cheeks and a thin film of silk bound across her lips. she is his. she is perfect. she is silent. she is his. and nobody else's.
Creative is not a thing. You're drawing upon energy already in existence- nothing is ever created or destroyed, as they say in dull high school physics classes. It's true, though. Everything you say has been said before. Every song you write already exists somewhere. Perhaps with different words, in a different order, with a different feeling, but it's all been done before. I've heard it all before.
Oblique. Flowers with oblique leaves- uneven, unequal. Almost a cruel advantage to one side, and those left petals grow larger and larger. They'll become trees someday, big and strong, while the remaining leaves and the poor petals wilt away and die. You took up all the sunshine. You stole their sunlight. Oblique.