you, a garden.your flesh like smooth-lilies,you, a garden. by MadeleineArtist
eyes like cosmic-daffodils.
there is the garden of your soul,
which i have often wandered-
plucking at petals and
blissfully unaware that beauty lives
only when observed through gentle eyes,
and withers at the slightest touch of
this is not fucking.with her-this is not fucking. by MadeleineArtist
i am confused,
my soul full of light-black contrasts
forms with no line
heavy value with no colour
deep strokes in graphite, charcoal
the blackest-whites and whitest-blacks
a thousand grays
warm through cool, but never
crossing the spectrum into reality
subconscious murmurs, whispers
thick moans dripping with lust
this is my body and my mind
rough outlines of thoughts
and your hands so soft
against the mountains of my spine
i feel your warmth,
your lasting heat
your fingernails so gentle against my shoulder-blades
making 3d planes on my framework
i move with you in my soul
“and the holy dove was moving too”
this is not fucking
this is making love in the spiritual sense
i am wrapping my arms around your eyelids
clutching at your desires
breathing out your next breath
inhaling your carbon dioxide,
this is nirvana
we are together now
not fucking, no
this is not just the union of two bodies
this is the ov
i am conflicted.and i am lost in a reality ofi am conflicted. by MadeleineArtist
“maybe” spoken by head, and
“yes” spoken by heart.
i am but orchids pushing through the sidewalk cracks-
or the cause of an untimely change in direction.
i am the gasping of lovers ripe with lust,
and smoke ring o’s of those stuck in til’ death do they part.
i am ill,
ripped in opposite directions;
i am a living paradox.
how is it that friendship turned into false love?
“no” unhesitatingly spoken and
so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”
in my desire for the anecdote to my loneliness,
i paved a road of inevitable collapse.
what is it that i thought could come of this,
what did i so foolishly submit myself to?
why do i always follow my head instead of my heart?
i am done fitting myself into this sharp-edged box of my own creation,
done with my self-inflicted unhappiness,
done with overthinking the simplest things.
i am following my half-soul,
my bruised insides s
i have never really considered myself to be a hard-core smoker. i'll share a couple with my best friend after school, bum a couple off of my we're-only-friends-because-you-smoke, occasionally tear apart the house trying to find my dad's... but ahh, addiction, it only does get better with time.
i'm in chicago with my mother for thanksgiving break, which happens to mean all of my cancer-stick sources are an hour away. i found a whole one near starbucks and promised myself i'd make it last a day or two- then proceeded to suck that thing down like my brother does my mother's breast milk. i picked up the sad little butt and stared at it for about five minutes, all the while muttering quotes from star wars and using all the jedi force i could muster to undo what i had done. alas, it appears i am not jedi material. i walked around the city frantically, begging strangers for anything, the last drag, i didn't care if they had hepatitis b, no, i was on a mission. finally, after about an hour of practically kissing the feet of strangers, i ran home. i spent a good half hour emptying every the pockets of every piece of clothing i owned, ending up with a thumb-sized pile of iffy looking tobacco. and, just as i thought i might be saved, i come to the realization that i am out of rolling papers. it seemed the universe was laughing at me in that moment. i looked in every drawer, vent, cupboard and box in the house before i saw it- a crumpled up receipt for "a farewell to arms". i flew downstairs, grabbed the jar of honey and created something that looked more like a bad paper-mache project than a cigarette. saved at last. that is, until i dropped it down the drain.
and now i am sitting here at my computer, fake-ashing a pen, and wondering when i got to this point. oh, addiction, the things you make people do.