PulpMyFiction

What waste is it to love, when you tangle yourself with a heart of gold but a temperament untamed, Snapping like a crackling fire? Eating away entities of eerie pleasures Your momentum slows, overthrowing tranquility with entropy. Disdained under the darkness of those you choose to have chosen, Rolling in the silver light of imagination as it swallows you with insane quantities of psilocybin. So sleep. It hurts to wake. Tiptoe or surely you’ll tip off the edge and find it’s too late Because risk will ensure a slumber of madness Or will it? Could it? It could, so it can. Why take the steps when you can lie with me here, by the

To sing a song of throbbing hearts As sure as you are born you must. The inescapable blame as we strive to see the reality of what we will never touch Because we can. A commitment sold for the brilliance to feel Ah, TO SING To be shaded under the wing of reflective satisfaction SO fly on little jaybird Against the wind, embrace the brine Only today will you wander, tomorrow return into the restrictions of freedom. That of veracity Infinitely with limited capacity You will live as far as you fly.

So as the modest  mouse tried to speak, the words held on the tip of her tongue became stuck. The inexcusable silence threatened by possibility left her gasping for air, unable to relieve herself in tranquility. Expression, where she risks the least pain. To take risks, to end in shame. She can share so much, but it never comes clear because though she can the fear is so overbearing it becomes inescapable. To find acceptance of thyself, then to be rejected by everything else that she felt mattered left the worst scars. She put the bar up just high enough, and made it. Then she set it back down again, and retreated once more into what she once

The pressure creates tension in the small space you're in Soon, breathing will be prohibited "Just stop", They say. They know what is best. Controversy paints imagery following each tiptoe Walking lightly over the bruised and broken oak floor Don't crush the eggs Shut the hell up child You'll wake the demons. I see the blood crusted in the beds of your nails You can't clean it off today The stain on your palm you cannot wash away. Tomorrow, I will always remember. Let it be. They have no evidence The tools are hidden Under the folds of a sweater bleached ivory. You have nothing But you carry everything you will ever own Shut out the voic