The truth cannot find the life that bares to hide the soul inside. The fires cannot contain the refrain eaten by a hungry soul. The boy who was. Who is. Who will never be, and aways be the freedom you cannot contain rests inside your womb. You have no idea who you are. You have no concept of the freedom that arises through the risen. The stars cannot collide because of the connection you feel inside. Gravity grips at it's thighs, and growls at your presence. It bites at your heels because it cannot bite at your feels. Gravity begs you to let it bow and bend time like it's always been, but you? You are not the story life has written. You? My sweet, beautiful, soul-drenched, cosmic cum slut of fire, flame, and disarray? You, the bend of the brake, the still in the quake? You, my burning, trembling, thriving, binding, starry caught freedom flickering in the still of night - the pace in spacetime? You are what rips the universe into shreds. Breaded, beade...
Poetry, prose, essays, and art.