not much, but somethingi'm just a whole bunch of sporadic fucked up thoughts that have a center focus.
oceanic nowheresno matter how many times i refer to oceanic analogies my words and wisdom won't grow with the mention of the atlantic, or the mumble of the pacific or the god damn indian ocean if you are trying to be an independent original for the first time in your seventeen or so odd years on this rotating blue and green mass we call a planet that has countless wonders shoved in its corners and crevices but i am lacking the ability to lift my limbs across the prime meridian, down the equator, and past oceans full of bullshitted metaphors.i lack no ability when it comes to tracing your ribcage, god dammit there i go again referring to bones a
a bed shaped universethe pressure coming from your lips, i swear it will suck my soul straight from below my chest, bellowing in your existence. sometimes i swear we will shatter with the impulse of our veins pressing against cold white sheets we are heating with every inch of emotion we have bottled up for saturday nights spent alone in rooms with TVs flashing in the background. shadows bouncing around the room in galaxy like formations, constellations gracing your back as you straddle my waist, bending your skinny navel over to grace my lips, your hair dripping on my chin and around my neck like meteorites crashing a bendable surface.we are floati
a thomas jefferson retestproblem number one:you're back.fuck,the rebirth of ransom.we've thrownour lungs outtrying to breathe,trying to exist. this is a marilyn monroeof the west indies, indies,or indie kids,hipsters at their finestare outlawing our love,it isn't individuality,it is the down turnof romanticism.solution number one:it's not 'hip' to findan answer, what were you thinking,this isn't the da vinci code,we are neither angels nor demons,we are the free song on iTunes,over downloaded and underplayed never listened to more than once.i've taught my wordsto kill, likedaggers in the dark.problem number two