spring-cleaning can get pretty therapeutic. it's like a cleansing of the soul, when you purge all the ugly substantia grisea in your head. and after that you are just a personification of the sparkling cleanliness and spanking orderliness. a clean slate of paper..till vowel-chimes then scribbles mess it up again for another catharsis. but then again im no cleanliness freak. and everything is always in a mess. and that also means we are unhappy and miserable and pathetic etc etc only because we choose to be so. yep. so when im having one of those negative bouts and you dont know, it doesnt mean you are an inadequate friend; unconcerned and insensitive. it's because it's not your responsibility to bolster my spirits. i made my choice and everyone has to be responsible for their choice, bad or good. so if you burnt all your bridges, dont cry foul in the end.
now do i sound like some incoherent embittered bitch. ok but that wasnt my intention. btw eup, she dreams of herself in red was just abstract artistry. absolutely not from any spook scene.
my tryst with crimson petals, over and done with.
they stand alone,
listlessly innocent with crimson soaked petals full blossomed and thorned.
i'm burning all my roses tonight with intent to purify,
flames to burdens disintegrate to ashes,
purification flames to burdens to ashes.
i rest my mind on the thought of something not of this world,
searching for a place where dreams never die.
a place not of this world.
searching for something else, such a place exists
and resides in the solitude of a heart.
such a place exists beneath a tangled mesh of thorns.
so take a flame to your garden,
your precious collection that only brings dissatisfaction
as it grows without an end.
i feel the petals burn and the smoke drifts.
i feel the petals burn and the grey night clouds carry me away
from this place and for one pure moment I am free.
-thisdayforwarddisintegratingeden-
i like this. it's like a witches' congregation and chants of "burn! burn! ashes to dreams!" choke through and rise above the cackling flames.
burn! burn! i hear the little voice shouting. let the pen ink an inferno of passion.
