At least I can still feel pain.
But sometimes it's too much, And sometimes it's not enough. I don't want your numbers, they represent time, setting pace to a rhythm, but this rhythm has no rhyme. I'll paint my lungs in black, and all the walls in red, to remind myself, that I'm not dead. Her eyes matched the shade, of her lips that were stained, with the red from the vines, and the kisses she claimed. It doesn't stop, it just flies, the lonely aging of time, a reckless riddle with no rhyme.
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Sydne Kilberg"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." Archives
February 2016
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