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So Apropos
Saw death on a sunny snowFor every life, forego the parable. Seek the light, my knees are cold. (Running home, running home) Go find another lover; To bring and- to string along. With all your lies, you're still very lovable. I toured the light, so many foreign roads For Emma, forever ago. |
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about art.
Art is what you can get away with.
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bridget.carine. divinia. jieyang. gabby. michelle. monica. muk. patricia. sara. wendy. PLAYLIST twitter
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Design: doughnutcrazyIcon: morphine_kissed Do credit accordingly if you changed the icon. |
the crying hush.
 There are times when little is too few, and too much is too strange. Its like a foreign land, unfamiliar, uninhabited, surreal even, like such a place should not exist. For nature, it is very unnatural. To be where should not- well- be. We each have our own voices. Though narrow-minded (or narrow-voiced) and timid, we let them speak, and like clashing notes we let them crash, disrupted and queer, like the front of our hands. Read, never true, always evident but never known; just sweaty and clammy and creased like wet books. The prejudiced are child-like, the free are monstrous and deformed, and the quiet- ? Where are we placed? Are our secret minds and secret hearts kept in shelves to save for the worthy of the future? Or do they evaporate, like mist on a humid day? No. Quietly, we drive our revolutions. Silently, we build our empires. Inaudible, we are consent, deliberating like torrents and storms on Cyprus, brewing and boiling and overflowing into the heart of our palms. Then, quietly, silently, inaudibly, we say. We speak what is important, what is necessary. We have no voices in our heads, we have no victims on our tongues. We know what we know. We've heard enough. Our whispers shout. |