ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
if i knew exactly how to
heal my personal pockmarks
i wouldn't call them scars,
i'd call them ornamental
marring. this is my nocturne,
my harmonious calling, a
deflection of defection
where a serenade just isn't
enough to wipe away all the
saline-dripping, pungent
pretension. they call it
grace and glamour, but your
pulchritude is appalling, put
your airs on chilly and slip
me a sweet trifle of your
personal piquancy. i bruise
more easily than those who
treat me delicately, kisses
like divulgences, the flesh
beside my ear is bitten by
your nipping conscience.
keep speaking in your subtle
sussarations, i'm keen on
deciphering what it is
that you are trying to say
to anyone but me, is your
disquietude a symptom of
your abhorrence to my
presence? is your malignance
just a way for you to malinger,
claim malignancy to be within me?
i'm not too fond of vengeance
but i've got a taste for
vexation when you've got it
coming to you. you once
caressed my cuts, exhausting
sadness with your sweet
smattering, we were converging
onto this platform halfway
between friendship and
cancer. call me tainted if you
want to, but the only reason
i'm unwell is because you
consumed my heart so quickly,
i'll try to escape from my
own self-destruction but
the depression in my chest
is where your love belongs.
hoarding all the hopefulness
and hoping for a hiatus
because this break isn't too
blameless and my hands refuse
to be sterile from the
amount of blood and tears
i spilled on your bedsheets.
you thought you made it
clear but this isn't as
halcyon as you claimed it was.
i can't be convivial if all
i have to live for is a
constant chimera of your
cluelessness, to fondle your
formulation, but i refuse
molestation of your magnum opus.
i don't need osculation to
release my inner animal and
i certainly don't need a
paramour to live without
my discomposure.
heal my personal pockmarks
i wouldn't call them scars,
i'd call them ornamental
marring. this is my nocturne,
my harmonious calling, a
deflection of defection
where a serenade just isn't
enough to wipe away all the
saline-dripping, pungent
pretension. they call it
grace and glamour, but your
pulchritude is appalling, put
your airs on chilly and slip
me a sweet trifle of your
personal piquancy. i bruise
more easily than those who
treat me delicately, kisses
like divulgences, the flesh
beside my ear is bitten by
your nipping conscience.
keep speaking in your subtle
sussarations, i'm keen on
deciphering what it is
that you are trying to say
to anyone but me, is your
disquietude a symptom of
your abhorrence to my
presence? is your malignance
just a way for you to malinger,
claim malignancy to be within me?
i'm not too fond of vengeance
but i've got a taste for
vexation when you've got it
coming to you. you once
caressed my cuts, exhausting
sadness with your sweet
smattering, we were converging
onto this platform halfway
between friendship and
cancer. call me tainted if you
want to, but the only reason
i'm unwell is because you
consumed my heart so quickly,
i'll try to escape from my
own self-destruction but
the depression in my chest
is where your love belongs.
hoarding all the hopefulness
and hoping for a hiatus
because this break isn't too
blameless and my hands refuse
to be sterile from the
amount of blood and tears
i spilled on your bedsheets.
you thought you made it
clear but this isn't as
halcyon as you claimed it was.
i can't be convivial if all
i have to live for is a
constant chimera of your
cluelessness, to fondle your
formulation, but i refuse
molestation of your magnum opus.
i don't need osculation to
release my inner animal and
i certainly don't need a
paramour to live without
my discomposure.
it's a real self-indulgent week.
© 2013 - 2024 otakuplaywright
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In