Jealous

Pretty eyes, pretty thighs, pretty face she never wanted.

Forced to live inside an object of desire.

Introverted, anxious, and the center of attention.

Watched from every side, waiting to be acquired.

Wanted, but never loved, by misfortune or chance.

Every prospect wanting more than she could give.

Taking if they could, every piece of satisfaction.

to pacify the needs with which they’re forced to live.

This way, and that way, in every kind of direction.

Taken, passed on, and consumed by the restless.

Never replenished, left weary and unfulfilled.

Caught up in the cycle, until she met Jealous.

Jealous knew more than any of the others.

Jealous payed attention and expected the same.

Jealous never slept so as never to lose her.

Jealous kept her close since the first time he came.

Jealous worked hard to keep what he wanted.

Jealous made damn sure she was contained.

Jealous didn’t like seeing her with others.

Jealous was stubborn and easily enraged.

Wanted, never loved, pretty object of desire.

Trapped in attention for which she never asked.

Running, recaptured, by Jealous devoured.

Things that are pretty don’t easily last.

 

Everyone wants, everyone needs, most of us take whatever we can get.

Give what you can, love if you can, don’t end up eaten by Jealous regrets.

Lust and Loathing

Lust and Loathing

Mellow-dramatic pouting inside of my room, lonely

Teen-angst phase never outgrown, but still growing

Manic depressive, self obsessed and self abhorring

Wallow in contemplation and satanic children’s stories

Look,

It’s not as if I want to be like this

I’m honestly sick of writing this kind of shit

I don’t like it, I’m bored with it, but it just always seems to fit

Me.

Words like “Lament” and “Depression” come so freely to my lips

Without effort, without thought, and mostly without context

My subconscious expects them to be useful I guess

I guess,

I still have issues left, unresolved

Things that I’ve repressed

Holding back my progress

Because, I’m trying to tell a better story.

It’s not that I’m upset, I’m just tired,

and bored.

 

 

 

Hold me,…

 

She Only Appears In Parties

She only appears in parties,

Like an actress portraying a molly induced hallucination, she’s vivid, shimmering, and delightfully playful.

I can taste her aroma,

The tantalizing mix of cigarettes, vaginal secretions, and sweat. Potent, attractive, an ashy pit of decadence.

Yes, I like it a lot,

The bitter sweetness she contains of unfiltered filth and fun. Leather wrapped amorality, unashamed of her flesh.

Pleasantly annoying,

I admit the masochist in myself enjoys how she irks me, flirting and skirting around at her leisure.

I should have that,

I think, as though I could store her inside my dresser, Like I could call her out to play as I desired.

She’s like a rainstorm,

She’s ominous and pretty, only following the whim of nature. I like getting caught in her when she comes.

She only appears in parties,

The life on which she feeds and regurgitates back for everyone. A pretty apparition of social lust.

But nothing more.