| Subject: ± The Good Kid Quit ± |
Author:
…::Cynic::…
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Date Posted: 16:29:16 03/04/02 Mon
…|| “I don’t believe in fairies.” ||…
¤ Mechanical monstrosity charges invisible fort in reckless dash, prancing with bitter stride in enraged circles. Dial is pitched from side to side in wild fury, triangular auditives flattened and sewn narrowly to cranium by fishing line. Great chunks of ice are split and flattered beneath versatile daggers, the cold element speared and slaughtered with the remorse felt for war victims from their assassins. Outlines of cage bones ripple through otherwise unending tatters of buttermilk pelt, marking slim female as overly thin. Though shoulders jut and hindquarters are raised in young disorder and loss of nutrition, petite fable is touched by the finest threads of beauty, the sort of label set apart from stereotypes, the same prettiness that could be associated with inebriated ravens. Adolescent sneers upon other equines, all obsessed with petty things in petty lives and oblivious to the greater beings wracking havoc and death upon their disappearing ranks. Butterscotch runs its scant implant deep, dragged across too much flesh as butter was on too much bread, the rips and ugly onyx tatters mere signals that there was indeed too much of a figure to cover. Destructive child attempts backing into shadows, their tempting, addictive embrace that clung to an innocent, fuzzy blanket now a rejecting poison. It wouldn’t dare touch the serpent it had once so graciously supported, the minion strung between wires and abused to reach the pact so righteously made. Scream of tormented rage blares through papyrus blowholes, hind limbs lifting from safe hold upon distrusted soil, reaching out to scar vengeful demons so much better than adulterated feminine beast, but brushing against spiteful air that whispered joyous mockery disguised as the simple drifting of inferior winds. Incisors click together in case of cheated agitation, circles once more traveled, pummeling well-beat path into corrupted virgin terra beneath brimstone blades. Hindquarters finally give into fatigue and falter, caramel figure colliding with unseen corpse of mighty oak. Crimson trail comes into view, a new tear unable to mend. Twisted buck, miming that of earlier, is executed in cruelly unworthy attempt to rid vixen of the liquid once so indulged in and desired. The assassination of creator was in itself a great feat, though the ascending accessories brought with it weighed heavy upon gifted shoulders. A wispy, spent creature lowers perfected dial towards distraught soil, long perished and decaying beneath all but breath. What wouldn’t have been given for the powerful hallucinations and jeweled lullabies given by a condescending caretaker having long left a fallen deity to its pitiful fate. ¤
\\forgotten doors
don’t have keys
to unlock them.
the same as lost children
don’t go home.
cats don’t sing
and birds don’t cry.
they don’t live life
by your rules.
if I died under you
it would be all better.
I’d pay you back tenfold
for what you’d done.
rather take an old life back
than stay in purple rooms.
following you around
like a lovesick puppy dog
ain’t cutting it.
too many sick people
don’t listen when they’re
told they are.
and too many people
don’t listen when they’re
told they don’t understand.
too many people don’t hear me
when I tell them
I’m dying.
I’m dying…
I’m dying…//
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