???

I hope you find a way to be yourself someday

I wish you were dead, babe, I wish you were dead!

The purpose is not to make oneself good at the art form, but to be better at expressing.

Then it is agreed. You will give me your SOUL.

the worst thing is when we start seeing art as a skill versus a basic part of human nature. is breathing a skill? is hunger? are tears? is love? it's not about being good at them, it's about doing them. it's about listening to yourself. that's all.

I would never leave. even when things got hard. I have endless forgiveness, understanding, and patience for you. I always will. And endless love to go along with all of that. I wish I could tell you this. I love you. I miss you dearly.

I watch my guardian angel leave the building I am my only friend

An electrical signal from some remote corner of my brain. Connecting all kinds of circuits and nerves and chemicals in a web understood by nobody. The chemicals make my chest tingle around my beating heart.

there's a theory that says you don't exist unless someone calls & you respond

It doesn't matter if she has other hobbies. It doesn't matter if she keeps it private. It doesn't matter if it doesn't hurt anyone. It's gross. She's gross. The world is better off without spider lovers. And I'm gonna tell everyone.

The player is growing restless. I will tell the player a story. But not the truth. No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance.

A rotating wheel. Turning an axle. Grinding. Bolthead. Linear gearbox. Falling sky. Seven holy stakes. A docked ship. A portal to another world. A thin rope tied to a thick rope. A torn harness. Parabolic gearbox. Expanding universe. Time controlled by slipping cogwheels.

I'm afraid of grief. Mostly because I've never had to deal with it. Only the possibility. I've spent my entire life running away from the possibility. Probably, I want to clarify: I've dealt with grief, only once, and it damn nearly killed me. I never want to feel that way again.

But a poem is never actually finished. It just stops moving.

how do you love? like a fist. like a knife,

Dear , Do you remember when you couldn't sleep when you were little? You would cry helplessly all night. Don't be embarrassed. Mom

Orpheus, I can forgive you, then, There's not a soul alive who wouldn't have looked back

I'd like to be one the same soul level.

I am fond of lovers, but I cannot love, I am too remote, I am excluded. I live elsewhere; it is only that the attraction of the world of men is immense. Those who love me love me because they sense that in happy times I enjoy the freedom of movement which I lack completely here.

Some day, my happy arms will hold you And some day, I'll know that moment divine When all the things you are, are mine