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THIS IS MY LOT, BEAUTIFUL STRANGERS.
 I haven't quite figured what my muse is. To doodle, to snap, to write, to type. An angry heart? A broken heart. A breaking heart. A hungry stomach? No scratch that. A hungry heart. A broken spirit. And the irony, an empty mind. It'll probably never be a person. How can someone allow herself to rely on fellow flesh and blood for a train of beautiful incongruency? Of bitterness and rosemary.Of crystal subtlety. Of infernal passion. But a heart, a heart and its voracious emotions; the lack thereof. It should lie in a heart. Or a heart in a heart, worn beneath the chest, just as it ravels beneath its constant masquerade. TonFlyingHigh!6:03 PM *** |
Behind The Wheel; 
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