A pure white atmosphere resembling blue, cold but doesn’t fit on solid, liquid or gas, not sure if you are flowing down or falling down, an atmosphere that you are not sure if flowing causes to fall down.
Commander, send me a sign, i lined and balanced every blues upright in my room’s centre.
The blue reflections in my window are reminds me of you sir, so if the scarlets attract my attention, should my charred lungs in illusory emptiness get filled up with your neutral mind’s noble energy?
I was reading you sir, one of your messengers leaned towards my neck:
Blue, blue, blue; I’m here, i’m here, i’m here…
The combination of anthracite with hairless and sensitive skin, a huge pile of brain.
I was reading you sir, i turned around to see your messenger.
A woman was spreading her legs in pain, giving birth on her own, there was a head of a woman at the right end of the bed; she must not have combing her hair a long while. It was all black and her face was vague but the fatigue and rage of her was literally obvious by her shape of face.
Commander, did you know that my grandmother gave birth to my uncle like that too? The nurses were drinking tea and gossiping while my grandmother was screaming for their help, how sad.
#a woman gives birth on my bed
jolly kelp
poem for burned women for being beautiful in medieval
Felt strand heap of mine, will grace me to the divine blazes
Spunks will fulminate in coruscated flame lake
Reflecting transparencies are one with our lurid red, our entirety will be blessed
Not shedding a scarlet blood, that even not getting eye to eye with scatty
Dear Me,
You are the only one elemental essence i still can’t understand
Recognizing is hard if whose is my mind, to be honest
I got a golden colored hair clip in my hand
The patterns meets and gets wider through on the middle
A part of me, would like it more if it was silver,
But the other part of me searching if there are another colors that we cannot see or will not see
Sometimes i feel like i’m not the one talking
There’s a punched face, all the bones are in his face is broken and smashed
Standing in front of me, neck and crop
He got a friend, also he got no bones in his neck
Shrinks and pulls himself, his skin
He leans his head on the pile of fabric, his forehead is facing me
I can see his big nose’s sharp beep, the dark eye bags of himself
His eyes are dead, not even realizing that i’m in the same room
Just staring blankly at the white ceiling
Not sure if it’s still white enough to call white
Flies love their little, warm and yellow globe world
Their earth’s core is at the center of their world, warming everywhere equally
They hug their tiny yellow sparkle all together
And they dry, inject all the blood they had to the glowy yellow thing
When they lose their strength, their nature contradicts with their desire
They never wanted to stop holding and hugging the light
They never wanted to lose the blood that makes them get warm and cold
But they didn’t even fall the ground earthly, in the reality
They were just being an ugly insect
Becoming a mess for the white colored concretes and bricks
And hard to clean, because they are still scary although they are dead and disappointed
Still, white is white if it is meant to become white
Dirt is a sign of movements and past.
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