Smells of Brazen Breeze

As usual, it's been a while since I last visited. Guess its nothing much out of the ordinary as there are only that many reasons why (I think) people blog. Obviously there are more, but I'm just in the mood to stereotype people.

1.) They are single

2.) They just broke up or going through a rough patch

3.) They are trying to sell their souls (i.e. make money) to/from bored people

4.) Attention deficit people

5.) People who are seriously passionate about something and actually provide a very insightful, inspiring or helpful read

For me, I just remembered I actually have a blog after visiting someone else's.

And the weather is chilly;

Which inevitably makes my mood go melancholic;

And as usual, melancholy usually directs me here.

Which has been a while, or rather I've been keeping myself pretty "organised" and having a very"routine-d" lifestyle.

But who cares. I'm out.

...

. I don't get to write in here as much as I would like to .

. I've kind of shifted my attention to platforms in need of much less attention .

. I think ?

...

. I've cheated .

. I have a tumblr account .

. There, I said it .

. Hey, I can't totally write depression all the time if-you-know-what-I-mean .

...

. So for less emotionally depriving and denuding shit, I chisel myself at pheroxia.tumblr.com .

Ahh . . . The bliss of Honesty .

...

The glum and grey come a-tapping , 

On the dust-filled cracks of my window sill ,

I hear you , the harsh earned tear and tears ,

A-drip and a-shudder , 

Across , in view , the mournful skies ,

In my eyes .

Of once , of twice , of thrice ,

The mulling and the killing ,

The worn and withered , 

Void of once lay , 

The thumping , knocking , yelping ,

Of my actual , real and war-torn ,

Heart .

Of clamshelled stones as the current hits,

Knocking and so foresaid the lightning speaks,

Waving and wading,

The shimmering swords of the great blue,

Encrusts their everyready dagger sycophants,

To please and amuse, for distrust and doubt .

To lay admist them in their ploy of demolition,

And to scatter to shun the incitement,

A yearning gasp unleashed, long and overdue

It awakens to bethinks its' presence .

The chaw of rage nips at the feet of fury,

In this absinthal state of cloying discourse.

I know,

The intensities constants the lethargy,

Lethargy of the habitual opulence,

Leavens the creed of your spasmodic nod .

Not the stone, but the shell .

:3

Sparkle as the tinsle crown blazes from your eyes ,

Gaiety, to be celebrated in our slumber .

Along with the scintillation of your sole sweat ,

The taste of blitheness from it , escalates the purity of It .

It,

the Something I think I know ,

It,

the Something I think I knew ,

It,

A chance still there ?

Could it possibly ?

. . .

The bliss of which has been choking , strangling , fastened , and

Stuck still in the back of my throat to ward all off ,

Is once again, out on my guileless and guideless hands ,

To let go ,

Let see ,

and let happen ?

. . .

Chuckle as my murrhine walls drip of coy tears and expired brume ,

I shudder at the anticipation of a cheerful carnage ,

Carnage of yet, another warm beating still .

Served .

. . .

Maybe ,

Just maybe ,

. . .

Are you there ?

Do you hear me a-calling ,

hope ?

Smother the blades of the moon ,

And wallow in the craters of grass .

Come indulge your inquisitive fluff ,

Of burnt sage, and a forest of bygones .

I'll show you the way and sew up your heart ,

As the distorted lights move in .

Click your heels to get the devils in line ,

And applaud that reality's just the accumulation of omnious prophecies come to life .

O.R. is served with a little copypasta

I lay my faith here, on the bitter pathway ,

Of where those dirty. defiled . tripping minions ,

pranced and danced the dance of vile .

In hopes that the skein of a heart left by their filth ,

Shall one day be unsullied by the purest of breaths ,

The deepest of heart , the loudest of passion .

Where are you, oh beauty that shuns all unpure ?

How shall I seek, to beg for the curse of an innocent ?

Why should I be blessed with the blood on my hands ?

The spotless blood of . .

Me .

thou shalt not follow the queering voices of Nether .

the black hole . absence . truancy . and more void within .

it's emptiness longs fervency . it's desolation entices the curious .

they're alluring forces of the greatest . enchantment of the wrong kind .

insinuating and invasive . evocative and intorently redolent .

sweet aughts of your fiend will tingle the blind taste of reminescence .

the wistful wickedly lusts unconscious hope .

drawing on . drawing near . drawing close .

almost too close . Too close, maybe, for comfort .

nothing is there . and nothing will ever be .

lusting for the abyss ?

extrication, your best bet .

Hope for life, i would suggest .

the black hole i know as my Mind, beckons .