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Amort, Amorphous—Aphonic

She embodies allure. Beginning from the very tips of her fingers and ending at the very end of her heels. The savage surges of existence, together with the sweet nothings and coupled somethings, formed it. The internal battering of her psyche washes over her, leaving only the luring cries.

Despite her obscurity, she is well aware of her potential. And who is she, exactly? She no longer had the fractured gems that she had previously claimed. She opened her lips and spoke gentle sounds of delight, blinking away tears of grief.

With its entwined claws, life swoops into her and the world around her. With a scream and a kick, she plummeted to the bottom of the vast sea. She broke her silence, reclaiming her spirit. Gone, snatched, stripped of all masks that before engulfed her.

Her actions now endanger humanity. In essence, esoteric to everyone. To be beautiful, she must have hidden qualities that have not yet been revealed.

Beleaguer & Beshrew

I can feel it. There are those subtle fears. Embracing me, with the fervor of scornful gazes. Awful babbling in contorted discourse.

There is sound. Its inner workings are audible. To my internal beliefs, it was like a frigid winter slap. I am emotionally dragged down by the loud whimpering undertones.

I don't know what else to do. Embrace uncertainty or create my own path to confidence? The Clash's "Should I stay or should I go?" describes how I feel. Having no desire for anything other than self-satisfaction. But nonetheless, full and engulfed by... something.

I sense it. I perceive it. I don't like it. I can...

A Tale of Whoa.

My sanity is too important to risk any longer. Furthermore, I will not consent to the manipulation of my spirit. That's done, and fresh chapters await. This is not meant to be a warning, but rather an account of my own personal growth and development.

I have had enough of wishing for "maybes." No veiled trechorary for me. I shall prioritize my soul above anything else. I am aware of my worth. I am well aware of my level of belonging. My talents are no longer in doubt. End of lengthy explanations.

Life is at my fingertips, waiting to be savored. And I have, paying attention to the ever-present, now-visible. I refuse to be degraded, objectified, or pummeled into an unhealthy state of mindlessness any more. Whether it's because of myself or some other driving force in the universe. No, this is the story of the whoa, the resolute rebellion against what I will permit; it is not a cautionary tale.

She—M'—Esoteric.

How does she appear amid ebbs and flows of all things, but only a chosen few have laid eyes on her? How can her soothing demeanor enchant everyone, but leave an impression on only a select few? Maybe she's a heavenly entity, rare and uncompromising, with a limited supply.

To the outside world, she is no different from the consumer of society opinion. Instead of looking away, her blue eyes lock onto the person staring back at her. The spirit of poetry that is living, darker, wicked tendril, kind, and light shall remain unbridled. Not a saint, barely a fallen angel.

How can the sum of her inhalations and exhalations be considered collective? There won't be enough available, and even fewer will have this access. Without holds, without maybes, and without forced intensity, she needs to be conquered, brought down, and loved to the utmost. She will adore, disassemble, and inflict the same on souls without preconceived beliefs.

𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒔—𝑮𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓; 𝑰𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒍𝒆.

It is said that the path one takes in life is very hazy. The vast majority of all hearts are alive. The clock is ticking until one's deepest, darkest secrets come to light. That there is no place for light except in the shadows. Ethics and morality are patterned by philosophical thought. That we do not even consider becoming something, much alone becoming anything. Experiencing illumination. Charming with radiant eyes, broken hearts, and spirits longing for something. when is the silver lining in a world when life is short and death is gloomy? How do you know when you've entered a hopeless, desolate wasteland of desire? How can we transform our lives from something we dread to something we look forward to? Pulling us in with its bare fangs. Holding us captive is the dread that tomorrow will not come. Today is the last day. The time is now. Until then, we will gaze upon the light. The complex shadows are twirling about us for the time being. We gently touch it with our extended hands and draw life in with our stripped mouths for the time being.

Placate.

Somewhere, in the depths, ties and drones crash into one another. Creating a barrier between those who drift and those who are drifted.

It calls and whines in low, eerie sounds. "Have I been here before?" it asks immediately. Has it?

Assuaging a sense of urgency is illegal. No matter the circumstances, one must experience all emotions.

Emotion, real and felt, is the lifeblood of the soul's twisting core. Anticipate that it would get easier with each effort.

The soul will be found in those gloomy, lonely corners of one's psyche. The space between them will shrink as the spirit finds its own rhythm.

Domate remains emotionless and icy until the appointed hour comes. Instead of appeasing, heat up and mend, reset and feel. In order to feel anything, you must not tame it.

unwilling to separate the mind and emotions. Nevertheless, wild, unruly, raspy and vibrating.

Feeling feverishly down in any and all places, while desperately seeking that one spot where everything will finally make sense. Cold, ice eyes that desire to melt, heated lips, and creased emotions.

Cherry thrilled with its softness and delicacy. Even yet, she is nefarious and alarming with the pits of hell stored deep inside her. Having an overwhelming desire to immerse oneself in something or someone.

Is it possible to rein her in, brand her, and put her straight? On the other hand, is she trying to find the right quantity, like two sides of a coin?

—Amatory—

It is an intense, tense, and physically present amotory atmosphere. It wasn't a location, however; it was one individual. Yes, that was her. Like a storm brewing over the sea, her jet-black hair tumbles down her back. Her piercing blue eyes are overflowing with fiery, tearful, and dangerously passionate emotion. Almost feral feline zeal, dangerous passion, and fever. How can she contain, hold, and sustain this—vile evilness?

She may be a sin in and of herself, a rebel without a strong reason to stand up. However, it is the root cause of spiritual rebellion, leading people to ignore their intellect in favor of their physical selves. The forbidden is barely touched by her delicate, heavenly fingertips. Her lips want for nothing more than to harvest kisses like fresh cherries—desiring, longing, spurned in hope.

Passion on a superficial level is not what she desires. She has shifted her focus from films depicting glitzy romance to those depicting darker, more violent kind of love that end in bloodshed. This causes the heart to race, the skin to perspire in a desolate state, and the mind to awaken and act on its final impulse.

She asks to be dragged down because she needs it. Wants to be controlled, tamed—desires uninvited, unlawful, soul-bending, skin-weeping love. Because she knows it inside and out, she is able to provide it. From the beginnings of the black threaded roots of her hair, all the way to her toes.

This kind of love and longing is within her capabilities and will remain a secret wish of hers. No, she's not going to summon Cupid. Because of this, love is purposefully played over and over again like a broken record. Rather, she will squeal with pleasure, emitting a low, whimsical sound, and then wait for the reverberation. The reason being that someone must inevitably respond.

𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚜, 𝚂𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚍, 𝙸𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚎.

"I lost you, my friend. Everything from the summertime lush grass to the wintertime snowfall, to the wind. You are no longer with me."

"Fore' you never had me. Though I existed, it was just for a moment. A delicate, unpleasant one, which you were not interested in."

"But I, I do, want you now."

"Now?" Brows wrinkle, as if a satanic rustling were emanating from the dwindling soul. "You want me now? Since you no longer have any of me, it is impossible for you to crave more of me now."

"I am wiser now, my friend."

"And now, my friend, I'm gone. No longer will you ever see me."

We can't possibly know who we are going to become if we cling to our ideals of what we ought to be. Our eyes are not only looking for external sights, but also for internal ones. A sensation is present in every part of the body, just as there are eyes and a mouth in the soul and the heart. In our view, there are essentially two components to each of us: our minds and our hearts. There are so many different components—neurons, atoms, nerves, blood plates, hairs, fractions of hairs—how can we narrow it down to just two? Aren't we worth more? Is it not true that we are loved more than we know? Is it possible to develop de-self-worth in order to develop an internal sense of self-worth? Could our beating hearts decide anything? Do we no longer exist? Have we lost all of our humanity, our callings, our brilliance, and our faith? Before we ask for what's next, we lose what's not nourished, and we miss what never was.

Vivacity

Too enticing for a single dosage. To possess and to lack. Concerned, uprooted, depressed, hungry; and yet, completely unconcerned. Abhorrent, repulsive, lifeless, and brimming with...something, if not, absolutely nothing.

Subjection has made me calloused. Two times divorced from the norms of society. The throat is dry and parched, the eyes are imploring, and the palms are spread. To roam aimlessly, to suffer without ceasing, and to ask more.

Everything that is possessed becomes an item. In impenetrable barriers, pupils flit. Thoughts stall, emotions throb, and the world continues to revolve.

The madness of the wicked—spinning in loss, in departure. Captured by the essence of what is to come, doomed by despair. Intense longing, distressing tragedies, and cries for help.

Feeling something; taking in everything; being charmed by everything. It was worthwhile. In order to merit it all.

For it is life itself that passes into death. Here, death gives way to life.

Silent temptations.

The ash, the smoke, the gradual enchantment with the cigarette—the closeness of it all. Everything that might be—the longing, anticipation, capture, and pursuit—is taking shape in the realm of possibility.

The forceful pull of a kiss, the intense heat of two tongues coming together. A throbbing scent of reliable attraction, the itch of enticement.

Weariness in the loins, vacant gaze, dense breaths. Provided, desired, requested, purchased, and consumed. Repeat.

𝓐𝓼𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻

If I could, I would be completely ignorant. I could opt out and have nothing. If I could, I would erase every trace of my past self. The person I formerly was doesn't belong in my present existence. I want to expel all that was stored in that gloomy pit. My very essence will not be consumed. Losing your soul is worthless. You can't pull apart who I am. When it comes to matters that I know are exclusively mine, I will not be influenced. I will not give up everything. Not everything can be divulged. The passing of the seasons will no longer be tolerated by me in order to appease another spirit. If uncertainty persists, it should be spoken. As a smirking vengeance, I am Jack.

Indifferent~

Convincing, unsurmountable, and unacceptable. Frayed, crooked, severe. Agonizing, altruistic, and catastrophic. Urgent, story-based, guarded. Abnormal, evil, repulsive, untamed. Impure, personal, vindictive, and malevolent. Neither interested nor involved. Unconcerned, she remains. Here she is, completely anonymous but with a clear idea of her desires. Untied, arms at liberty, eyes large, lips parted in a display of magnificence. She is now more than just a placator. Disappearing from view. She has entered a realm of unadulterated reality. With no turning back and no hopping forward. Here she will shape herself, eliminate what doesn't work, and hold on to what she allows.

Lugubrious

In the depths of a blazing anguish, alone. Whispering into thin air as if no one is listening. Confined, slashed, and shattered. I am aching for the short hit of bliss, and my veins are pounding with battery acid.

Grieving for arms that aren't there anymore. Curious about joy that is elusive. Perhaps my own destiny and will have damned me to a life of misery. Improved for what—that remains a mystery.

My own consciousness gathers dust while it awaits the invisible. In the depths of what could have been, my spirit wanes, and my body aches from what is never going to be.

Seems like I'm destined to spend the rest of my life down in my own deluded pit of despair. All I want, maybe, is a fantasy of a future that will never come to pass.

Forget it. Down and out. It breaks my heart. Intended to shatter like glass. Tragically, I have buried a lot of my true self. The portions that I am familiar with are no longer relevant to my existence. To a lesser extent than the air I take in. Because of my own free choice and the soul that I conjured up, I am alone, and I am yearning, corrosive, and tender.

Desolate, tainted, wicked and aggressive in thought, yet kind in spirit—that is me.

Eunoia

See me aloof and unconstrained. Rising with the sun, enchanted by the spirit of a fresh day.

The beginning of a natural chapter, a chance for my inner fire to ignite. Discover me furious, charmingly crazed by the very nature of existence.

Locate the unusual trails marked by deep imprints, which indicate that someone, somewhere has been here before. Everything in life is a dream, splattered with distortion and sprinkled with brief moments of innocence.

I am seeking a cognitive dissonance; please, find me. Collect me and probe me with questions about life. I won't hold back my opinions, but I will be quite blunt. I won't gloss over it or pretend it doesn't matter; I just won't. Life is life, beautifully charmed in fire.

Carnal want, passion, vexation~

A pallum drum of pure candors is like the pounding silence of the body. The withering departure of the loins diminishes the remaining influence of effortless desire. Intimately tied to a state of miraculous mental calm—and yet, hunt it.

I need someone to latch onto me, to untangle me, and teach me new ways of being tamed. Having me gasp for air, captivated, gawking, and almost detached from the world around. Hunger that never goes away and sorrowful, flowing passion are the real depths of longing.

Encased in a blossoming charred rose, it is overflowing. The dull, lifeless petals are wet from the unsettling nature of sheer mental stimulation.

Feeling bewildered, homesick, and divided by the biased divide—confronted with little more than opposition. Devastated, bruised, stained, and yearning for arms that could subdue me. Please, someone, somewhere, tame me.

Resume...

I believe I create separation in my own thinking. Does this make sense? I feel that once I am psychologically detached from the notion of someone, I no longer want those memories to remain.

I have no need to placate anybody or anything. I feel it is a painful concept to wander the globe aimlessly in the hopes of becoming someone's favorite person. Perhaps that's the bitter old age of pain, spilling out of my lips like poison. Maybe I'll be constantly lurking and miserable in the shadows as someone who has been too scorned.

Despite these wounds, I manage to try again. I can't simply sit and wallow. I must, must, must... succeed. If nothing else. Prevail. Time wasted is equivalent to living death.

𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕, 𝑼𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘.

It is a cry of humiliation that can escape the soul. A deep-seated fear of being left cold, unfulfilled, incomplete, and deeply damaged. Perhaps we should leave nothing to reason and everything to the feelings of the heart. Is it possible to love with passion? Under the body, it is contaminated with excess, doubts, and the inconsistency of permanent feelings. 

She wants cuts, bruises, and scars that won't go away. He wants documents released, preserved, and delivered to him through all sources of control. She, with her blue eyes, full lips, and sultry voice, longed for love and a special relationship that would depend on nothing. 

How easy it is to feel unknown, forbidden, and taboo. But it was very difficult to find anything that could calm and soothe her. What she wanted in drones, hill crashes, and inverted shapes seemed hidden.

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐫.

My pain has vanished from these flower beds. Play the piano, work hard, and get something for nothing. What a cold sound it is to produce nothing and not simultaneously. It works really well in silence, smoke, and stillness. How to destroy and coexist?Will this world produce withered petals and smoking longings? I won't be hurt anymore.

Am I not hurt, clawed, or attacked? Pour into me and make me believe that this will be good, even if it means death. Petals have been around for many years.

This exclamation point means nothing but ends in some way. Precious stains, moisture, androse color remain. I want to know all over the world…

Dulcet Viper~

Enter the vipers' lair and allow it to devour you. Allow yourself to be consumed by the inferno of existence's flame. Gulled wings of birds, insects, and moths—anything that can fly—may very well engulf you.

Fear does not belong in that sweet, balmy the passageway. Nothing but the viper and its delightful scent—no leftovers, no wants at all. Keep plunging into the abyss until you discover peace. Inhale the rath that is in between—the one that is deep, musky, and entrancing.

Let life unfold as it will, rather than pretending to be flawless. Think about it more than anything else. Soak in life's little pleasures, learn from your mistakes, and come out on top. Feel the burn of the vipers' pit within you as you revel in the triumph in trying again.