Angel writings

I will update this as I please when I feel like it.

I am athiest.

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Free, soaring above all that is true and real. 

A pigmentless state of limbo with no thoughts and no feelings, a dreamlike state of being where one can see but only see.

 Sun Kissed cheeks shine down on me, kisses of an angel heal all wounds and conceal pain that once was. 

Take it away from me. 

Take free will and consciousness to be stagnant, an unmoving boy. No authorized remedy, just the tracks of capital punishment in this destructive and broken country. 

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In the eyes of God, you are nothing. In the eyes of angels, you aren't seen. Betrayed and unloved is who you are unless unforeseen flight is grasped through disassociated eyes

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Angels can fly above your words. They perceive nothing and would not feel the sting of arrows shot by withered hands

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Pages marked with the blood of the innocent, a small child stutters his apology

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How does an angel love if not feel? How must they stay connected to earth if they do not love?

Maybe a deep love, unspoken and unnoticed.

And that is all.

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angels don't follow God, there is no God. Angels seek comfort in the knowledge of the end. They follow time, jaded and unafraid like no human me could be.

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You can pull a thread from your eye and read from the string of your consciousness. A language so lost it’s incomprehensible to your mind. Look within, feel what was lost deep in your heart - or what remains of it.

If the eyes are the window to your soul, where does one’s heart lead? Somewhere so far, colors and lines paint the skies of what is. So pure and untainted, evil lies with good in peace and war forever. It’s impossible to understand the human heart, even for its beholder. It’s pointless to try so simply feel. And when feeling is too much to bear, destroy it like the walls of your soul are being attacked by thousands of arrows. Soldiers of agony trump within you, and there is nothing you can do but wave the white flag.

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How can someone be in a house full of people and feel so alone? never spoken to, only if yelled at. medications running low, wrists running out of room. When will time run out too? When will the orchestra play the coda cord? When will my wings take flight into incomprehensive bliss? Maybe never. Maybe his small hands will pull me into a domestic embrace, the one I longed for as a little boy.