"that coffin near the creek was the perfect bed frame"

current mood:cold

argh, posting some writing again. i guess "all creatives are attention whores" still applies to me as a socially anxious asexual.

"that coffin near the creek was the perfect bed frame"

a letter opener is still a blade after all. mother nature was idiotic to provide what it has. the feeling of this flesh is a capsule i lament being trapped in again, its out of the collective synthetic hands though, i can't be mad. redefining direct words is my favorite pass time, metallic pieces of sunshine being the grave mistake to start the habit. drag is the vein that pulls me in. scales suffocate the soul of my sinuses whenever the sclera breakdown these pixels. its equal to the polluted grains of wood lined up just a few yards away from me. i never write what my emotions say, it kinda defeats the point of staying in this bed. 

the marrow-donned body carries their eyes through ocean glass, skewing the deer into a man. they carry the hooves to a podium composed of silver painted paper-mache. Through herbivore teeth the deer whistles a bird call in a simultaneously unintentional and meticulous manner, making it sound assured in its new stance. This vibration of its vocal chords continuing in such fashion has caused its lips to split and recess. Soon it will be heaving around drool and carrion. The body still blinded sees only normal flesh. The deer has achieved what it wanted to do in the exact opposite way it strived for. it spys a rock and fulfills its last and strongest desire.

The antlers grow and cluster into the cage that currently contains me

-funky