With harsh fuel igniting my thoughts, I seethe within
immolating purgatory; liquid skin beads above my brow.
I'm 20.
Read my poems, especially if you hate them!
I am an immensely inexperienced writer; I know my shortcomings are great in depth and variety.
Constantly, I am psychologically haemorrhaged by my intense aversion to serious and disciplined commitment.
Yet, despite my own failings, I am compelled to write;
and write I will!
Denizens of this odious platform, I cannot decide: what book should I buy?
I'm leaning toward "Metamorphosis and Other Stories"—I find myself with a growing fascination for Kafka's short fiction.
However, "Flowers for Algernon" has a very captivating premise I'd love to explore.
@intomywarmth Being human is overrated anyway; sometimes it's better to let the burdens of human life fade away, even if only temporarily.
Sometimes, all you need to do is feel the exhaustion, and not move an inch, or try to get up.
Just rest, happy you don't have to be human today.
My 'For you' timeline is a curated and blessed garden of intellectual thought, prose and poetry.
My 'Following' timeline is an unknown, gross and hideous alleyway, plagued with the babblings of psychos, riddled with mental illness.
Actually, never mind: they're both the latter.
@CornerRng@lexlisbon When realising names don't exist as a physical part of 'you', thinking about what we 'are' outside of that label is weird.
When you think "I'm Hank", you're not "Hank"; that's just what you're called, obviously.
But nothing physical about you is "Hank".
You're a distinct thing.
Incinerating warmth spills down my back, searing my focus with nervous urgency.
Her steaming chest and blistering lips slide against my naked body, branding my mind with dull and pristine heat;
breathing lacks any consolation, and instead the air is crisp with suffocating love.