Oct. 14, 2009 10:49pm
The torment of inadequacy seems to color the trees.
But this, this, is revolutionary to the beating muscle in my chest.
It compels me to wish I was blind. It streams through my blood with a thick viscosity as the dove and the raven fly as one.
What is this uncanny mixture of emotion?
Could it be jealousy?
And there in the distance, near the pond of virtue and the flowers of sin, flutters a tiny colored feather in the breeze.
It is the feather of whom is bruised and numb.
It is the feather of the song bird that sings a heartbreaking tune of inadequacy and suicide.
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ♥ஜღ Silent Lullaby of a Lonely Butterfly ღஜ♥Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
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