There is a underlying difference and it lathers the legs of every little girl like a silky lotion. It smooths out and sparkles faintly in the glint of the sun. These little girls will mature and soon be rubbing lube on the dick of a boy that told them sweet nothings, emptiness that seemed worth a dime of time. And later, later regret could be peppered in lightly or more likely more encounters. It's fleeting but it's enough, the course and interest. Bat those curled eyelashes and don't dare let him look into the real brown of the eyes. Keep that secret. Always crushed within the actual soul of that slim frame. Crouching in the biggest corner of the room, waiting endlessly to be found.

I live within the whole. The whole is a paltry, uninteresting, weak existence that thrives off regurgitated tales of morality and sensibility. Falsehood is only falsehood because the meaning, word, and reality of it was invented. Every last bit of humanity is an invention and a standard that most follow blindly because it is told to be right and proper. And even the improper or immoral is just another standard of supposed rebellion or lifestyle that is a part of the whole. As I develop my ideas now I am controlled by the whole. Even as I try to disprove I am just a slave to it. What is real if real isn't real, and if everything is real than what is not. Professing anything radical further bounds me to the roots of previous thought and stagnate ideals. While floating in complete absence of thought I realize thought is as real or unreal as the whole. There is no rebellion that can break free from the whole without eventually becoming a component in it. How can there be reform or visionaries when both are constricted by the whole, yet still both excite me because at least it is a push of some kind away from the rules that are placed upon our lives. My opinion is not of that of a misanthrope but only a final conclusion from an individual that is a part of the whole. I have viscously struggled to release myself from it and have regrettably dragged myself further within it. In retrospect I realize these thoughts will one day be defined as cliche or mediocre. Yet what more can one do but express themselves in the limited sense that is allowed.

It’s not the arid pulse that draws the spinal cord to your palm. It’s the sweat that dripped from the interiors of your eyes and the tongue that catches the rainbows and prevents them from cascading across the sky. Golden slumbers induce fireflies and wasted lives. Integrate into the previously kissed metropolis concluding in mustard colored and ketchup stained pavement, while the arches keep the back in a permanent perpendicular state. And this is the so called alarm clock of the century.

If pornography is a sin then take away his demons so that the flesh can be clean and fresh for the nectar of love that I currently hold back. Sexuality, sex. I'm not sane, yet I crunch upon the sanity of society in this situation and can't shake its strong hand. Dull the streamline that lets passion explode into reality. Yet the mind races and chases an ultimate inborn human drive that has been suppressed for to long. Two points of view clash and stew into a melting pot of ashes and honey.

Feathers fall just as snowflakes and leaves do. Gracefully they decompose or melt away as the ground stays hard and indifferent. Is the falling more important or the fact that they fell. Apart of something that has shed itself they are just in beaded within what they can't control. Forgotten so easily.

A string unravels and ties itself to the vessels that pump this blood. The atmosphere sneezes out the clouds and spits upon our kind. Envy is the path that sheep take. The cries are the cries that don't just haunt. Would you connect the dots between a grain of sand and the wisp of the wind. Feel the peace of miscommunication and glares.

Whisper slowly little forgotten intentions and answer the constant ring that resides in the discreet edges of the head. Don't say no, never deny the now. Deny the when, the if, and the maybe. Beauty pours upon the silver line which trickles down through the ages as a fable. Tickle my fanatical shifts so that the average wisdom may arise. In remorse the once sought after identity threw a fit in public and crashed the masquerade of purity. No mess has been further amusing than this.

"Goodbye to love, I have pushed you up, right against the wall Take apart your head Chew it up and swallow it It feels as if your face could wither any day. I have no other persuasive technique and subsequently my eyes crack deep into the sockets of my skull. Self worth left and drifts evaporating tangling itself around the heat. Free fall sinking in the mellow tendrils of past indecision. Take apart your head"- brand new

Everybody is meshing into the constant. Within this regularity is the void that holds fragility between the pearls. Haven't we heard to grasp dear to our treasures. Well, constrict the morals and have a free for all that distances the infinity of truth. Underground is the secrets. Beyond the tender grass, harsh stone and dirt lives the real spectral of heaven. Yes, maybe once I've slipped or if every pebble is turned over twice. Neither impacts the conscious of my current peer group, whom live along borders they'll never cross. Even if I did or didn't care would the touch differ or the stares sink in for longer. Lean on discomfort and whimpers. The sun has the moon and the stars lie clustered. Give in because there isn't one.