MisoSkye

I reaped what I had in my pockets, and they come like park koi. The skies with lightly panted clouds on it drench me in the sublime romantic winter daze. The wild fern grows nowhere but right where I point. I'm waiting for him to return; the scent of coffee, the portrayal of growth, and the audio of homely voices. For when he towers on me, I know where the wild fern grows. I know I will have to wait some years to be under his protecting shade again and there I know the wild fern grows. Like the feeling in-between the prairie's isolating horizon and the six o'clock evening sky, so humbly I wait for his voyage to end. To no o

When I listen to your voice, I feel remorse that can only find its way into the future. So blindly your love came to me, miles a way it could have been but settled right where I sit. Stinging wounds on my heart flinch when I think of the inevitable. Lovers: where the first time is the last. So accustomed to my pessimistic feelings, we have it all but screwed up on ourselves. Like the piano ballads that remind me of the minutes that will feel like a century per minute. History has been made even when it has not occurred. Irreplaceable, a queer experience that makes me smile but cry when I trail the moon. We've saved the las

These photographs have made me cry, with all of the truth underneath such modesty, defining for my reason why, trying to cross out this with dried-out sharpie. While you whisper your account frenziedly, I feel assaulted by your aversion, suffocating in this irate enigma sea; disabled to this normal conversion.

The price a failing lover like me must pay, to kill me off with divine rays. From idle lust I have inflicted you and me, for I have followed my eyes and not past tragedy. The price a failing lover like me must pay, me silencing him for what he had to say. For when young hearts are aligned with old souls, all is doom in what the future holds. And when the classical rain heads over me, all I can do is weep adeptly. Above all the stabbings I have penetrated us with, Somehow I wish we will never kiss. And now I am happy; content so much inside,                      but it's only more sorrows that I'll have to hide. For the lang

Every hell I've walked though, every whiff of smoke that has triggered costly asthma. I am living the fear I told myself not to obey. I have looked;        ventured straight, far,                  and wide. And now this affair from arid terrain I must hide. The ring in the middle, this passion deep inside, this trap I have reeled has left me alone and to die. Of struggle and torment, you and I were conceived. Penetrated by the cherub's hornet: society's taboos unexpectedly are achieved.

Blink. Blink. What happened. What occured by emotion, and not by desire. I woke-up every morning to look out a window into a warm autumn afternoon. Now, I wake up and I find dust over the sill. He gave me the feeling of being found after four lousy years, and every moment was to bring out the best of the emotions that have been bottled up inside. Blink. This teddy bear he gave me has a rip on the right part of the chest, but I don't know how to sew. Blink. Blink. He fell from the sky and needed a band-aid to put over his boo-boo, and now his luck of scrapes and bruises have appeared on my leg and neck. This number tha

The pulse of my heart will only increasem while you give me that cute smile. Goddamnit, you know what I want. On the grass, for two lovers in ecstasy. The wind is pushing my hair, and your kisses connect us through various arrows you have   penetrated my heart with. The seduction you give me, even when you aren't in the room. The sensations I get when I know you're thinking of me. The walls are watching, but who the hell cares? For the kisses generate themselves    on the bedsheets. The vocal value you are giving me is taking my higher. I don't want to know how long this hole can go. Put me in your arms and do whatever,

The stories are all over the map, From friends or "Truth". Our hands went into contact for a first hello. And the link in our eyes was both of cold and warm temperatures. Your eyes of an icy forest hue, in ryth'm with that charcoal-canary hair, and the skin of blood's isolation. Those red hills whose origins is from oil generate on your chin. One word: imperfection. Your autobiography consits of tears and pieces of you gone, and trying to fill the void with the dishonest and synthetic imitation, and distance and being inept at trust due to a past broken promise. After the meeting, I want to take your tears and some how make t