What Is This, Tumblr?

"articulating a philosophical idea is an anomaly that can only come from two things - a gift, for being able to put into words a beautiful, extravagant concept, or a curse, of having such simple thoughts that they lend themselves to explanation"

A Remark Make Me Go "hmmmm", And You Go "ha!"

there may be nothing more poetic than bad poetry
my only concern under this logic is whether my life or writing is greater prose

Compliment

her face was architecture
another triumph waiting to age into ruin
more piety to fall from fashion

A Platonite Earning His Wings

i've been involved in n effort to platonically seduce known sabermetrician voros mccracken by way of his twitter page for some time now

it is readily apparent to the willing eye that the content of his tweets offer great disparateness to his subject of renown

it was my hope that i, as a willing eye, was in the minority

woe, that my speculation proved too true

for voros mccracken's eye is unwilling to me

Sassy

the merit of the self absorbed to impede their own progress, for a number of reasons, is not often called into question
with 7 billion inhabitants the world has no need to offer discourse to those who serve simply as idle destruction
or did you mean something else when you said you were born in the wrong era?

;)

it is pivotal to both audience and author
that his words are read with a smirk
the smirk features, for the author, as an acknowledgement of the effect of his words
for the reader, a slightly more acute acknowledgement, of the lack thereof

In Lieu Of A Far More Morbid Angle

i am on lease
and quickly becoming unaffordable to the girl who possesses me

Waste Of. Perfectly Good Line

the days have been buffeted by the approach of fall

within, the asphalt tenses and defrosts, repeated until the street is worked into a lather

the trees cling to the last of their color

and you are the aroma

Fitting Room

you may very well have spoiled my taste for women
it isn't - wasn't - often I was exposed to a goddess
how selfish
how selfish of you to quench my thirst for beauty, all in an instant
how cruel of you to drown me, bury me in your eyes
to show me a funeral of the utmost aesthetic, so gorgeous that my only choice was to run to it
a man without desire, isn't
you have given me all I need to cease
a drug that fosters a cure instead of an addiction, would be ill suited to the disease that is life
seemingly, you are oblivious to your destruction
do they have it in yellow

How Literal, My Love, My Oath

it is the sixth of June and I find myself on the lips of the universe
at once, I am in nirvana, and incapacitated on my kitchen floor
appearing in one of these scenes: gratuitous blood
in truth, I couldn't say which is fantasy and which one is horror
I suspect that even in my most stable iteration, my dark indulgences will persist
to be light headed from a kiss is a luxury afforded to me once before
by her, by blood loss - which, it could be remarked, occurred in both instances
that would be facetious
when I have lived without her for so long
can I really be to blame
she was still with me, inside me
how could I be at fault
for opening myself up to see her in front of me one last time
it was nice to see you again

(rather than, ultimate)

i wish that less of my wishes revolved around some form of escapism
addition by attrition is the plan, i suppose
by my count, i have been subtracted from countless lives
only for others to grow into my place
i am a weed
and i am struggling to find a reason to label my extraction as penultimate
i wish that "the constant gardener" was a virgin phrase
but i wish often