She does not sleep.

As her digital alarm clock imposes its unkind laws on her panicked mind, she does not sleep. A memory, desperate to be executed, vainly demands attention. Her lips, too often seen, too often felt, pulsate to the beat of eye lashes. There are no tears: those would be a defeat. Hands, too thin perhaps, clutch at callous linen that will not grasp back. Her breath, sometimes even, passing as calm, becomes fractured. She has forgotten her hair, her breasts, the strokes…

Velocity

interwoven with laughter

caffinated, braided into supreme Thrill.

Such a sight to see

stolen slowly from a steel streak

across this frail landscape.

Beauty found in a sublte casket

some would mark her stolen

yet we seek her highest self,

her truest smile.

Ever inwards floods the compelling serenade

setting those works like hooks

to the most prime pulse

(a movement all its own)

driven…

I think that there is freedom in fucking something up. I think that the power of mischeif is nothing more than making you more yourself, and that is a hell of a thing to be. Responsibility is when you live as you need to, trouble is when you exist as you cannot  in a goal orientate society. The best people, then, should be the ones who walk both sides of the fence, right? Because how can you meet yourself when you're trapped in an extreme?