hi.
Wow!so:
h t t p : / / k y r a j a s e n s k y . b l o g s p o t . c o m .
(dunno how to makes links work right, too lazy to figure it out)
go there.
look at it.
enjoy it.
your welcome.
p.s. knudsons unite in under a month!!!!!
yes.
goodnight.
~kyrazee
hi.Newest
sirocco, moroccoLast night, I decided I must be free, now. After all, the locket I inherited from you was a bomb, a heavy bomb, everyday I wake up and regret everything I've ever done, and feel very, very heavy.sirocco, morocco
I wonder if you had felt that way ever.
I decide that life is beautiful. My heart is heavy, swings like a pendulum, I need to be rid of it. I decide this, I am sipping flat champagne. I decide, and the heavy heart bomb is exploding forever,
except it really doesn't.
So what, you said, so what, life is beautiful, so are flowers, so are Victoria's
by ~kyrazee
seedsI hate the way you landed in my life. Can you take it back?seeds
Like I hate the way you spit your sunflower seeds, into pockets, empty spaces, into gardens out of car windows, into lives.
You press your cigarette into the arm rest, Your curved hand dangles off the end of your outstretched arm like an apostrophe. You say: believe me, we are infinite! Expanding! Outstretching, intertwining.
We all just want something to believe.
You don't say: and then, the severed connection! the faulty link, the broken root. &nbs
by ~kyrazee
history lessonThe driftwood that washes up here is softhistory lesson
as soap. It's from a shipwreck you would know,
though most people cannot, when they carve
initials, names, with pawnshop pocket knives.
Oh, if they could hear the bleached bones beneath
the boardwalk, and taste the fingerprints and screams -
I'MDROWNINGI'MDROWNINGANDTHE ONLYONEWHOKNOWSCANNOTSAVEME
- and the revelation that the past is real
by ~kyrazee
games with kitchen utensilsIt was a red heart next to your name.games with kitchen utensils
One that could amount to anything, though quality is better than quantity.
She wrote it in blood, though she guessed you hated that sort of thing.
They're rare, that type of girl; those
open books written in a dead language, who prefer to turn more other cheeks than heads, who play piano concertos on bottle caps, shoe laces, who are more real than real, who give more than get.
In your love notes, you attempt at being cryptic; 'I'd like to pop you like a pill.'
You pe
by ~kyrazee
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- Favourite artist: ray johnson, diebenkorn, picasso, banksy, janine antoni
- Favourite poet or writer: tom robbins, kurt vonnegut, john irving, margaret atwood, cormac mccarthy.
- Tools of the Trade: insomnia, years and years of emotional baggage, grey mornings.
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imissyou.
end.
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[Die young and save yourself.]
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