The blood of a poet, of passion and pain,

The only thing real is felt only in vain,

Live days like our fires,

Stream higher and higher,

Like the kiss of cold castles,

Don’t breathe when they tire.

The inventions of man,

A fossilised generation,

Evolution is our only imagination.

Scrawlings.

Creeping up, tensions ask for guidance and a mask of sanity and collected calmness.

Violent fantasies flood my mind from time to time.

To extract my pain and release it unto a personal anti-Christ.

I find it hard to keep my hands from shaking; they thirst for your throat young man.

I know its not common courtesy to strangle or even hate a fellow man. But its undeniable, the only catharsis is in these words and in flaws I see in you.

My position doesn’t allow me to point out these flaws, to protect those who see the good in you. I know you all too well, I know why you do the things you do, how you do them, you’re a charming fuck, vulnerable as you seem.

Enough about you now.

This is bottom of the barrel material I’m typing,

Nothing of significance. This won’t change your life.

I find people who have the time to type a blog every hour, or even every day, do not have a life. For I have been there, 2-3 times a week is enough for me at the most.

As I stated previously, bottom of the barrel, but I’ll post this anyway.

-Pura