[transparent] portrait. on purevolume™

Info

Age: 2008

Location: where the swing [stopped] swinging.

Joined On: Mar 23, 2008

Tags

creativity. passion. writing. art. friends. fashion. hardcore. alternative. electronica. metal. piano. love. cuddling. honesty.the name's kinsey- not mckenzie.

Friends

i don't remember space ships or catasclysmic waves turing up the only soil your
sights have ever known. i don't remember earthquakes, but i do remember heartache.
twinkles and spectacles and you could never tell the difference
between green and red if you tried. maybe i've been wrong. maybe
my eyes have lost themselves and somehow in the darkest
second of the night, they were somehow replaced with those that are the definition of deceit.
those that cannot tell the truth even if the doctor's prescriptions demanded it.
i do not recall why i've come this far with no answers, no underlying hints
or phone calls. calls pertaining to a compassionate message
practically synonymous with an "i miss you so much."
but missing whatever pulls on your heart is possibly a waste of your worthless time, and
shadows playing their harps underneath new york's worn bridges, sounds
so much more appealing to you.
create me a coat. i want warmth, fashionable warmth, that will reassure me that i may just be sane.
sweetly sane, where i can crossover into decadent fantastasies and ramble
on in nonsense with the cell mate in sacred heart hall for
hours. four hours. i've never even truly spent four hours with that of what i miss.
but i miss more than just one noun, maybe two. no, more than two
nouns. their outline's are so beautifully
visable that i am afraid they will disperse into the clouds i see above me. but the clouds are no more. we drove away from them. why on
earth did we do something so
tediously besides the point like that? why? so that we lost our place to begin with?
that coat, if you do make me one, will never satisfy me.
it will be one of my favorite possessions for a few
weeks, yes, and then something better will come along. in turn,
that beautifully trimmed faux fur, so unlike the fake you know resides within it,
that your hand's touch disagrees and states that it's so soft to the touch it cannot be unreal.
but it is unreal. unreal just like the woven fabric it is attached to,
and the body it will be worn by will never remember. it will never remember
who you are, or why your eyes are so wrong.
not worn, not grey, not even wet. just wrong. wrong. just like this situation.