The writing – Short Sketch/Mush
Rating: G (potty mouth syndrome)
The sound of the music
Lyrics, although so really known,
But disappear into thin air of the minds white noise
Barely staying awake, just not able to grip a single thought by the tail, or a single word by a collar. The plains go and go and go, flying past the home.
Just a faint of the memory – the brain has been battered with the systematic information over and over again. Sadly, now absolutely exhausted.
The satisfaction, although is there – from the feeling of the achievement of slight progress. Ever so lightly moving on.
Now, there is the idea – when will I come again to be a simple observer?
Where are the times of just plainly staring? Just looking at people walking past in the rain. Rushing to the cover, holding dearly to the umbrellas, avoiding the puddles and standing a bit further away from the street crossing – because you easily can end up “showered” with splashes from passing-by cars.
Temples of the head – pulsating. Heart beat, pumping blood in veins.
Craving. There is craving of the sweet, soft lips. Hot hands, wrapping around, pushing me strongly against the body. Kisses – burning skin. Bites, that make you grunt in submission…
Once again – I’m onto mission. Have to keep the control… Although the restraint is a “flaw”.
Oh, the touch… The touch is so awkward now – it is making me aware of it. Each and every one. Even a handshake is weird now.
That’s how I know – my body’s really being foul. Having wish to get that mouth full with flesh, lips clasping it, kissing the tip, tongue rolling over it, then in again – to fill up the void. The empty…
Ehh, cravings… That soft spot wants more – stuffing body full from below, to have that gasp, then satisfaction.
What was… am I on? Oh.
Right, the pile of might. It’s when there’s progress, there’s the fight, the light, bright, kite… Flying above the earth, bit odd now that there is snow, rain, grey sky and foul wind that can’t really decide which way to blow.
Blow… There are now few dire twats eager to know how I blow. Presumingly, not the bubbles though. And they go – asking the stupidest things in their vow, trying to woo me with crappy romantic or filthy sexually disturbing poop of writing.
Dwindling senses of timing.
I really seem to have really bad timing when it comes to mind flowing into writing.
Because it’s when i’m absolutely excited – that I write to fullest of enlightenment, but there is another one time that is more of a dead fish in the water mo’ .
That’s about now – when I’m barely holding the thought. Really tired, unfocused, fingers typing, although feels like whining in writing to people of liking, or maybe disliking, that decided to land on this piece of odd writing, that mainly says nothing of decent sort.
And here I was thinking I’m crap poet at the end of the month. Year? Maybe more?
Happily, maybe, sometime, when finally deciding to rule out the possibility of me being eager to finding the right from wrong into translating the writing of my poetry from long ago.
I did write poetry back in the days in multiples of more. Not so very good now though.
Already drifting off into sleep… You now how that time seeps through open door… of your mind.. into light of the moon that shines bright on December night that is so damn cold.