So many hours have I spent pent up in my fortress, er...well, townhome, writing away. I have pages and pages, tucked inbetween the pages of books, in boxes, in binders, on shelves. Some appear to be dictations of grocery lists gone awry, where common household items suddenly (and sadly disappointingly) degenerate into things like 'name brand sugar' or additive-free crackers. No, I don't know what...
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fatalpoetry:
Arrested!
Raining until Tuesday! Good thing I have no plans 
- The Leaves Fall Black -
In the grey of autumn of cold winds flow
The leaves fall black in a deathly glow
The gentle tumble of leaf skies dead
As the trees wither and their life is shed
The cruel waning of black leaves dying
Falling like tears do the leaves like crying
The leaves...
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- The Leaves Fall Black -
In the grey of autumn of cold winds flow
The leaves fall black in a deathly glow
The gentle tumble of leaf skies dead
As the trees wither and their life is shed
The cruel waning of black leaves dying
Falling like tears do the leaves like crying
The leaves...
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prettyb0y:
That reminds me of THIS (That was suppose to be a dramatic this) 
I am surrounded by a White Christmas' allure,
The tall trees moan and sway just as though to faint and die,
Instead of sharp needles ascending to the snow-filled sky,
The forest looks as if made of sagging wet green fur,
It is only in this chilling crisp air that I could,
Clearly hear branches, small and large alike, bend and snap,
The proverbial sole straw breaking the camel's back,
A single flake shattering the mighty limbs of wood,
They tumble like two-ton feathers through the canopy,
Returning to muddy Gaia, to our mother Earth,
Converting back to the nutrients that gave them birth,
Retrogenesis, a fate awaiting you and me,
Old poem I never finished. Send some of your rain my way. I miss the rain.
I am surrounded by a White Christmas' allure,
The tall trees moan and sway just as though to faint and die,
Instead of sharp needles ascending to the snow-filled sky,
The forest looks as if made of sagging wet green fur,
It is only in this chilling crisp air that I could,
Clearly hear branches, small and large alike, bend and snap,
The proverbial sole straw breaking the camel's back,
A single flake shattering the mighty limbs of wood,
They tumble like two-ton feathers through the canopy,
Returning to muddy Gaia, to our mother Earth,
Converting back to the nutrients that gave them birth,
Retrogenesis, a fate awaiting you and me,
Old poem I never finished. Send some of your rain my way. I miss the rain.
And what of Fatalpoetry? Fatalistic verses, doorways of seemingly prevaricative narrations? Riddles and other enigmatic fodder, stuffing the cannon with letters from the heart. Its target? The black coagulated heart of such a dialated life force.
Allow me to introduce some scripture hence capitulated into alphabetic form as 'Bleakness in d Minor', which can only be described as a collection of demarcations, pessimistic nihilistications and...
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Allow me to introduce some scripture hence capitulated into alphabetic form as 'Bleakness in d Minor', which can only be described as a collection of demarcations, pessimistic nihilistications and...
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+ Of Those Empty and Filled Bittersweet +
Enamoured
A sullen infatuation
of those empty
bittersweet barren
Abandonment
Blowing amongst the lost rivers reeds
of those empty
bittersweet sown
Disinterest
An extinguished hope
of those empty
bittersweet withering
Severed
Island of one we attain
of those empty
bittersweet lonesome
+ Whipped; Enflayed +
A sharp displacement of air, if only momentarily
A thin curvacious moment...
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Enamoured
A sullen infatuation
of those empty
bittersweet barren
Abandonment
Blowing amongst the lost rivers reeds
of those empty
bittersweet sown
Disinterest
An extinguished hope
of those empty
bittersweet withering
Severed
Island of one we attain
of those empty
bittersweet lonesome
+ Whipped; Enflayed +
A sharp displacement of air, if only momentarily
A thin curvacious moment...
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Its Tuesday, but since I've been around for a little while & I feel confident in the assertion that I know a little bit about different days of the week, I feel it prudent to proclaim that today feels more like a Thursday. The worst apart about that delusional fantasy is that Thursday is still two days hence.
...and so the rut of the 9...
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...and so the rut of the 9...
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fatalpoetry:
I am of leaves
fatalpoetry:
Still from my life in motion
fatalpoetry:
Ah! My Morbid Self
fatalpoetry:
Captured in Inpromptu Drip
fatalpoetry:
Older Pics
fatalpoetry:
A photo session 12/30/04
~Jessickah