Delusion on the watchlist, tuned correctly with a delay and lack of focus; what a beautiful day, don't you think?
Hocus Pocus ignitors, tips are nothing to zipped multi-shaped hiders.
Where the litter meets the agent orange, haired double barrels alerting you to the failed storage lid.
Shh! to confirm the surprise party victim; Shh! If we want to win the hide & seek against the goons, giving out free passes to Kingdom Come.
Figuring out the Chef's motives behind the extra coat of anti-gut health, meanwhile, umami breaks hearts, while hearts break under the pressure from the justifiable addiction.
About the Creator
Willem Indigo
Let truly writing into the void begin.
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How the river flows
How the River Flows Lately…. Consciousness under the thunder, blundered horizon takes the fire away from the sin, ‘what’s today?’ Ladder to her window typing fast so the rungs don’t break from the weight. To satiate the caged ape pauses must by ignore, self-floored to soften the welcome mat, hold tight, The Hostage Taker would like a word. Dutiful road map for where the lightning claps too soon on the record. Nothing to notice outside the—Don’t re-read the crux of this misdeed. Can’t to bring the listeners to the cliff, lemon juice in the slash marks to make them long for the rocky sea bottom. Won't to get a chuckle. Is your savior on high yet? Diver without a pile—Limbo of boredom hint of citrus if you squint daemon slow chases for all the hip the rip still leaves nothing in between us. Loose lips remain airtight. Death in a fashion, weak color, cool shades, flat tones, no faces, banned by a round of applause. A jaded cause without existing—Fit to a fault, primed to revolt, ‘the strays will eat fucking cake!’ Shaking in an earthquake since the Wachovia hold up of ’92. Rewritten by corrupt journalists, police have too many contrivances in their reports, and the gun-toting loudmouth recruited loyalty in under an hour. What an ordeal to carry for the one taking pistol kisses every time they say her name. Hostage Taker….
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Poets
Becca
"Everything is so... flat." Denille said stupidly as she looked around her new neighborhood. She looked around at the muted desert where even the smallest sign of life seemed to have given up. The plant life was shrubs that were half cooked by the heat and where there should have been a lawn, a mess of white rocks laid glistening in the sun. Even the sky looked stretched thin, like the sun had ironed it smooth. She’d moved from Riverside, where at least there were hills, but here in Barstow, everything felt baked and brittle.
By Sara Wilson7 days ago in Fiction
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