I like messy notebooks blooming with paragraphs mismatched. Words etched on skin, raw, thought provoking metaphors breaking barriers with illuminating descriptions of the things we fail to disguise. Truth, highlighted by the ugliness of life. I like to write with the sole purpose of messing with your mind. I’ll take you down labyrinths constructed with walls that bleed my thoughts and watch the fear rise in your heart. Then laugh it off.
You love the thought of your life hanging on the line, from snorting white to smoking cigarettes under salt and pepper skies. You like poetry, intricate rhyming patterns swiftly spread across white woolen journal sheets. Stars in your eyes and there’s this darkness that dances on your lips. Simplicity parched on paper, you come off as more forgiving, gentle with every syllable that glides against the eyes of the people. If only I could be more like you. Make flowers grow from the tip of my pen, but I can’t help it. I find power in hindering the things that could otherwise make me bloom on the inside. -H