Nation of whores

I remember how beautiful we once made each other. Chased the lights. Sinners. Gorged your temptations. Castaways. Entertainment. Glimmers and flashes of experiences. A rare breed. Dragon ladies made young, not so beautiful. Surrounding ourselves around stars to compensate for our deficiency.

But is that all there is? Am I simply an experience. After an experience. I have survived the only way I knew how. Masochism in matrimony. Beyond my sanity, in hopes that I will be free. Sprawl your wounded arms over the skies. Blood stains paint the mountains and oceans. And the world will finally see that suffering, too, can be beautiful.

These rare breeds are nothing but cheap prostitutes and we are a nation of fools.

I am/I am not

I saw an angel, wide-eyed and high smoking next to those expelled from their conscience. She prayed, mostly for those who’ve watched their lives pass and perish because for so long, she was not an angel. A guide for a generation of parasites, childlike and ignorant, burning and dying. Her eyes were drawn to those suffering and her heart begged for it’s own heartache but, those who bare their brains and expose the dustiest corners of their souls are always left to their own insanity. 

My angel, she is not anything from this outside world and she is more than just a human body; a hybrid, a mix of her own craze and radiance in constant flux residing in a realm in between her thoughts and existence.