Reflections On Venom

There is nothing forced in these pixels.

And yet, I can't help feeling let down by this written world.

Letters, words, and metaphors stream through my veins in a literary circadian thrum.

These are MY words. This is how I write.

And anyone who doesn't care for my laughable expressions can fuck off.

I have never seen the world as others do. Objects and lives have taken on new shapes, roles, and genders before my eyes.

I have never had to force words out of my brain. And I'm proud of that.I suppose the fact that these years have piled upon one another with nary a vicious bite towards me is something to be proud of as well.

So you, the anonymous messenger who feels the need to condemn the honest emotions that I have let leak onto this tile floor of a website, you have quite a bit to stand up against.

And until you can honestly say that you have created what is in your soul against the possibility of long periods of agonizing silence, moments of overload, and the possibility of venomous comments which break into your inbox late at night,

Until then, perhaps you are the one who needs to work on being real.

Because at this point, there's an atom for every breath coming from my soul.

And these words have something you will never attain.

Weight.

Insomniac Dreams

Mr. Admirer,

Perhaps you aren't the only one who has admired. You can still get to know me better, as I do not run away to the north for quite some time.

Find me.

-Amazing