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half deathShe was beautiful, nothing to do about it, a simple kind of beauty, not too showy, not too hidden, but that it hardly went unnoticed or without leaving a mark in time, she was beautiful even sitted in that rocking chair that creaked at every swing, she was beautiful even when covered by a white rag, she was beautiful even with her face covered by the long hair that hid her stare lost in God knows which horizons, that now empty stare. She was beautiful even if those gracefull white hands where entangled in a nervous senseless game. She was beautiful even when lighted by those four candles that tried to shed some light in that roomhalf death
by ~witheredpoem
I want to go homeShe was running on that road months now, her foot firmly on the gas being raised and lowered gently at every curve and shift, a perfect syncronization, gas, clutch, gearshift, gas, break... clutch, gearshift, gas... speed induced intoxication, the will to reach the destination, as soon as possible, she runned, always... but this time on the opposite side.I want to go home
Home!... I want to go home!
The tears furrowed her face, a hand held the wheel, firmly like if she wanted to remove it for no good reason, while the right hand kept changing radio stations...she searched songs... songs that could be screamed in the delirium of speed
by ~witheredpoem
I don't believe in angels...I don't believe in angels with white wings and halos in they're heads that sing gregorian chants and appear only to a few chosen ones I don't believe in guardian angels that follow you step by step in you're path trying to save you from the dangers that are too big for you to avoid I think angels are common people that can make you look at life in a diferent way, either in a good or a bad way, those people that can make you turn a page in your life,I don't believe in angels...
the people that can make you appreciate the good things and the bad things even for a brief moment. I think that this little angel lies in each one of us
by ~witheredpoem
ghost cityThe typical christmas presents, to do, unwillingly this year, i don't feel it, i can't feel it, christmas, and i can't play Santa Claus. The usual christmas traffic, those streets that usually on sunday are flowing fast seem like grey ducts obstructed by toxic particles that look for a way out overlapping and unhorsing eachother, or if you prefer becoming an underground tunnel filled with worker ants that have a single purpose in their life, work or, in this case, reach a decent parking lot, but never too far from the course, for God's sake, too complicated.ghost city
It had been a while since i last saw the town's center, a year now
by ~witheredpoem
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- Current Residence: in the fog
- Interests: a lot of...a(rt, prose, poetry, photography, music)
- Favourite movie: the life
- Favourite genre of music: metal, gothic, and evry tipe eccept the disco music =.=
- Favourite artist: Klimt
- Favourite poet or writer: Baudelaire, Baricco, Yhoshimoto
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