Truth is ugly & love is a morphine. When it kicks in, it's a good high--with major consequence, but you try not to anticipate that. You forget the present and live on the moment of dancing homosexuals in pink tank tops & lacy panties doing pillow fights, and flowers, or kaleidoscopic burst of colors. You stop time and delay the gnawing hell of reality which is a very part of living. It's a moment when all things are sensible--a snug fit of two hands; a touch; aimless conversation; a gaze; a hug; down to a soft kiss.

Loving is a crime you commit to yourself. If there are no feelings involved I bet, it would've been a better thing since it'll be doing the crime but choosing the lesser evil for your own benefit.

We pick and we bleed but why not just bleed? Is it possible? Physical pain is more lenient and endurable than an emotional train wreckage. My freakin pins are seeping in again! f*ck!

If there is an equivalent to a broken heart--it's a broken will, I guess.

The urge to write about pain is a conducive subject for me because it's lethargic and numbing at the same time. I hate being type-casted, but I guess you can say I'm an emotional-masochist, but it's the only way to live when the world you know is a cold hard bitch.

Now my next sad story lingers just around here somewhere. It'll be done loading in the next God-knows-when. Can hardly wait...