Portraying Gothic is strictly frontal. With standing formality, replying respectfully. Manning in manners is the wisest way to trust.
My reliance on care is pastoral. But intrinsic in me mourns a struggle still, deathly stakes for a heralded rise, savior inching to save.
Even in trying to prop up a new moral, I am resented. Because guilt splits a curtain in two, as much as it tears a woman in two.
She feels that my backside is monstrous, and the shadows lurch away hideously. I accept the futility, facially carved, in what calm way I can touch on matters in love again.
But alas, no matter in which way I lean, in any clearing of kindness,
I am seen.
And seen.
And seen.
About the Creator
Jesse Chen
Lifelong poet, writer, singer, student of philosophy. Existentialist. Graduate student of Counseling Psychology.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jchen_love/
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Success
Riddle out the breadcrumbs, off they go. These are the morsels that have fallen off into the grinding, shuffling like atoms, submerged at the feet of tables, locking time for stones. And all kinds, stones of multiplicity, gems or phones composed of the same nature, all appliances for maximally bound vehicles and the boldest properties.
By Jesse Chen4 years ago in Poets
The Devil's Cut
“Comrade, finally you’re awake.” The voice was smooth, sensual. A flickering incandescent bar was all that lit the white, sterile room. All Vladimir remembered was everything going black. He tried to move his arms and found them strapped to the gurney.
By Matthew J. Fromm5 days ago in Fiction
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