What if oranges had flesh? It would rot amongst days of undesired eating, the flesh turning into purple bruised pulp. Sliding and soft along the edges of the now bitter inside.
Eating before the expiration date would give you the tasty vitamins your body craves. Peeling away the squishy skin while orange juice splatters everywhere reveals the core. The center and the best part. A healthy snack with sweet and citrusy taste paired along with the refreshing juice. Just as if you took a part the very nature of a human.


--- Author's Note
It's been only a few years but I am happily able to say that I have progressed more than I thought. Writing never struck me until recently. It is my hidden talent. Thanks for anyone who has stuck around since the beginning. Drop critiques in the comments!

Cold is quite hard to overcome. The fastest way to warm up, and the most commonly seen in survival guides is skin to skin contact. Touches may seem harmless, however without touch for centuries, the feeling is crippling; prune from the ages of pure frost. The physicalities convert into mental stimulation and suffering, within seconds of the unconcious associations. Such quick-thinking may be a blessing but the fact is its also juxtaposed. The faint uredo of a hug never leaves my skin. A gentle handshake burns my nerves beyond frostbite. The pain of touching someone- someone you cant trust. I long for touch. A comfortable soft touch, of someone that has only that of geniune interest and safety. La douleur exquise stops that. Never before have I more desired to simply hold that hand and purr as I rub, smile on his shoulder, laying my weary head to rest. Oh how I would love to find comfort for once however my serenity is a taboo amongst the impossible.

he stares at me in school with geniune sparkling eyes. i wonder, is this look filled with love? he smiles oh so softly and converses with me about the littlest of things yet his kindness overwhelms me. so big, so tall, so kind. i want to feel the warm embrace of his hugs and sweet words as they assure me im a special one of his. but this is all a lie. only if he could actually love me instead of tease me with his great gentleness. he treats everyone this way. im not special. i was a fool to think i ever was or ever am. i know the truth yet i still walk at a dignified pace into my path of heartbreak. my temptation.

Those humans who smile lightly at my ever fluctuating and endless knowledge of pain and time. To view me as a blessing for this nature and my faint hints of guidance. Am I truly that heaven-sent creature you percieve me as? Simply because a human is unlikely to dictate such an essence does not mean one is so holy. To know such foul inherent actions like the back of your hand is merely hell. The innocence of humanity is the most adorable gullibility yet.

How dare such a saint of angelic beauty like that of fireflies in the woodland eras of dawn be inticed to a snake like you? As if Eve herself took a bite of the sickly apple, little knowing of her naivety and the effects of this faker. What desperate and vile bugs crawl towards this rotting lump of a flesh stuffed fruit be hexing. They scramble, chew, and crawl on this dubious delicacy only feeding the ego of the apple. However they are but, mere bugs. Eve has enough mercy to spare these a slam as they bite and nip at her blood too. The flies and maggots feed off the poor girl as they greedily watch their ugly friend, the apple decay.

I'm bubbling with it. Like tar it sticks to the finest of fabrics, almost near impossible to get off. To beseech the sickening squelch of the pop and the churn of said corrosive feeling is to drown in it. This tar runs through my veins in the pace of a sloth, mixing in with my own blood to create a noirceur ichor. It gurgles from my throat spilling out in floods, swallowing the condemned as my poison tongue laps at whatever remnants it gets. This is your home now. Live in my desolation for earning my hate.

An ever-enveloping shroud of fear, intimidating yet excruciatingly warm. With ill-motived wings and spikes of a dragon, came the suspiciously soft-hearted values the very being possessed. Inhumanely, their soul was none but that of a dragon encased in a snare of the putrid vessel of a fleshy human. An essence so proud, unlike any beast of their kind, it was pure yet unbearably looming. Those of faux leathery wings, no nothing of this dragon nor can they understand the morals that come with. This gentle monster withholds the diluted meaning of longing for their kind again yet with rough intentions. They search until a suspect, a value, a treasure or precious gem is found and flourish for the truth. Once their wings have been raised, you will be covered in nothing but space of sweet sub rosa. A veil of false menace once you're concealed in their wings is all that remains.
Lie to the dragon and you shall be punished.
Show weakness to the creature and you shall be forgotten.
To exist before him is to become the ambrosia he so needs.



( Not deer related but, thought about posting it here since I haven't done anything in awhile. Inspired by a dear friend I quarreled with the other day. )

Smoke.


Once you see that word you may think of fire. Cigarettes. A lighter, match, Whatever it may be. Some stem fear from this smell.
I don't. I sense comfort.
Its the same smell I recognize during parties. Everyone smoking and enjoying the absence of their problems.
Or maybe the scent that coated my ex and his family.
I find the smell completely intoxicating. I can recognize the smell from a mile away and find relaxtion.
I never liked cigarettes and of course I still despise them. I promise myself to never smoke anything of the sort since I rather not die so fast. Still, I can't help but find myself lured to those people. That smell of smoke in the air is a dangerous sign yet it's something so

tranquil.

(Apologies never actually wrote a poem before)

We're stuck in the depths.
Taking our last breaths

We tried in doubt of fear.
However impaled just like a spear.

Wounded, we carried on.
Only fate to sweep us gone.

The warm blood escaped like a bundle of sweatshirts,
Was nothing but a meer haux from our diverts.

Laying down lifeless.
We accepted it's virus.

With your wings guilded in browns and greys you glided smoothly across the forest breeze. Light pains of the wind brushed against your feathers this bitter winter but, it came much to normal now. Your wings were numb. Couldn't feel one feather at this very point. Seeing the last few leaves of autumn fall past you were gentle, delicate, floating swiftly in a premade pattern below. A bronze leaf landed perfectly onto you making you loose balance once the pins and needles kicked in. The shuffled flight of the robin soon came crashing into the cold stone. Drowning. Cold. Completely alone waiting to be eaten by hungry predators. The same as a sinking feeling known all too well. It took you down with it.

(Updated March 27th 2019)