Lovely Taboo

Vannihr Morningstar. City of Trees, 33. Cunt, Anarchist, Pagan, Introvert and Mansonite. Instagram:Vannihr.Morningstar

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When I sit in infested places, it becomes obvious that I am more infested than they are. Leaving the house at night makes me euphoric when alcohol is absent...

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[lovelytaboo]

If this life isn’t infinite, and we’ve all gotta die, what’s the point of growing wings, if I’ll never learn to fly, and who’s to say, I’ll ever find my purpose, I can search the earth, but never scratch the surface, holding onto hope, and blind to the risk, of it slipping through my fingers, every time they form a fist.

-Vannihr Morningstar

[lovelytaboo]

My poetry skills have evolved, let's do a new version of this.

If this life is a sentence

already signed and sealed,

why stitch together wings from scars

just to learn they’re never real?

Who whispered “purpose” in my ear

like it wasn’t bait or blame?

I’ve dissected every inch of earth

and found the void the same.

Hope isn’t fragile — it’s corrosive,

it erodes what it can’t keep,

slipping clean through clenched hands

like blood that doesn’t seep.

-Vannihr Morningstar

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https://pin.it/31Sarwima.

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Le Génie du Mal, 1843, by Guillaume Geefs

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