#bohemiandrunkard

[whatistheirname333]

Morning after a party  Stars shift and subconscious ascends into spiraling existentialism.  Holy ghost walks with a bottle of red wine  The zen bohemian drunkard cascades into old songs, romanticizes his kisses, arms , and those tattoos. Although, kitties here’s the funny thing about wanting someone that you can’t have, for some odd reason, our gravitational pull towards one another can seem misleading and you’re left with smudge lipstick, eyeliner, and the next morning, your head is swirling like water in that abandoned toilet bowl. 

[whatistheirname333]

9:44 p.m

I’m patiently waiting for you to finally realized how sexually attracted I am to you. Yet, I don’t think this whole charade of you “being kind” is true. For when i look at you, I see crazy, passionate lips tingling, gnawing, and enjoying whatever it touches. I see fire and love it. I see a boy that’s seen way too much. I see a boy looking for something/someone challenging like the glass of wine I’m trying to finish. I see horror and endless moans, I see a coffee cup spilled over. I see you for who you desire to be. A monster filled with the act to flee.  While staring into your hazel moonlight mossy brown eyes, Something other than a wolf surfaces. Something better.  Something willing to pull me in just enough to push me out; casually begging for more.  Or maybe I’ve had too many glasses of wine and you aren’t the moon.