JordanZakarian

Left out to dry in a bitter wind, you knew I couldn't fly. Let the rain fall at least it chatters, it doesn't expect a call. Life twirls in a vortex spinning into a drain, it's not about the complex. "Liar" you quickly yelled as the shower head came off and certainly felled me, the great bastard. Little by little confusion spread until there was red, cracked with a splintering contusion. "Live" you shouted viciously, you wanted more vengeance. "No thanks," life ends perspicaciously.

Changes (6/23/2014) Scrumptious smells of summer weaving leaves skim water, Piping hot pork skewer smothering mustard all over. Clouds casting shafts darkly hurling disks hurriedly now, lightning flashes sounding crashes rain patters and natters.

(Untitled) 6/19/2014 Writing is my rain. When it finally blesses you it pours, a deluge of thought and emotion. From the heart, it is fickle and belligerently heartrending. It is the droplets upon your skin, pat-patting of damp surreality. Morose or enduring, loveless and curing. What muse is needed when music sings to the indentured soul of the hard-pressed and weary?