The deep of your blue
Recklessly I dove and drowned
Before the third wave
About the Creator
Voice
The creature on my shoulder eats my words. Dips at my voice with a hummingbird sticky, sipper’s tongue. I am the one who frames my thoughts, guides them into life with my teeth and tender lips. It is the one who feasts. Snatches every notion. Gulps them, oyster-like, without tasting. Doesn’t seem to care for flavours. Words in anger, words in love. Words in pain or fear or joy. All my words, it catches. Of screaming too, it snatches, wriggling with pleasure. Gorged on my voice, it grows, and I fall silent.
By Lauren Everdellabout 8 hours ago in Poets
Swan
“During the Metal Age, humans took photographs of everything beautiful, which was everything, yet machines did not even wear shoes. The Fauxna thought of a better way. They colored all of the light rose, for a corrupted source cannot be verified.” - Origin Parable, 011
By Nicky Franklya day ago in Fiction
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