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TEENAGE GIRL VS. GOOGLE

By: Chandler Simpson

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My Writings: About Me

TEENAGE GIRL VS. GOOGLE

Chandler Simpson

How to lose 10 pounds in a week
Bella Hadid workout routine
Where to buy self tan
Salons near me
How much is razor hair removal
Hair extensions amazon
Waist trainer amazon
Apple cider vinegar pills
Does getting lip fillers hurt
Daisy Keesh ab workout
Where to buy colored contacts
Self help books
Omegle
Pornhub
How to make a fake ID
Bodysuit
Sheer bodysuit
Sheer bra
12 pack of G strings
High knee tights
How to grow your only fans
How to become instagram famous
Top ten best social media influencers in the world
Buy likes on Instagram
Ring light amazon
Silver mini skirt
Silver micro mini skirt
Face tune premium
Most instagrammable places in the world
How to sell feet pictures
Underwear
Urine
Shit
Leather chokers
Waterproof Eyeliner sephora
How to tell if you are a slut
Rice purity test
Biggest turn off for guys
Bombshell bra
Bars near me
Bimbo core
Heroin Chic
Kendal Jenner measurements
Reload
Reload
Reload

Learn More
My Writings: Text

WHY DON'T YOU BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL YOU WHO I AM?

By: Chandler Simpson

You are so confident. The statement is not a compliment, the statement is depreciating. I could never wear what you wear. Aren’t you bothered by what they have to say? She’s crazy and she’s maniac, someone will get her medicated. The human definition of confidence is to not be offended. People pleasing is a disease, someone fetch me my booster. Twice vaccinated, doctor we are about to lose her. You are so You, why don't you ever take a step back. Analyze what people want, listen, then redact. Life is easier when you're likable, just wait you’ll see. You will never make it in the real world, there is no guarantee. I am just trying to help you. No, you are telling me who to be. Having confidence is a responsibility. Should I even be trusted with this trait? Privileged with the power of social invisibility, naive of my inevitable fate. Crusading through tortuous pressures, only to swallow my shallow beliefs. I wonder who I would be without my worth, probably some useless antique. I wonder if I will be alone. To make my life worth something, I need to post about it on my phone. I could try to believe I am important, but not more important than anyone else. Love yourself but not too much. Follow your dreams but not all the way. Go for it but keep your mouth shut. I don't care what you have to say. 
Why do you feel sorry for me when I am being myself? Why do you pity my passion? Your lack of self expression and purely a lack of satisfaction. A lack of fulfillment, I can smell your breath growing stale. Be realistic, so you don't have to fail. Seems like you have already given up and decided to conform. Aimlessly walking towards a horizon, neck dangling, eyes watering, gnawing on the grass of greed for more. You stare at me like I am insane for being different and for not looking like you. For not following along and for not doing what I am supposed to do. This unspoken societal rule to keep to yourself and consider, contradicts the essence of life and the purpose of being alive. I don't get paid to fit in, what's the point when I am the one who is left to survive. So many people have faith in God, but they neglect the faith within themselves, and I begin to wonder why. Why do not enough of us believe, why do we give up before we begin to try. Stop telling me what you don't like about me. Stop yelling at me to change. Stop shaming me because I am not who you expected me to be. Stop telling me I’m lost and deranged. I accepted who I am and somehow you want me to leave. Stop telling me to give up on myself when it seems like I am the only one who believes. Why don’t you believe me when I tell you who I am?

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BODY TEMPLE

By: Chandler Simpson

My body is a temple, for I want to pray upon. Well nourished with time, I’ll aid to encapsulate the beyond. Holy trinity, bare skin in bones, my reflected body glows. An aura, enlighted, shall jester my suitors to go. My body is like broken light, fractured between the trees. Stagnant and certain, my heart races as my body breathes. Buzzed in desonation, I’ll lack love in my palms. Curse complications, belittle the ones I long. My body, my castle. An emperor I’ll rule, dictating it’s people, a carnival of accepted withdrawal. Lingering in the air, statued is my soul, for a hypotized eye to seek. Imagining, my dirty body, buried cold, burrowed weak. Until those shallow moments of ominous death and despair, take my body, to lie me there. A warmth of acceptance, floral flaws root within my veins. Naturalistic beauty, promiscuous beauty, are both one in the same. My feministic fortune parades in consciousness with pride. Drawing attention to physical intentions, cut the cremsons I have aligned. Still, I’ll stare. Respiring, I am alive. Unowned by my body, my insecurities starve to survive. Dress me up like a doll, let me dance and sing. Makeover time, hello barbie. The corridor of society rings. Pressure me into a diamond I’ll mend. Bend me backwards, fold me to fend. Slow cook my shallow actions, spell my charades and cry. Sometimes my body loves me, sometimes my body likes to lie. Mirror me this, looking glass takes me back. Innocent girl and her body perpertartes into fugitive beauty heart attack. My body is a temple, for I want to sin upon. Sit me up lightly, pry me deep with a blade and fawn. Turn me over, spindle me to shame. My body, unlike yours, is simply mine but also the same. Stripping me of the covers, let me lay bare. To care for one's image, is to burn like a fluidless light in the air. An injustice sandwich debted with the uncomfortable dare.

My Writings: Image
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HOSTILE HEARTS

By: Chandler Simpson

The boy -- that I pry my eyes out for, the mate -- I seek for under my duskily coated comforter, we lay in the fluffy grass -- a cloud hovering over our hallows, my mind clutters with ransom notes of past loves, but he burns them slowly with his lighted cigarette. My eye twitches on each spectacle aspect of his structure-- his mouth moves bonelessly when he says my name. My name -- a label that stings my ears, sounds of a lavender scented lullaby beneath his tongue. A narrator, his words warm like the candle, yet too hot to touch, maybe if I wet my finger, the flame wouldn't flourish and fight as much. And as my emotions rain heavenly between my temples, the pulsating flow of love dissolves within my blood, my eyes are shot red with his dungeon of debts. I want to gasp and grin and coddle with his grief, swallow away his sorrow, and kiss his miserable regrets. 


I feel like I have known you before, our brief hours of commerce have failed to commence again. A familiar face so soothing, I sing myself a prayer to see you, Amen. I frantically forget my breath when you are in the sight of my mind. Strolling aside its horizons, distracting me from the reality of time. Douse me in your humility, let’s shimmer together with sadness. I will pine to suffer with you, I will beat dead at madness. For you, I’ll enchant your enemies and slit their throats with our rainbow hearts. As my throat ached -- actually as my pharynx rotted, against my past affairs, their visceral virus of “love” has reverted my idea of supplemented care. No. Don’t let me go back. Keep me here, free and fair. Look me in the eyes, let me watch your name linger in the air. Another lifetime we met, like I said before, you embodied my emptied soul and bandaged my sour sore. You, yes you, the boy that I pry my eyes out for. I’ll lend you my lungs so you can breathe beneath the meadowed floor. Fall with me into love and lay with me til death, forevermore.


The girl -- the platinum star that twinkles between my eyes, the spirit -- I flounder with honor inside. Inside my fractured soul, duct tape my feeling with your touch still cold, her hair stands straight and reflects lightly like it has been told, her obedient lids shutter -- her metric blinks have forged into minted notes of music. Tick, tick, tick, goes her eyes, a rhythmic beat reminds me less of my cries. Tell me another story of how you almost thought you’d lose it. Her passionate lips begin to swear -- her curses like mildew and bugs that seemingly dance without a retractable care. You are worth hiding from my virtues, worth biting on my tongue. Don't ever interrupt a lady, so imperial, I have learned. I can tell she sings quietly when she’s alone. I can tell she slurps equity from the bowl and humanizes laughter with concern. I can tell she sees me for who I am and not for the label I withhold. 


I have known you before, my sweet amber rose, a scent so distinct and precious, my intentions to complain have froze. You disguise my numbing alter, you undrape my evil vail. Deflower my corroding options, of selfish snoods that sail.  Oh dear Aphrodite, let me ingest your pain. Call upon thy neighbor, let me poor you down heavily with pure purple rain. There is a glister in my gut, for I know I have swallowed the gummed truth. I have met a woman so eccentric, so inextricably rooted, my throat will only dry white when it’s soothed. Oh look, my hands have finally come back to its color, I imagine them laying beside you, us as one but with another. My dead heart has somehow begun to beat with you. You enslaved my depression to be with you. All I want to do is be with you. Please let me be with you. I shed a tear upon my pillow as distance unintentionally drifts us farther away. A floating iceberg of tensions has begun to find its way.  I have fought many wars with myself, bloody battles of blue, but you awaken my survival and you channel my undo. I'm terrified of trying, can't gamble to lose. Until I beat again, while you blink again. And I retrace my nerves to rechoose.  


A breath. They finally exhale as one. As the both have fallen victim, to the castle spell we take as love.

My Writings: Image

THE REVIVING CIGARETTE

By: Chandler Simpson

Pluck the dagger from the barron

A set, a suit, a spade

Retract ones depreciating emotion

Until the others fall and concade

Strike the match

Flick the lighter

Watch it burn 

That sorrow smoke and light

Watch the curvaceous turn and morn

That dagger of death

That Illogical fan of fight

Which I hold between my lips

Washes me stail

With malicious citrus sips

Smogging the smug

And as we cycle and circle and sin

I call upon the midnight void

And pray precisely within


Thy small dagger 

Douths me with a timid taunt

Swallows my grim with a grin

Unwanted malleable thoughts

Numb my scented pain

With a mustier smoke and storm than wind

Yellow my teeth

And bring my breath to scorn again

Fall upon devils, demons, and dementors

Drag me slowly till my death

Depart my punctured heart

With needles of my spinning chest


Soon that cutlass will ash

Into aristocrat ruinous of rain

And those pallid flakes of death with rash

Darker inside the hooded flame

Keep burning beneath the light

Keep straggling underneath my breath


A putrid smell of smog

I’ll cough up my rotting throat of meth

Only to elect another triumph

To seize upon my awfully wretched throne


For the revival of the cigarette

Has already been lit

And my tanalized heart

Has vowed to never quit

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My Writings: Image

SPIT AND SWALLOW

By: Chandler Simpson

Spit and Swallow

By: Chandler Simpson


I am challenged by the glass

A chalice of sour betrayal

And I am parched

My lips curled, dried, and frail


Starved farther than hunger

My rupturing guts heaving for air

Soon impaling my spine

I’ll slouch straight til I’m aware


I douse my floatless fingertips

Among the argumentative beverage

The miasmaious waters break wry

Manipulating my tongue for leverage


I kiss the soluble cup

Pressing my teeth to the bloody metal

My heart paces villainously

Reminding me to be patient and settle 


Frozen for I will freeze to fracture

Gargle my liquid laudable

Numb my throat raw with a syrup chaser

Ringing my ears til it’s all inaudible


Spit and swallow

They swore to leave

But return faster

Then they tried to follow


Spit and the swallow

Suck down all the bad

Sweeten their actions 

With justifiable pensions of sorrow


Spitting at others

And choking on their father

A self worth suffocating

Stifling amongst the scented armour


Knighted I’ll reign

Victoriously past the pain

For I survived what has been sought


I’ll lay down my weapons

Unzip the suit I have slain

And become familiar with what I has been taught


Gulping and gagging

Swallowing my previous swallow

I’ll project a postered poker face

For a harsh heat of a muffled hallow


And even if my throat rots

And reeks and riles

I still spit and swallow

The banterful sing of sin

so vile


I am an anorexic animal

Twiddling in your headlights

Boned and brimmed and bared



Don't wipe my mouth with your cheek

Don't chew on my permanent affairs


Let me spit and swallow


Let Me, Let me, let me

spit And swallow

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My Writings: Text
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THE MATTER OF FACT

By: Chandler Simpson

The matter of fact of my body, 

Is that it is not only talked about, 

But auctioned off and taunted at


The matter of fact of my body,

Is that it no longer belongs to me,

But launders with my name


The matter of fact of my body

Is that it loathes like promiscuous prey

Prying for more validation but only THEIRS will do


Until the treachery leaves me tranquilized,

The shot stings like it’s soughtfully new

Spoiled by my own sinful sexalization


My parched throat desperately has dried unnoticed

And so to begin to perish, to plea

And kneel before them so I can see


Repeating after these roaches,

I rot progressively with the words they wrote

Resulting and revoking, 

this endless wheelbarrow of unsustainable cope


I am the selfish slut, that lies naked and nude, 

For my faults are in my modesty

I have suffocated slowly under the shovel 

The shovel of a pick me society


I will rat trapped my mouth until it's far from closed

Always listen to thy man to whatever he oppose


And while, our fathers enslave dollied little girls

The patriarchal press still councils our dignity when we walk

Desifiers whether our lips will open or whether they will stay in lock


We mask the ruthless discomfort

Of tighten bras and heighten heels

We digest the hypnotic stares

With sulterous catcalls and magnetic feels


We vouge for inner beauty

Without the respect or acknowledgment

That it’s even there


Because the strain has proven

It’s inability to restore

And all women fracture, burning at the stake

Of the body of a virgin whore

My Writings: Image
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INEXPLICABLE

By: Chandler Simpson

How can I explain my feelings for these tyrants, running faster than water, flowing freer than carbonated air. This emotion of only accepting what's already there, isn't fair. What happens when you are the most, what happens after we fracture. My statued soul reeks of horrendous chaos with a hint of a blissful paster. I wished I cursed this commotion in time. And as rapid thoughts scatter wide along the horizon of my mind. I have willingly gained nothing. Why those highs never made me scream and your roses never pricked my thorns. When all I accepted was space trash, how can I believe that love is reborn. I am sitting on an eroding rock of reassurance, washing away with the stale memories of you. You lighted my room but dimmed it dark with rage. You bandaged my wrist but left me loose with pain. You tore holes in my walls but rebuild up an empire of excuses and lies. You also made me understand the thesis of my undeniable agonizing cries. So let me dissolve in the distance, let me crawl into the corners, let me weep out my worries while I dream out your calls. I was such a movie star, so main character, so editorial, I felt like the fairest of them all. Now my mouth soaks dry with the tasteless motions of black and white. While that silent movie of manipulation has nothing left to fight.  Same cycle, different circuit. I want the same emotions but only with a different person. You can't be the one for me, you don't decide whether our time moved so fast. I have taken your pointless poison pills only to reflect on the mirrored past. I learned to love the silence and create peace in your sense of pain. I learned to love myself more and more without the fading game. Stop telling me to walk across the water, to return, to retract, to mend. I feel weak complying, I feel intolerant to worlds end. Stop ticking in the back of my mind, making me feel things that really aren't there. Was I actually in love or was it just because you cared? How can I explain your god sin presence, how can I explain your devious dares, how can I explain. 

 

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My Writings: Text

WRUNG OUT

By Chandler Simpson

I feel wrung out, stretched and seduced. Wasted and used. I feel torn and ripped and ashed. Pushing my stretch marks against my skin I'll laminate my body with your brailing name. Weak will I walk across the type rope of all your false accusations. I am not worth the time of the ticking tock, not worth the torture of feelings, not worth the acuteness of pain. Penniless and desperate, ruthless and tyrant, you dissolve my every emotion. My mouth is masked, muffled talk whispers lies. I want to be with you, I want to rest and sigh. I want to cry next to your door. I want to reach upon the inner side. Destruction, I am a shattered set of glass, caution. My fracturing nature turns heads at the battle that still lasts. You used to make me so happy. You used to keep me alike. Now I have realized my laughs were a lot louder than my cries. I'll ignite the scowling. My insecurities hurdle above your uncertainty. My screams tower down my niagra falls of tears, boiled and bumbling with aggravation and rage. I’m pulling my teeth out behind your smiling. I’m slitting my wrist with your blade. Closeted cutting contrdicts lukewarm lust. Tears melting down my face when you turned numb. You asked for this senseless self worth. You wished against my good will. I believed you were better, a broken bird brought again. I told you which way to fly, I flapped my fair feathers and burned my guilted pain. I cloaked myself in oil, dropped my body dry with rain. Washing away the diffused position of prosperity. I choked out my feelings, strangled them loose and limp with restraint. You told me you were iced, frozen, fragile, anf fair, but you majesty, these jokisch lies are a vulgore violence. A bleeding wound of despair. Shield your weakness, battle the baron of blue. Containmate my mentality, I want the morphine to mock me like my mirrors. Why did I trust the serpent? Why did I buy from the backstabber? Why did I salvage my sorrows for your own selfish swears? I am seduced and stretched, I feel wrung out.

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My Writings: Text
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FRUIT OF POISON

By Chandler Simpson

My envious heart burns holes in those blossom flowers and that sweet smell of lust soon odorizes the selfish fools I may be. And so yes I lie, but to lie only myself. For your parading emotions devour me. Oh dear carnival queen, how you turn your head at the mockery of monkeys who spit in my pathetic eyes of jealousy green. Anger is my angel that has descended from the evil in my heart. That evil which has sprouted from my tortured feelings of you. All this talk of you, diminishes me, all the spoken words of you, saturate me. Once ago I stood a tall glass half full, but the cold cubes of your enchantment  have me locked under a spell, so watch me rot sour, so watch me rot bland. A waterdown statue of frozen feelings is my figure, and as I call to the sunstar and as I pray to the almighty. I have enslaved myself to this manipulation of love. I gave you the whip. I gave you the chains. To melt into love is gracious, but to boil in bitterness and still call it love is much more pretentious. So let me call those blossom flowers love. Let me prick a pedal for you my love. Even if I bleed the thorns, you are worth that pain my sweet fruit of poison.

My Writings: Image
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ELECTRIC CHAIR

By Chandler Simpson

A fair seat awaits our true passions

As we sulk in the tempting heat and fire 

burning like priests candles 

unspoken thoughts of unearned lust we acquire 

With every comfortable bake comes a mal tormented scorn 

The brailing grip of restraint soon turns to

The pollution of this love which is worn

You lay with me in as captain of captivity

The game master of lechery and lies

For those sharpened pencils of discomfort

Lay low against the defiance below me 


You stood on top, screaming a breath of booze

With a elongated finger, my insecurities began to draw

With my black eyes twitched, emotional scars tattoo me frail

I befriend that divine being of sorrow

I awoke upon those drunk demons we hail


A walking skeleton of erupted feelings, I’ll regurgitate on the phone

This piled up magma of madness has brought me to my mold


So I must melt, So I must perspire, So I must carry on

To the lumbering lake of loneliness, I'll walk bruised and cold


Plummet into the lake, puncture out the thorns

For even the Electric Chair will paralyze me

My body will tense until my muscles reborn

I am a juxtaposition of freezing fire

And I’ll drown in the vicious grip of security

Until my fracture reflection tells me


 raise your palms
See how the rope burns

 Pinch your eyes

 and see how they sting


Freeze those feelings

And drink from the cup of cold cruel water

Feel the pain of the Electric Chair

Because the addiction of the shock with turn you numb

My Writings: Image
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THE WAITING ROOM

By Chandler Simpson

Waiting Room of UCSF Medical Center, March 3rd 2006, 12:12 pm


Neddy’s legs bounce off the sprunged hospital chairs, clothed with a tribal stitching, a mix of emerald green and washed blues, nothing seems to matter. He lurched over to the front desk and begs the secretary for a mint. 


His mother has been in surgery since 6:40 this morning. His father tells him that mommy is hurt but will be better soon. He promises and they pray and Neddy doesn't worry.


Dancing through the aisles of loned mellow individuals, Neddy returns to his window seat. Clicking and shaking in his, he begins to draw smiley faces on the glass windows with his oily fingers. 


A brightly colored lilac balloon slowly begins to crawl into the sky, he imagines seeing his mother in the shined exterior, laughing with him. Every second the balloon hangs in the air, the thinner his eyes become, lapsing the sky into a faint purpled blend. 


Soon his father pulls him by the arm and they lock eyes with a sapped nurse. She holds a clipboard, and Neddy’s father begins to cry. He squeezes his father's hands, tightly gripping each knuckle, not out of fear but out of curiosity.


When he looks back towards the window, the balloon is gone and so is his mother. 


Room 657 of UCSF Medical Center, March 3rd 2006, 12:14 pm


Rick Stanton has been laying in his own coffin for 3 years, his family put him on life support and he has been a numb vegetable for around three months. His early onset dementia has chipped away at his intellectual mind.


His body has molded the stiff mattress into an obese image of sinking skin, his youngest daughter Marie holds his hands in the frozen room. Pictures of kittens and dandelions coat the wall with a sickening happiness. Mocking his suffering with cuteness.


His eyes flicker open at the sight of an escalating purple balloon.  A large sac of bagged air is all it is meant to be. He imagines the balloon flying into the sky as if God is gone fishing. It's mesmerizing lavender color sprouts in his eyes.


His mind dives down deep into his memories of his 6th birthday at the Zoo. His mother is holding a purple balloon. She looks so pretty in her blue dress, he ponders. His mother was a very beautiful woman but died young. I guess beauty can never last in this world.  


̈ ̈Mother, can I hold the balloon?¨ he mumbles with his last breaths. Marie wakes from her wreckless sleep, ̈Papa you are up”, her heart races with relief by the sound of his voice. ̈Can I hold the purple balloon Mother?¨ he asks. Marie stares at him until her eyes begin to water and she replies ̈Yes papa,¨ 


He looks at her and then back towards the window. The balloon has disappeared and the light begins to fill his eyes. Marie cries at the beeps of his heart monitor and calls for a nurse. 

My Writings: Image
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BUBBLE BATH

By Chandler Simpson

A cleansing soak seeps into my skin
Washing away my mournful sin
A saturated sacrifice, will make a monster of my mistakes
Turning the respiratory ponds of self destruction into lakes
The suppression of my green eyes cycle in a circuit
I’ll sell my diligent dignity to that merchant of a serpent
For a price of accepted beauty that isn't cheap
Those salty suds dance around my eyes to leap
But the polished soap still peels back my eyes
For too many baths will wash you away too many cries
Eating at the corium until it frays
I am left a cleaned corpse that lays
My delusions of myself have faded
That kaleidoscope of faces has turned and disingraded 
For my mouth will stink with the taste of soap 
And that putrid perfume will mask my cope
Soon my morals will bubble and broil
And my dirty bath of flaws will rot, sour and spoil

My Writings: Welcome
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WHY DO MY PLANTS CRY?

By Chandler Simpson

I will do good by keeping you divine

Thou your fate given to me must be earned
Through the illusion of what we call time

To devote everything is what I learned

I will nurture thee so greatly and well

And I will feed you bright from dark places

When you sprout you will defeat vengeful hell

A rising power in a mix of graces

Your leaves bend long your pedals will sing

So politely poised I can see you dance

An eruption of gold and glimmering

In the wind filled gust stands nothing but chance

For now your wet roots have began to rot

Tears shed down as I am left and forgot

My Writings: Image
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SHE DEVIL

By Chandler Simpson

She casts under estimation

But with over estimation

Her spell will fail


Her presence is mute

Even in the mouths of men

She almost seems invisible

But alluminate with a soft glow


She claws out for her phone

Her frail finger then snealthers into her pockets

She cocks her neck with a click

Finger to the trigger

Trigger to the gun


She lures her puppy eyed suitors

With her melody of perfume

Sliping pills into cocktails

They all leave loved and confused


But oh poor prince charming

Is pitter pattering at home

Ticking away at a screen

A screen that she has phoned


For his prick of posion

Stares him down deep

For he longs for a cheater

He craves that tasteless fruit


With the weight of his digit

Plump lips meet a pumped potion

Sallow sallow sallow 

you are no longer a slave to love

But forver will be a coward to life

My Writings: Image

MY COLOR CRY

By Chandler Simpson

Crying should not be the color blue, crying should be the color yellow. Blue is a maroon captain who sailed deep in verses of the sky, a blue so brighten the day breathes you in like the perfume of a cougar in the noses of foul men’s married eyes. Blue tastes like fulfillment, with it’s volume of voice. So courageous in the mouth of motoring screams from echoing air horn from hell. Blue is not glum, not drained, not dark, not frail. Blue is the horizon that carries gleeful dreams on the back of starlight drums and encourages the ringing of beautiful bells.While yellow is a sour lemon and a yokish curse of smell, a creeping monster dressed with a bow in its tail. Yellow is my pretend happy, my mask, my undercover vail. Yellow rots in my fantasy of emotions that have decomposed to worried worm and decayed my anxiety pale. Yellow makes my teeth snap when I smile. Makes my back break with every hug. Crawls my eyes out with onion love and walks on my gnawing nails of nonsense above. So yellow, hide away in the summer sun, soak away in the perishable sunflower, fly in a flashlight that will go dim, and drown in my sorrow because you're overpowerful suffocation of a color has made my eyes mute with tired tears.

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My Writings: Image

GREAT TRAVESTIES BRING GREAT DIASTERS

By Chandler Simpson

Sitting in space, a tall interrogation lamp hovers above my scalp. The shadow of my skull is now more friendly than ever. Compared to my bathroom mirror, I am much more attractive in the vague face of Dark. Who is my operator in my lucid dreams, I know deep that my mind is not my master. An over powering conscious controls the contractions of my heart beat against the cold echoing of the AC. Looking beyond an empty lake of empty space, I come to the conclusion that my exile will be performed right here. Right here, in this very basement of abandonment. I am used to the water, used to its texture of touch. Familiar with its discomfort and ferial with its feelings. To blame you is selfish. To be the victim is guilty. I will hold accountability for this tragesty, blameless as it may be. Please don't tinker with my lights, they have been switched so many times before. Flipping back in places, unrested and uncontrollable, they will lose their spark. The loud clunk of a power cord mocks my silent breath, bringing it alive with high hyperventilation. My eyes now squink bare under the spotlight, and the space is made white. I am now longer alone and darked, I am now the brighter side of despair and depression. You flipped my switch anyway, you turned back on the lights. You started the wildfire, with that single match for your misogynistic cigarette. I will tumble in burn because I have fallen back into the trap. I have been eaten by the caved cyclops and buried with the bashful banter. So innocent but niave I’ll crawl back into your hand and lie on my back. Pushing myself away from the Great Tragesty and deeper into the next Great Diaster. 

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