flaky dried blood.

                          When I stare down at my hands, I see the flaky dried blood from when I was made to kill.  Kill others I did, in the fear of mine own.  The innocent mothers, children, and babes still in the cradle.  Yes, I killed them all.

thats a small excerpt from what i’m working on now.  be done sometime later. so i’m supposed to make some humorous analogies or some weird quotelike things..

The shimmering red bird flew into the sunset as if it were a marshmallow igniting in the flames of a campfire. 

Molly whilrled in intricate circles as if she were mixing a rich chocolate cake. 

The scratched words of thrity-two was the magic numbers she would remember. 

He’d die slowly as if he was a slowly disintegrating pumpkin.

Someday we will fly without wings like the penguins that swim as if they fly.

I mixed the chocolatey mixture as if it was my final will.

I had left the kitchen in complete disregard of the twenty-two gingerbread homes.  Those houses were later devoured by snarky rats.

I see most gibberings are without much focus and emphasis on what is attempted to be poked into the heads of others.  so i take my own regards and post a wall of disregard so say hello to you.

 

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