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In youth, we first learn to wield the hammer, smashing all things subtle like childish gods. We only know to take what we want most like the heart that’s confused love with fucking or the soul believing obsession’s worship- our child minds lack the grace to win with words. She was enamored with words yet used them as a hammer to fell bodies of worship. She had no use for tame gods- what did they know of fucking? She knew so much more than most. Later; fired by passion, we crave lust most, while struggling to define this drive with words. We care not for the sheep and their fucking mundane course, we’d as soon take a hammer to their skulls, breaking them like vengeful gods, laughing at their mewing pleas of worship. He took easily to worship and she could love him- almost. He thought her a gift of god’s, content to bleed for her words, act anvil to her hammer, clueless it was just fucking. In the end we wonder at the fucking mess we’ve made and ponder whether worship would’ve proven more worthwhile to hammer at than being so hedonistic most of our remembered moments and if words weren’t better spent in whispered pleas to gods. She thought if she could shape gods she’d devote one to fucking, one with no need of cruel swords, saw orgasm as worship, smiting ones who need it most like Thor with a cock hammer. How we hammer away at playing gods with whiskey and words; with gut-felt fucking and idle worship while love's lacking most Post a comment in response: |
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