Porcelain Butterflies

Rainbows thriving through my miscellaneous thoughts that have remained to deprive me of the answers to “The Secret” that has yet to explain your actions.
My coronas roasrum isn’t a gift, but a claustrophobic heart ache that has equally intoxicated the depths of my enduring reality of moans and heavy breathing.
I’m living off the powdered existence of your morphine and paranoiac break downs.
While I’m caught up in my blood-less veins and perfumed secrets,
Midnight wounds have traced the withered outline of your disposable barricade you mistakenly called a heart.

While you so stubbornly choked down those porcelain butterflies,
I lost my evenly distributed tranquility in another drunken mistake that hasn’t grown redundant.
You’re a myriad of barely visible, and easily changeable, outcasts that still beg to come back home.
Acidic murmurs are seeping through the cracks of a repetitious heart tumor.
Where’s you complexion going?
My bruised wings prescribed the most efficient fluency to your charm.
As plastic hearts flirt with suicide; dreams of liquid crystal are slowly fading into the background.

I’ve invited this insanity without my unknowing, but you’re the pendant hung around my blood-thirsty heart.
Hopeless.
Porcelain butterflies have been trapped within your glass jars, stained with mirrored wounds of self-hate.
A burning sensation has blocked my death like stare.
But your sick tormenting lullaby gently flows into the melody while quietly stalking my semi-perfect excuses.

I’m internally bleeding through my blacked out memory and my alcoholic blood stream.
The truthful reality has both cemented you to the ground and has also refrained from informing you of their most destructive anxiety.
One more casualty and we can so amusingly go up in flames.
But I never told you; The sky is falling.
The great beauty in a war so brutal and devastating is dying.
Like the sensational taste of your last cigarette staining what's left of your veins.

You’ve smothered my dilated and poetic eyes for this quick and nauseating moment of a gutless tragedy.
Where’s the destructive silence that we were so impious about?
Can I still torture your sub-conscience mind?
Together we’ve tripped over the violently loveable affairs that lie within the unforgiving darkness.
I’m more then just your “Bleeding rose of heart ache to come.”
Perfect dreams, I’d never wake from the horrific promises of the changing seasons.
The sky has turned red as ashes and rose petals fall onto the grave site of “The Secret”
Still choking on thoise butterflies?

anyone want to comment?....I need feedback here ppl!

okay...this is very long lol

anyway, I like it a lont. Great job.
I know the flow was choppy, but it made it seem different in a way. It's nice to see someone finally do something different.

Anyway, great job!!!!1

"choppy" is that good or bad

in some cases choppy is a bad thing.
Here, it's a good thing because it 's different

coolio, thanks love! =]