It's your write

beanbagsaregreat:

You wore a borrowed dress to the party of senses. Your skin crawled. Your bones ached and your stomached cried for the comforts of home but your arms went forward. Your legs craved the attention of the floor. And your eyes preyed on the ones drinking their elixirs and smoking their poison. You were caught up in the gusts of an age in which an existentialistic heart was the only thing that could get you by. Your fingers danced on freshly washed linens while your legs dangled on sheets stained with tears. Your eyes met the ceiling. Your feet never touched sacred ground. Your palms full of paper cuts. Your eyes full of dust.