I think Hell , is a cold place

I’m burning up in this old place

My beings spilt into

way more than just two

I don’t feel the need to explain a thing

i just feel the need to go back to sleep


And Dreaming is an acceptable psychotic state

And when I sleep , i believe ,that I escape

Into another world another place

So when you lay down one more time

What’s the difference, either way

I’m just going ,  to a colder place

(And I think Hell is at least a different place

When the world is burning up

my soul freezes to stay alive

So I know Hell’s a colder place

And I think I’d like to try it out,

A different place)

Never thought I was the type

Never thought I’d meet the time

The time that all I would think about

That all I’d want

Is to wake up and say

Good Morning Beautiful

This Antagonist


I’m straining and squirming in pain

In a tangling , unescapable, womb-like prison, with my favorite antagonisy

its humid, its nauseating, it’s cold

It’s so so loud

My holiday are the days it gets numb

I’m always caught on something

Is this just a part of “growing up”

Being pushed and pulled and shoved every which way

But throw aside and away and left alone only when I need someone to hold me

Pick a ******* side

Pick a ******* side


Internally,

It’s something with no diction

No commentary

Just pain sometimes and I can’t escape it

This only antagonist


People use the ocean to describe it

I think it’s the instinct of fear of the unknown

Well I’m sinking , my body is paralyzed

I look still, calm, serene , dead , if you will

I’m screaming , as beautifully disgusting as I can

And it just loves the sound, and it just dulls the sound

The gripping antagonist


But the ocean gives you so much

It has so much to offer for all it takes away

I’m anchored to this honesty that Yes,

I am afriad that this fight and useless struggle

This antagonist has swallowed me up

This is me now and if I loose it I might as well fade into non-existence

This antagonist

You beautiful creature
You lily in the spring
You bloom so beautifully
But you're gone so quick
I want to love you
But it's making us sick
You beautiful creature
Our lives are a trick

You chaotic creature
Your drawer full of secrets
You're so afraid that nobody will keep them
You're so alone You've got no home
You hurt my heart and stain my soul

Oh beautiful creature
Chaos in the air
Strings holding you up
Voices in your hair
We are making us sick
We are making us sick
We are so sick but we don't care

You're so quiet but your soul is so loud
You're breaking up and sinking to the ground
But if you're drowning then you're bringing both of us  down
We're both going down


Oh beautiful creature
Chaos in the air
Strings holding you up
Voices in your hair
We are making us sick
We are making us sick
We are so sick but we don't care

I made a promise to you one night
That I'll always be there
And you need not fright
But I'm afraid that one  day
My words will not be the same
And then youll know had nothing to gain

And when I'm gone I need you to know
That everything I ever did show
Was true and pure Even though insecure
I held you close and when I was unsure
And when I'm gone the last thing I want to say
Is don't ever be afraid

Oh beautiful creature
Chaos in the air
Strings holding you up
Voices in your hair
We are making us sick
We are making us sick
We are so sick but we don't care

Oh beautiful creature , you take my breath away

You are my reason to stay

Don't ever be afraid

Now it's three nineteen in the morning/
After all I still wish for stars/
I wish but I dare not look up to see what may be left/
For I know without a doubt, I will be staring into dark/

I sensed a loss/
As is a talent of mine to do/
I sensed a loss and in the night/
I felt the loneliness as it grew, and how it grows/

In the long awaited night/
By the gentle of the moon/
In all the quiet of the dead/
I still dream of you/

With every passing minute/
With every painful hour/
I lay here and it rips me apart/
The fact that I lost my chance , to say goodbye to you/

The slow realization, it crept up my spine/
Through my brain stem and into my mind/
I do not know when the darkness took me/
But like the many children I am taken/

And in the long awaited night/
By the gentle of the moon/
In all the silence of the dead/
I still dream of you/

I have so much more to say/
How many words I could conjure/
They couldn't fill the emptiness you left/
I know now, not the moon, nor the stars could guide me out/

Now it's three twenty in the morning/
I still lay here/
I still wish/
I still dream

I’m sitting here

I can feel your hate

and your anger

Lucky for me

In this moment I am not alone

I spot an ant on the wall

It walks in and out of the light

The blue and purple neon lights that come from somewhere

Somewhere in the city where someone

Is making something out of themselves

The ant runs back and forth

In imperfect circles

I focus on it because I have nothing else

I can say that I see myself in the inssignificant bug

Running, from who knows what

Hiding in the darkness , as if that will save it

So easily squashed at someone’s will

I want to shrink

To be as small as the ant

To be hidden

My oxymoron of a thought process is

I will shine; as long as no one can see me

I will speak;as long as no one believes me

I will Live; as long as no one can hear me breathe

And Now my Mind is going Blank

A desperate attempt to escape?

To save itself from further toruture?

Who knows?

But

If only I could shrink right now

Starve, and Shrink, and Shrivel Away

An Artist is Different to All

An Artist Creates

An Artist Puts Our Thoughts

Thoughts and Feelings that we were sure

Couldn’t be put into shape

Couldn’t be expressed , or understood

An Artist should bring those to life

And an artist has to get those thoughts from somewhere

an artist does not pull up and out

excrustiatingly difficult and complex emotions

Out Of Nowhere

because an artist

Not All

But an artist pulls those feelings

o ut of th ei r so ul

an artist

may stay s ick i n  th e he a d

to keep that art coming

an artist

t ak es them s e l v e s apa r t

and throws themselves onto paper

canvas, a staff, a chord ,

and throws themselves up

as words

To an Artist, Blood may very well be Ink.