I see the emptiness
Of my Design

Can't count
My fingers

Best time
Is now

Near a
Clear river

Old broken
Italian wine

Must be
From Tuscany

Couldn't be
From France

If so
I cry

Dependent upon
Suicidal premonition

Breathe to
Gain flow

Jaded lyrics
Hating personality

Drunk in
Hedonistic wine

A white porcelain
Porcupine

Sits atop
The stool

Beside a resting
Toilet and silent sink

Drains are clogged
Must be the fog

Airing up
Inside the room

Thick and heavy
Full of cream

Like a hot
French Pastry

Soap melts
Into a fine cappuccino

Skin is soft
Not smooth

Rugged
Tired of the water's touch

Lips separated
Leaking drool

An earlier soft drink
Makes its appearance

Sake makes my soul
Gold and sublime

A snowball I received
To the face

Magical cocktail
Island tragedy

In Paris
Couped up

Stuck in a bathroom
Head bobbing

Up
And Down

Swaying
Side to side

Direction unchosen
Ears sweetened

By a tranquil
Heavenly sound

A song
Heartfelt poem

Layne's voice
Shouting from the void

Guitar strings
Beats of a drum

Native quotas
Unremembered

Just peace
No hate

Possible gain
***** to be given

Snowflakes
Fall upon my brow

Hissing in the heat
Chilling a man-made sea

Fingers tingle
Fabricating a jingle

Eyes swell
Blochted art on the walls

Feet numb
Deciding to stick around

Like a sore gum
Withered with gin

My armor
Solid arms

Continue to fall
Down with my divinity

I am Lucifer
Shining meteor of false hope

Chest heaves
I begin to grieve

Hope for a dawn
Pray to hear a new song

But here he comes
I am bleeding

Shaken by the storm
Overcome

Laughter
And crying

This means
I am dying

But,
Is the time right?

I hate god
He devises strategies to invade
His' home and haven

Weakness being the sole characteristic of son
Constant is the spirit
Strengthening his' decedent onslaught

I cannot win
The Kingdom has come
Without any rain

Holding a crown of stone
Encased in gold
Lined with silver

I have no choice
But to worship
The tyrant who controls bold seduction

My mound is wet
Probably due to the weather
Lots of rain

It hurts to be a gopher
Small and furry
Yet sublime

The combo of cuteness and evil
Is damning
Leads to bleeding

Getting stuck in L.A. tubs
Fleeing from Sheba the cat
Fighting for grannies' vegetables

There is nothing here
No noteworthy existence
Just all the disturbances

The title reads "Petite Redhead"
Pity it is content
With filth

A record recycling junk
Strums together a jingle
Echoing its own hollow verse

Triggers and pins
Always seem to accompany
The gun

The grip is soft
Side rail cold and beautiful
Like an old bottle of ***

My mind is sporadic
Seeking any conclusion
Requiring nonsense to fill the gap

Deceitful fingers
Lingering
Ready for digging

Her body still warm
Acting as a proxy pillow
The compromise of comfort

White to red
Crimson stains not withheld
A result of the rolling tide

Wrath of blood
Brought to fruition
And supplementation

To feel nothing
Is blissful and pure
Welcoming to heaven

The taker of life
Listening to a Redhead
No realistic sounds beneath

Thoughts trickle down
The slanted jaw
Thick and strong

Eyes dim and shallow
Seeking a remembrance
Of yesterday's rain

Lips thin as paper
Chewed in distress
Down to a soft pink inflammation

When did I forget?
Touching and feeling
Even the familiar crime of regret

The song "Mary did you know?"
Becoming a creature comfort
Invoking a religious tether of tension

His love, not mine
The passion alone
Is sacred

I choose
Loneliness
To spite his' light

For life is black
Darker and colder
Than the moon

Down through Buckingham
Atop the trolly named
"Splendor on the Rhine"

Between a sea of ruffled feathers
A caravan that bewilders all in sight
People seek a goblet of truth

All the tricks and games give way
To orphaned eyes that cry
Sending all the pain away

The candles are lit,
Sun is low.
Desire is pitiful
Because as an entity,
It proves to be singular.
This characteristic favors
Only one route.
A path lacking
Mobility and fluidity.
There are no curves
Or bends
Along the extended appendage.

I have fallen
Off this highway,
Looking for
A complex sympathy.
All I found,
in my distress,
was a dismal pain.
It was very simplistic,
Lacking creativity
Or an enchantment of time.

For so long
I suffered
Numerous disappointments.
It is such a trifle,
My complaints,
Always seeming to annoy
Or fall on deaf ears.

For what does it matter
If they don't listen?
Even if they did,
I would still not be able
To conquer my fears
Or vices.
Where to go
And what to do?
I still have no clue.

Clover and Dover
Cliffs and boulders
I shall fall over

Sober to the pinch
Water pours into my sores
Soul is sold

Lifelessness in sobriety
Awake but not alive
The nightmare has arisen fourfold