A charred tree and soft breeze.
A rat's nest and clustered leaves.
A thumping, throbbing, heavy sobbing,
heartfelt heartbeat beneath the street.
There's emotion in words,
there's a world in sounds.
The house bleeds from some unseen wound.
There's skin in the walls.
The walls are skin.
The beating quaker's undertaker
is a world renowned wiseacre
who plays with skin and feasts on bones
in the warm womb of his flesh home.
Use words like "ketamine" and "opalescent"
to describe the kick that lurks within
these effervescent kaleidoscopes that twitch
beneath my sin. Beneath my sin. Beneath my
The pain is mine.
Spit fancy phrases from frothing teeth.
Feel my eyes pulse and my heart beat. beat. beat.
Three reels. Waltz time.
The world is dancing. The tune is mine.
And it sounds infernal.
And it sounds eternal.
And it sounds opalescent. And it sounds divine.
Winter lips cool to the touch
Crystal eyes frosty much
Enduring gaze, beauty and such
A touch of class for my crush
Silhouette of diamond blush
Sweet temptation a constant rush
Tender body sweet and flush
Escaping breathe makes me hush
Hair is gathered looking plush
Forbidden fruit delectable and lush
An aphrodisiac in the cultch
Beast and Beauty dance to singing thrush
Taking hold of the clutch
Through the gears until she's ablush
Night of passion leaves her slush
Until the night time ends in shush
There is a place, deeply buried,
that you magically healed
So lightly, your mindful touch
caressed the pained places
Gingerly and one by one, my scars,
sweetly you cleansed them
Broke the seals of time and
slid open the panes
To let your purifying light pour in
That magic of yours, was love
and being in your presence
Is the Sun on my pale marked skin
after years hiding in darkness
I love you,
But I hope with
of my lonely being,
I hope with every force
of my muscles and heart
who still crave their home
and i hope with every inch
of my fragile skin
which used to linger
beneath the tip of
your thirsty lips
not too long ago...
I hope that when you hear my name,
your insides burn
With the thought of me,
With the unbearable feeling
of missing me...
I hope it burns you
tracing with pain and repentance
the void that you created
the day you left me.
The spaces between the silence
The absence of your presence
There you stand, too tall
In the crowd of my defiance
Keeping it real our heads held high
Extracting the blue longing essence
We build the walls staying in dark
Blocks of reality cemented with distance
We shed each other like second skin
In the act of withdrawing assurance
Now the idol dominoes fall in synchrony
In the wind of emotions with eloquence
The doors forever closed and windows jammed
Locked out of endless comforting luminance
While the journey lasts a clock ticks ahead
Lingers the fumes of evocation fragrance
Wash me off your skin before you sin.
For your face will tell it all if ever you should lie down with him.
Wolves will morn as the blackened sky is torn, and pour out a warth if you should ever let him pass.
Pleasurable things can sting and hearts can deceive the mind, making it believe that we need a stranger in our beds to keep us warm at night.
And I'll be the one with chills on my skin if ever you let him in.
Even your body will reject, knowing that we were more than just our flesh.
You'd be causing the cracks if you're ever in the act, they'll appear on my heart just to know that you gave up all hope and our souls will drift apart.
I'm not one for collecting so I'll keep this vessel clean, in hopes that one day you'll wake up and feel and know how you're the only one for me.
A curse you'll put upon whomever you look in the eyes that isn't me, and time will tell the truth, that you let him in only to realize you're still so empty.
But if you still choose to proceed, first, wash me off of your skin.
So that the heavens do not cry from such an abominable sin.
Falling in love with you is like watching a genocide from the comfrot of my grave
Like our sex is some kind of biblical analogy for everything that should have lived,
There are prophets holding art exhibitions beneath your skin,
and I can't help but feel like it's my god-given right to undress you,
like you're my seventh seal
We've romanticize death like a Shakespearean concept,
all passion and prejudice and perceptive pain,
but baby you look so beautiful when you're fighting to live