I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

I feel neutral
My cat is purring
I have a type of love
And food
And a roof
Over my head

So why
Do I feel
So dead

A gift that sparkles in city lights.
like xmas trees in December nights,
Dazzling eyes and gorgeous skin,
Pale like the typical English,
but radiates like a burning fire,
the red of clasping barbed wire,
an angel spawned into mortal flashes
more than worthy of the moon's blesses.
My bones free of Anathema's heresy.

You make me a believer.

What do I love more—the moon, or him?
I looked at him, and without a word,
My heart had already chosen—
He eclipses all, even the moon...

What hurts more?
Is it the void of your absence,
Silent, consuming, endless—
Or the torment of dreams,
Where I hold you, only to lose you at dawn?

My bare feet bled on sands untread,
Leaving fragile imprints in pursuit of love long dead.

True depth of pain one cannot claim,
Until they’ve walked through sorrow’s flame.
To feel its weight, to understand,
One must be touched by life’s own hand.