Tell me the stories I haven't heard yet
While they're fresh on your mind so that you don't forget
I'll memorize every line and tell it just like you did
Long after you're gone I'll tell them how you lived

I'll write you a letter each year on the day
And lay it with roses at the site of your grave
I'll ask the same question in gods name I pray
It reaches you in some impossible way

She waits. How beautifully she waits.
How impossibly lovely she is
with a thing so passive.

With what weight she waits,
making her bus or boyfriend
(or whatever she waits for)
seem like a first brunch with Christ.

She waits regally, in perfect contrast
to the drooling buffoon describing her.

"Well...,"
              she said, unwell.
"Well... surely...,"
              she continued, unwell, unsure.
"Listen," he said.
              But nothing.
              Just some rain tapping a window out of boredom.

You're like a headband
I'm used to wearing one
Can still feel it in my hair
Even if there's none

I'm tired of deleting my sadness.

Beautiful prose is my pride, but pride can be broken
just like a heart weary with the world, and soft spoken
words can cut me like any other man. I bleed. I need
love and laughter and starlight and music in my life.
We all need poetry and dancing in the kitchen and flowers.
Yet... The power of my words isn't a sacrifice,
and this language is not an altar to your smile.

I haven't bared my soul in quite a while, and for you to tell me not to...
Bite me. **** your needs and *******.

I'm tired. I'm weary. My normal flights
of fancy and music and puns and laughter
are taking a reprieve. Skip over it if need be.
These words are mine to seek for shelter
and this page is mine on which to bleed.
Sometimes my playlist is full of spite
and tonight "Welcome to the Black Parade"
is really just what this recovering punk needs.

I recycled rhymes, penned cliches,
and god help me today I don't care.
Here's the exhibit. My wrists on a canvas.
Feel free to snicker.
Feel free to stare.