I watch you intensely,
And can't help but bite my lip.
You mesmerize me as you play.
Your hands dancing on the strings,
What would those hands do to me,
If I gave them one chance.
Would they roam my body with the same passion as they do those strings.

My breath hitches as you scream along with the song,
What would that voice do if I touched you,
Ran my hands along your body.

I watch you so closely.
Watching your face as you play.
For one brief second you look at me,
And my heart threatens to beat out of my chest.
I avoid your eyes, and watch your hands dance once more.

There are words stuck in the back of my throath
that I wouldn't dare speaking. Sentences formless,
water kept below boiling point. My tongue a
sharpened claymore. It's reach long,
it's swing heavy. Yes, I am a dangerous man.
Wielder of the most powerfull weapons.
My pen writes, shifting balance of words
influencing reality, developing perspective
of readers who don't tread carefully.
This is my space, in here I rule supreme
in here I create what no one could re-create.
Look through my mask and ask yourself
if it's not another mask. A man with layers
I go deep, with thoughts and feelings
I am weak, so I acknowledge what I see
What I see is you, despite you wanting to.
What you feel is what you do.
What you do is what you show
So what you show is what you feel
and what  you feel is the warmth of me
acknowledging you.
The illusion of distance, it is me
being next to all of you!

rip out my throat
and rake your claws downs my face
cut at my skin
lean in to me
and remind me that love is just a distraction

do not leave me breathing
do not be weak
drive your knife in to me
until my breath rattles
and my eyes still
and remind me that love is just a illusion

wear my skin like a cloak
my blood staining your mouth like lipstick
wear my words like a crown
and my hands wrapping around you, like a belt
and remind me once last time, that love is just a weakness

I can tell you about the girl.

Her freckles were beige constellations,
and her voice was husky and rasped
like birds before the churning of a storm.

She was weird and laughed at everything I said -
which made her even weirder,
because I'm only funny in certain photos
and in certain clothes.

Her left arm was covered in scars and burns.
"As you can tell, I'm right handed," she said.
Arthritis surrounded her wrists and other joints,
and all I could think about were my
grandmother's arthritis crippled hands,
and if the girl would thank the arthritis, one day,
for no longer allowing her to self-harm.

One of her feet were bigger than the other
and, when she walked, she would lose balance.
"I'm not sure if the world is too fast
or if I'm too slow. Then again," she winked,
"it's probably because of my feet."
I liked her because she treated me like a person,
but didn't take me as seriously
as I took myself.

I struggled with self-respect
and she struggled with a drug addiction.
Her arm was needle park
and sometimes she missed ******
more than she missed me.

She wasn't the type of girl to shake
without her drugs -
she'd, instead, talk about them
like they were old friends.
She understood them
more than she understood herself.

After a few months of ***
and, "I'll be sad when you leave,"s,
I called her my girlfriend
and she smiled.
Flecks of speckled angles, bright,
I saw her, first, she accepted
my night.

Five days later,
she overdosed on morphine.
I picked her up.

Her eyes were glazed over.
I said, "I love you,
but this is *******."
She cried and said,
"Forgive me."

I lain in bed, next to her -
next to the avoidance of death.
She asked how I was
and I said, "Everything I write is ****,
but I'm glad I can write ****** poetry
about how we'll be okay."

She asked, "We will be okay, right?"

I hope.