There's no point in doing anything anymore
the only reason I'm alive
is cause' I didn't have the courage to **** myself

Shut the door
Don’t come back
Once you were
inside
Now Im covered
In cracks.
I was stalwart
True and fit
Years with you
Now I don’t
want to live,
I was smitten I
Fell for your games
There’s only me to
Really to blame.
So shut that door
And don’t come back
The lights have gone out
In this beaten up shack.
Property been sealed
Now  I must rebuild,

We seek perfection,
our souls to be pure.
We fear God,
of not being good enough.
We fear hell,
of being in eternal torment.
But what really torments us
is the weight of these expectations,
for an idea made up in our minds.

We are running a race
so far lost
that before we are born,
we are a product of sin.

We are so enchanted
by this light; the eternal flame.
But the light is artificial.
An ideal constructed by humanity.
The phosphlorescent bulb
that lights our night,
and guides our way in the dark.

It ensnares us.
We blindly pursue the light,
like moths to a flame,
we fool ourselves
with desire.

We can never touch
this light. It is
the sun, the moon
and the stars.

But even the stars
we see in the sky
are dead,
when we see them shine
so bright.

Even the stars die,
wishing to be pure
bringing us beauty,
even so.

Sins are unavoidable;
unless you live a life
of mere content.
Instead we choose
a tormented soul
and are killed slowly
with the tantilising desire
of the unattainable.

in two year's time
you won't remember
my favorite color
or my favorite food

in five year's time
you won't remember
the texture of my hair
or the feel of my skin

in ten year's time
you won't remember
my name or my hair color
except that they were both odd

in fifteen year's time
you won't remember
exactly what i looked like
(were her eyes blue or green?)
except that you thought i was pretty

in twenty year's time
you won't remember
me at all

except when you're hanging out at the bar
with the guys from work
and you talk about young romance
and you say
"there was once this girl,
but i can't remember
her name"

Foot hits the pavement
Alleviating impatience
Lighter than a feather
To better cushion the jaded

Stomping through the cemetery
The behemoth breaks his back
Stumbling over tombstones
Seemingly jagged in every crack

A man, half a monster,
Half a mouse, mostly bleeding
Drowning in the oxygen bank
Indian given breathing

When the rabbits loose their roots
Aside trees what speak and breathe
The kings are parted out
While the beasts break even clean

I'm told the sky is blue.
God is dead.
Lead is heavier than cotton.
I'm not convinced I know where the sky starts.
You need proof, like a birth certificate, to be declared dead.
Cotton and lead can both weigh a gram or a tonne.
So, my conundrum... how do I write about what I know.
My name is Francie. I have a birth certificate, and it's yellowing...fast.
Whatever comes after this is pure speculation.
However, our opinions are weighed
With equations and laws. Laws.
There's a thumb on the scales.
Reason is subjective. Water is wet... warm... hard... vaporous... dry...
I can write about death, while I'm alive, believing in it.
My forehead is bleeding from pounding my lack of truths into verse
For readers to think of the possible, for certain.