It won't stop bleeding,
This gaping red and black hole.
Useless bandages.

One of these things is not like the other,
White, and white, and white and brown.
Who is this one? He can't be my brother.
He's different, let's all break him down.
One of these things is not like the other,
Straight, and straight, and straight and gay,
What a weird thought, she cant be a mother.
She's different, that there's easy prey.
One of these things is not like the other,
Happy, and happy, and happy and sad,
Everything strange to me, I must smother.
When they're just like me, they'll be glad.

Planted in the mind,
Growing stronger by each day.
God, I need an axe.

Who knew that puzzle pieces could decay,
And leave a stench that never leaves your nose?
Who knew that crimson colors turn to gray?
Where there is scent of blood was scent of rose.
Were we too different or too far apart?
Where you once were is only broken bone.
I guess that's what you'd call a broken heart,
But blood's still pumping through my heart of stone.
I'm made of anger targeted at me,
The slightest move will likely aggravate.
I should be happy, hell, I'm finally free.
But I'm chained down by my own body weight.
I hate this dusk when once there was a dawn,
I want you badly, but the love is gone.

My poems; who have I been writing to?
Are they just words that I have plastered with meaning,
Pinned against the wall with emotion?
Are they written for the lovers I've known,
Or the ones I never will?
Maybe they belong to the demon I dedicate my sins to...
Or is it to the fact that it doesn't exist?
Are they reflections of my soul, or my mind, or just chemical nonsense smeared across canvas?
I would prefer any of these to the truth.
The truth, the unfortunate truth, is that my poems are love letters to this broken, little world that doesn't check it's mail.

It's funny how God,
Far away as he is,
Plays such a powerful role.
We are God's jilted lovers,
We pray for miracles, those kisses of wonder on our ancestors.
But he has left us, and found a prettier planet to put his coat around.

And so I've spoken,
In burning, silent actions.
Long live the quiet.