I know I said I didn't believe in,
"True-love" or "Soul-mates"
But,
When you aren't around, I find you in every little thing I do. I laughed yesterday,
A pure, happy laugh.
And it reminded me of you.
So, I guess, somehow
That I was wrong,
Because these feelings are strong.
I believe you,
And I think that,
I really really like you

The night is dark and dangerous,
For monsters lurk from dusk to dawn.
Hunting for a beating heart,
They stalk, each step in time with their deadly song.

Listen to the howls,
And you will soon feel the tune.
This is their deadly beauty, Their alluring choir.
Spreading emotion through a soulful hymns fire.
Chanting for another voice to join,
So they may dine on tenderloin.

With beauty and grace,
The Sophisticated beasts begin the chase
You are the prey
And you see the face
In splendour and awe.
Your emotions, prepared like your flesh,
Raw

The Wolf is howling,
With her beauty and grace
This,
is loves first taste.

The Click
and Clacks
of a mindless keyboard are distracting.
Pen to Paper... WE prefer this
"form of relaxing".
As artists, we claim to scribble down
the unheard sounds.
Forming an appendage that conducts the tune.
IT, embraces its humpback brother, whom follows it with a heavy
wind.
Finally, they are bound to a third:
A hollowed circle.
And now they form the formidable challenge of curiosity.

W
H
O
?

Love is broken
love is a toy
love is brand new for only an hour

the clean smell,
the satisfying gleam,
the fresh feel,
all turn to nothing.

Dust,
it inhabits the heart,
circulating through our constant pulsing veins
In vain,
we try to renew it,
we try to misconstrue
It.

The game we play,
with our toy,
the hearts we break
with its false joy.
Thats what love is.

A commercialized tool,
that makes us consume
makes us lust;
For another fresh heart to bust.

What color is that rope,
The one around your neck.
Is it yellow with red stripes?
Or red with yellow stripes?
What creates such a rope.

Is it the knotted world around us?
This capitalistic factory of rope,
Of yellow tape.
Killing the ones who see,
Handing them this rope.
Hiding them behind the tape,
The yellow rope dangles, the body is laying on the floor.

The rope is yellow,
With red stains of the world's will.
Willingly killing our right to explore

The world screams Ego.
The preaching of self.
The alienation of 'humanity'.
The sin we all ablidge.

Tearing our society,
Into nothing more than dull
Interactions.
Dull conversations,
Between one individual,
And himself.

Never quite listening,
Only digesting what he wants,
His lie.
His drug.
Like any other, the self satisfied pig is drugged beyond his control.
Control
Given to the world.
By the world's scream.

Have you ever,
Put a box fan in your window?
Felt the breeze of its humm pass your cheek?

Seen the shadows of the world's spin through its twisting blades?
Smelt the morning dew in its air?

No.
You haven't.
You can't.

The box fan, flickers the light of the window.
The window that lets you see the world.
It waters your eyes, blurring the view.
It hides it's consumption in its comfortable wind.
Pushing the truth away.

So, you can't have seen a box fan, you see.
For a mear 'box fan' is always fleeting,
Hiding itself,
In the lie you told yourself.