Spinning threads to let me know
How much you love me
And how perfect I am to you
The reasons preach of an angel
That you say I look like
And that's how much I mean to you
The grin on your face tells me another story
Yet, I believe in you
And the honey suckle words you blow
Just, mists that dark love
When you say, I am made for you
I know the truth, Oh, yes I do
But what good it's gonna be
Holding me tight, you whisper your vows
Your grip so strong
You already straggling me now
Love you till eternity
Till my breath runs out
I'd reach the depth of your dark soul
To set it free
For your love to me means alot
In times like this
I'd accept death
In the form of your shadow
If it's meant to set you free
I'll love you more
From the starland where I belong
My love
I'd wait for you
I'd wait for you...


©sim

on top of a broken throne,
a hopeless ghost that eloped with control
and then leapt off a cliff when
he was supposed to invoke
all those happy memories,
sits uncomfortably.

half of his entropy flows from disasters detached from his history
and the rest is the wind through the trees grown from bitter seeds
thrown into the dirt of what was meant to be forever.

crowns melt with enough heat.
clouds swell above the heads of those condoning his death,
a true crown for the ugly...

off with his head!
off with his head!
off with his head!

he sees them seething and he forgives himself for being a fool
as their screams retreat from the growing light of oblivion.

The crow
still remaining
every morning
forever hanging
on the corners
of lids
I sense
paranoia
seeping in

Abraxas in the bathroom mirror,
I am not here perpetually.

Krakens in the coffee creamer,
"here" is a relative term.

Massive is the pile of things
I'll never get around to touching,
my relative's calls are all forwarded
to voicemail.

Worry is a meal all it's own.

Every morning I try to coax
the End Times out of a single second.

So far I've only managed to slip
between minutes lost to watching
the coffee *** fill to it's brim.

Little victories.

Fiddles played while any and all mystery
falls on bent swords,
you can hear the sadness in the notes
as they float between the oxygen molecules.

Solitude is an honest friend most days
while others it is another bent blade
awaiting my laziness.

I sleep standing up or running in place
so jokes on it.