With a voice so candid,
that feels like scratching the paint
off my canvas of you,
I am left,
trying to see beauty in anything
All I see,
are images of you blessing the world
with your ability to be a part of it.

I feel the breath on my pores.
And,
with every hair, standing on my arms,
I feel so close to being drained by these last ideas
and the thought of each hair standing still,
and then, falling.

Tape on my mouth, a horror to remove,
for I will only scream for help.
The trees remind me of starving snakes,
finding me, amorously begging for,
nothing but a break.

Spare the lightbulb.

I feel ropes holding me between two oaks,
I move only as the wind makes them.
If not, surely,
they will die.
They’ll grow old, and have nothing
to keep them standing.
The ropes holding me up will morph to a noose of my hands.
And the snakes will know, intuitively,
that I am there.
They slither like the blood in my veins,
waiting.

Circling me every day, they’re all I can hear.
They’re after me.
They will get to me.
I can only beg through hoping,
otherwise I’m hopeless.

Shut down the barricades,
no matter how vapid,
words will come out.
They remain paramount in a mind
without thought and will sound unlike
the exchange of a delusion
so, so, and so
Just to hear a voice,
just to hang from the rafters
instead of tying a rope around my neck
and prancing on the stage
like some kind of fool.

It’s true,
I will never
reach my ideas of bliss.
For that is only an apology,
bound to happen.
What now?
It is time to bury my head in the sand,
just as delusions do.

The dirt in line with your toes,
the grass in line with your ankles.
Your arms jump then freeze,
your fingers touching the grass.
Nothing has ever seemed so real.
But, it is only a moment.
You begin to dig and
you keep going, you don’t care.
You don’t care.

Pestilence growing in your nails,
refusing to see the grass, so flimsy,
now that you finally had the courage,
to hold on to the dream.
The dream that abates in line with the thought that follows-

Why god, did he do that to me?

Sweat accrues, and you wipe your face.
The dirt from your nails beseeches your face.
The clock is ticking.
You stare into the hole you are making.
And as you do,
you feel the grass beginning to grow once again.

Your fingers, greasy, yet you remain dedicated.
Dedicated to this craft!
Dedicated to this destiny!
But you can’t stop the grass, time is running thin,
the rain has begun.
You must finish.

You dig more and now, now,
finally, the water slips from your cheeks,
landing in the center of the hole.
Creatures,
with endless and dazzling tiny legs you dream of come out of the sides,
only to find that they, too, are merely experimenting.
Ripped grass tears through their bodies, and as your rip it out,
so do their screams. You hear them.
Begging just for one more breath,
before you crush them with your feet.
But the hole kept shrinking.
But their screams wouldn’t cease.
More kept coming from the ground.
Begging for peace.
You disrupted their lives, and so,
you must **** them all.
They simply needed a way out of this.
You thought you were doing them a favor.
You thought you were doing them a favor.

Your hands jump back to your face.
Their screams remained,
or was the memory just that vivid?



You’ve grown tired.
Leaving your motionless state
was enough.
You can’t do this anymore.

You made the wrong decision.
But, now, the disease has spread.
Running out of words to describe,
Is just the beginning.
You hear the screams returning.
Do you not deserve this?
You can’t move at all.
You feel, nothing, but,
regret.

More creatures escape,
and surround the murderer!
You beg, you beg, just for a response.
But they just stare.
Moving as eternity.
You beg for mercy.
But they have none to give.
And the rain becomes too much.
They drown one by one.

They scream standing.
You hear birds in the distance.
Finally, the rain has gone,
and, finally, you are
above the clouds watching peace take over.

Pitiful fracas.
I am not one with ‘us.’
Boring, so boring, you are?
Leave the energy, soon it will be far.
Fake! Pleasant speech, ridiculing
grandeur coming from a storm brewing.
She can’t be dead!
She can’t be dead!
I hear her in my walks as if they’re dreams,
spiteful heroism coming from rung out themes.

Is she, actually a moment,
or is she
something more tangible.
A lifetime in a pocket,
a watch ticking.
Ticking. Ticking.
Why have I become so weak?
I give into nothing,
or am I just the way she wanted?

She has become so possessive,
just as all that is obsessive,
began to fade away.
Starting a few months after May,
a few thoughts began to dwindle,
but to me, that was only a riddle.
Is she behind the curtain,
they are all but certain.
They miss her, I’m sure,
but to me, death is pure.

I am weak.
So very weak.
She judges the moments.
As i am judged by, not myself,
but by the angels above.
She speaks the language of despair.
Death.
Death to the angels.
Leave me be.
Leave me be.

Tired of feeling so,
like the bludgeoning is false.
Memories,
feel as though they're paraphrased.
Jumping from possess to obsess,
the satire of loathing,
only posses the owner of memory.
Ridiculing self, ridiculing self,
righteously juxtaposing pain with
a tyrant.
The one who mourns being one.
Passion has lost its fashion,
but what does it qualify as?
A pained soul with another?
A pained soul destroying another?
Realize this,
the memory changes,
it becomes vague.
But,
does it lose validity?
You're the one who suffers.
No the one who made you.
Treat the end of pain,
like the end of yourself.
A lost,
and dreary,
memory,
not seen clearly.