My words turn me inside out
and rip my heart across the seams -
they dance along my tattered soul
and tear a hole in all my dreams.
They shred my healed wounds open
and leave me rotting in the cold -
my soul is raging with the same light
that’ll keep me from growing old.

My words have turned rotten
under the weight of a dream,
every wish being forgotten,
every hope split down the seam.
They feed me honey on a spoon
so I can shoulder the stars,
but it’s too late for salvation -
they’ve already littered me with scars.

The beating heart of my song
is silenced by the static
inside my four lonely walls.
The words rot and wilt
in the absence of a dream,
and the whisper of the rain outside
is the closest thing I have to a choir.
I need the wind to be my pen,
and the sun to be my muse -
the grass to be my paper,
and the moon to be my audience.
How long must I go on
without words to line my soul?

When her ceiling melts to constellations
and her walls fall to the wind;
when her blanket turns to grass,
that’s when the earth sees her grin.
A smile lit by a thousand stars,
flecked upon her nightly scars -
a body torn by the placement of
her heart in Jupiter and her soul in Mars.

The soul comes alive
when the mind goes to sleep,
it burns and it thrives
when no longer mind’s keep.
In our absence they sing,
the tolling bells ring,
and if earth ends its course,
they’ll still bloom in the spring.

Quite ugly, aren’t they?
The words that aren’t yours,
but still spill from your pen -
that roll off your tongue,
yet feel stolen again.
A symphony turned to pandemonium,
a melody that doesn’t impress -
This poem isn’t mine,
but I’m writing it nonetheless.

At the foot of a world
that doesn’t know my name,
that doesn’t know my love,
and doesn’t know my shame.
You’ll be deafened by its roar
and the stomping on the floor,
and when there’s nothing left to give
that’s when it takes a little more.
It’s bent me broken once again,
the world I thought was a friend -
if it turns its back on me,
would it finally be the end?