Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

everyone has movies that comfort them
mine is "as above so below"
it makes no sense and that's why i love it so much
i watch it every night
a group of people are lost in the catacombs under paris
and terrifiying things keep happening and they keep dying
i think i compare it to my life
and i like a reason to fear something else than my reality

I bemoan over the scarcity of many things I seek for,
And with past burdens new woes descended on my shoulder;
I am gone to a watery grave filled with sorrows;
Yet to be experienced and suffer from it deeply.
I sought for affection to quell my rage and ire,
But then I still weep and wail at sorrows bygone;
I am foundering in waves of deep woes,
Unable to fight them back bravely;
I had faith on time with all I have,
And it offered me a life span and ash.

you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company

So you exist most of the time
dear muse

I spilled some blood on the bathroom floor, mama,
But I swear it was an accident.
See, my hand slipped across porcelain, mama;
My skin tore like satin.

The paint flowed like a river then, mama,
And colored me a crimson sunset.
Oh, but it made such a mess, mama,
And I know messes make you upset.

So close your eyes, mama,
'Cause you're weeping red and the tears might stain.
Red for your lost love and red for scarlet fire,
and red for the young rose cut from the briar.

Maybe now I could be poetry, mama
The type you wrote about in your younger days.
Golden sun swallowed in carmine, mama
With its last rays dying in a blaze.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)