There is little success in writing, none of any wealth, not without selling
your soul.
It seems that these days our book store shelves are slaves to **** literature,
and our computers are ruled by the pop-up one time self help blog Kings & Queens.
They all seemed to believe that their writing is filled from the truth buried within the heart and soul, and tireless nights slaving over the blank page, but few really torture their souls to bleed onto the page. Few watch as the bottles empty beside the array of snubbed out cigarette ends, all for the perfect tale, all for the best story. But it is never good enough, because to be tortured, you are never to be satisfied. There is no fame with writing, there is no success,
that only comes in death.

I'm afraid of the man
That comes knocking at my door half past dawn
With a whisper in his arm
Looking for my soul to take with him to the Chapel
For another raffle

With a broken heart
Battling writers block
Is like stringing a broken harp
More or Less
Played the part
Venus and Jupiter
Vary in Color
But they still have one another
Dying my paint set to match my mood
If only make up for a man
To disguise my pain
To hide behind a mask so fake
It crackled underneath
But i cant sleep
I cant even breathe
Its as if I have choked on your spite
And died with its strife

She told me
My body comforted her more than her silk sheets
She kissed me
And told me if felt better than the diamonds I painted on her neck
She hugged me
But didnt tell me what it meant to her
She whispered
Somethings are better left in the Dark
But when I flicked on the lights
I saw her and him
Not me and her
But her and him
the angry heart ceased
Cold as if  were dead
Cold like the pulse of the dead man
I wanted to be

Lighting never struck
Close to the road
Where the roses
Died off

Every morning i  wake up
Dawn my blouse
Boot band my trousers
grab my cover and storm out the door

Every day i train for an enemy that has not show his face or is already at my front door
Killing my brothers and sisters
Sometimes even the people I swore to protect


But not everyday do i go out and fire a round
or blow up a town square
But i am the villain
I am the bad guy who has the flag he wakes up and salutes
Stepped on and trashed for not things ive done but things of people of lesser degree

But my conviction stays sharp and my aim holds strong
even as i have lost my bestfriend and a father
Even as i cant start a new year with my family
or open presents with my sisters and brothers
I cant kiss my girl buy her a new dress to model for me but can watch videos of the people i protect walk on my flag and desecrate what i stand for.

But Hello to the bad guy