there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
he should have panicked
but everything was just brighter
he lived from day to day
yearning to add to the pyre
he knew it to be easy
with a touch it would spread wildfire
but he was no devil
he could control his desire
so he lived in agony
even when his need grew dire
he'd never intrude unwelcome
almost like a vampire
but he was far too kind and reticent
to trap a victim whom he would squire
he scared them all away
with apathy and satire
he was too familiar with the anguish
his fire would inspire
he wanted to protect the beautiful souls
from the harm of its ire
he let his fire burn him to the ground
leaving nothing to quench the inquire
he watched as his fire ashed
his wings and invisibly divine attire
he let it consume him
alone, entire
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
he was resolutely resilient
he drove himself to the pyre
but in his final breath
he heard no lyre
he was a fool
that no one could admire
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
i would have held his hand
together nothing could conquer us, not the world, not a fire

I have nothing to offer you,
I’m just a pyromaniac,
An empty girl,
Trying to find my way back,
After I burned my hands
On the matches I light in the bathroom,
Before I drop them in the sink,
Letting the water discourage the flames.
(Only the burns remain.)

I was extremely flammable
and you loved to play with fire.
You said you’d never hurt me,
but you lit a match and left me burning.

The dismal scene
Of church
And parking lot
Played before her hazy eyes.
God absent from the pews,
The moon,
And wherever the **** else
People believed He could be.

She sat on the parking stop,
Knees close.
The night air lapped at her arms,
Raising hell beneath her skin,
And Satan
In her yearning bones.
Her heart beat
At varying abnormal paces.
Her stomach stirred
In craving.
She scratched at her ribs;
A little too hard,
Bruising ****** skin.

God was gone.

And for a moment all she had was a sympathetic truck,
Parked next to her.
But then
She knew she didn't even have that.

Images of her childhood
Sunday mornings, accompanying grandma to church
Appeared as targets
For mind's gun.
She brought from behind her,
The gasoline.
And ran
Without hesitation,
Skipping gleefully as she poured.

Then lit a small pool.
And watched as the church
Erupted into burning
Chaos and
Forgiving embers.
Then she left to satiate
Bitter craving.

i like to play with fire
but that of a different kind
the one that engulf bridges
to light the nighttime sky.

Smiling kindhearted old man
Told me stories
How
He burnt the butterflies
How
He burnt human skin
Burnt villages
In burning squads
Of flamethrower men
Fire chased
Children and women
Over cliffs
Scares the **** out of me
To know that behind that smile
Is a dark hidden history

I have seen the great pyro minds
manically set themselves alight,
a nightly burn that glows with
shotgun epiphanies,
masturbatory madness
and affectionate fights.
Exhaustion eventually extinguishes
and they awake as ashes
in the introspective sunlight.

A daily process of life and death,
a cerebral freeze and thaw
that cracks the skull
and punctuates all the *******
that comes with being alive.