I was never that fit or that flexible or even really very good at all, but still my time on stage was always alive with magic

I have been nothing but a small child playing with the alphabet carved into wooden blocks making up worlds and stories to ease my own troubled mind and comfort my own lonely heart as a way to deal with the pains and lunacy of love and life, while counting my shallow breaths knowing each one exhaled brings me closer to my death.  And in what end can I see a value to the days behind me as I find there will be no more before me, to what star in the sky will my passing bring a tear of grief, a prayer for redemption, a kind memory of what I had done with the time I spent walking through the pastures and desserts and ocean floors of this dying world.  Will there be any such star for my memory to be more than dust and light and wave or will I fade from time quicker than my flesh and bones decay?  Will my mortality be the end of me?  Will there be no light, no dark, no gods, no demons, no devils?  Is what I believed to be a soul no more than illusion and will it disappear with the last flash and pulse of electricity that exits my unmoving body as the earth grows through and reclaims my corpse.  Is there nothing more than this life alone, is it no more than a single flame that burns away to end in embers and smoke and then dissipate into the dark void and then is never seen again.  What then should I become within the remainder of my days, what should I strive to achieve, what line should I walk between the ideas of good and evil.  If I am destined by nothing is that all I can become or is there more to achieve outside the illustrations of heaven and hell.  Does life then become full of impossible possibilities and dreams of unimaginable proportions, if heaven is no longer a place above us and hell never existed below us, are the blueprints of divinity found within the chambers of our own hearts and are the horrors of the ****** only a place that burns in the depths of our minds.  Are we the makers of our cages and prison cells, doing nothing but sleeping our lives away with the key to freedom under the pillows we lay down our heads.  And if there is any truth here, who will take up their keys and walk free with me and recreate the world with words of love and kindness carved into wooden blocks and live out the remainder of our days with easy minds and full hearts and play as children do.

I want to walk through the fire
and find you there with your legs spread
wanting me
and your smile inviting
my weight to climb on top
of your curves  
to feel your warmth surround
and swallow me
as we become one with
our hands burning through each others flesh
and grasping
and pleasing
and stroking at the flames
dancing in our lust
as we tumble
and twist
and ****** over
and over along the sheets of stars
hiding our sin below our translucent skin
as you slide on top of me
and moan against the rhythms of love
and I find myself deeper
than just inside your flesh
as you bend in front of me
and I beg you from behind
and we crack the face of time
and push against
the rush of each others racing pulse  
as if this is the place
and moment we both will die
and you grip me
and pull me through your soul
and we both find ourselves on our knees
outside the pleasure of our desire
and see we are at the center
of this heart of fire
and our mouths devour
all of our wants and needs
in a final eager kiss  
and you become the face of love
as my life explodes
and I become a page of you
and we collapse
and simmer
and slow
and lay down in the fire
becoming the flames
that speak only
of the others name

She was a moment from beauties perfection
that was torn from the pages of eternity
and folded into the song of a hummingbird
and tattooed on the wings of a butterfly
set free from the wheels of time
a dream not meant to be remembered
and a dream you could never forget
a film of lust out of focus
and a photograph of love in  flawless clarity
She was the want of a need
and the need of a want
She was everything you would ever love
and no one you would ever know

I won't do ******
that **** kills people

Beautiful people

and everyone
on ****** is beautiful
until their not
and by then it's too late
their already dead

The art was already there

in their blood
in the sound of their heartbeat
in the canvas bleeding out
  the visions of their pain
in the strings of their guitars
   screaming out their despair
in the late hours

  of rehearsal                

   of creating          

           of dreaming  

It never came from the needle
or the poison
or the high
and it's so easy to get lost up there
where nothing is wrong
above the clouds
free of the human misery
that sobriety so often swims in

who wouldn't want
to get hooked above the world
just watching everything spin
spectacularly out of control
without any of the pain
or worry of the difference
between whats wrong or right
or the longing eyes of the homeless
or the desperate pleas of the hungry
or the roaring booms of war
or the ****** hands
of mans sickening greed

and when the devil
has such a warm smile
and kind eyes
and promises of everything
that feels good about feeling good
who the **** would want
to come back down
to the hell we've made
of living on earth

as normalcy is the complicity
of turning a blind eye
to anyone ugly with suffering
including our own reflections

and if that's the price of addiction
why do the math
if the answer is finding a cure
to feeling good
and being chained to gravity
and the ground
when it's easier to reach up
and swim in the flames of the sun
and dance to the sound
of Lou Reed singing from the moon

about perfect days

and rock and roll

and dancing with someone
who just might be Jesus's son

but then I remember
that **** kills people

Beautiful people

and everyone is beautiful
until their not
and by then it's too late
and their already dead

Life and death and the lights and the city  and the endless marching of ants in suits and ties and chains and the tick tick tock of the bomb and the clock and how much time until there is no time to count down after the city has collapsed and the lights have blink blinked gone  and death has taken all the ants and life fades beyond the heart beat of dreams

Artist need other artist
to remind them
that there is still something left
in this world worth
making something beautiful for

and everyone

everyone of us
is an artist

She turned his blood into gasoline and stole the air from his lungs and gave his soul a ******* and his heart became a ticking time bomb desperate to discover the lust of being wrapped and tangled under a sheet of night and loves lost pleasures trapped between the lighting and magic raging from within her eyes