I can never write poetry when I'm happy
what does that say about my personality?
why do words evade me when I long to share
my feelings of positivity?
I don't want to only be known for my works
on tragedy
I am not always sad and lonely
I smile and laugh
and enjoy what life gives me
and yet I can never convert that joy into poetry
here I am, destined it seems, to always be a tragedy

I sleep in fields of flowers dead
they look at me with scorn
but know not this about themselves:
they are as dead as these thorns

Here, where man does not belong
in my home, in peace I stay
I sooner would stab this heart of mine
than submit to their way

Among the endless lightless nights
that filled my heart with dread
I rose above like roses do
I rose above and bled

But must these days never come to end?
when I would feel no fright
dress me all in darkest black
the dress that's worn by night

I sleep in fields of flowers dead
beneath the faceless sky
beneath the vastness fathomless
I'll sleep until I die

The sun sets red as ashes rain down
Debris left over from a forgotten city
So barren nothing grows from the ground
The fire layed waste to all things pretty

just shut up and listen.

her beauty is a baby bird.

i cant wait for it to hatch.

i eat the egg.

am mauled by the mother.

my stomach is warm on the floor.

the yolk and i cook
and enjoy one another.

Outside it's raining fire
Inside we're burning snow
The world seemed like a safe place once
Now I don't really know.

My people fall around me
Their blood the color of the sky
Crimson clouds dot the horizon
I have no more tears to cry.

The wind picks up it's forces
I look on to see them go
Skeletal carriages drawn by dead horses
And they wonder why they descend so slow.

I open my eyes and see it
In the field of red and green
She stands there cracked wide open
Our beautiful, dying queen.

I thought that I could fix this
Whatever this may be
But sweat and tears make oceans
And now we're drifting off to sea.