She will lose herself in a book
and find herself in poetry

She thinks that religion is a sacrilege
and that long showers are sacred

She makes love when she's tired
and never tires of making love

She is irreverent in her humor
and pious in her gravity

She is diligent in completing her work
and ambitious of her quest for leisure

She is the personification of romanticism
and the embodiment of compassion

She exists harmoniously in my mind

On those days when
your ghosts visit you
before witching hour,
wrapping their familiar
fingers around your
throat, remember:
it's okay to relapse.

As they shove their
fingers down your throat,
you'll find it hard to
breath and even harder
to try and think.

Because the dead
will force you to
remember all the
anxieties that you
grew out of, all
the tendencies that
they inspired in you
that ranged from suicidal
to only worrying too much.

And I'm sorry to say it,
but eventually you will
***** up every single
butterfly they ever gave
you, along with the fond
memories you tried to
keep for a rainy day.

You're going to make one
hell of a mess all over the
present and the immediate
future, and your ghosts will
make sure you can't do
anything else until you break
down in defeat and beg for
their mercy and forgiveness.

And you won't be granted
either of those things, but
they will eventually leave
for purgatory again and you
will be able to think again
and remember that
it's okay to relapse
because your past will
always be a part of you.

It's currently 4am,
the time when words like
night and morning
are mistaken...
for it is both, yet
neither.
tired moths fly
rythmatically
into the bug zapper.
souls escaping their bodies,
stale light
absorbing their souls.
their bodies fall
painting meaningless
obscenities in the smoke left behind.
corpses covered by dirt...
the grass weeps for thee.
bodies hallow
lifeless...
empty
I am empty...
void of social
dependence,
but full of understanding.
understanding
my pulse is still rapid.
if only I were tired
what an overlooked
luxury?

Let you and I retreat to a room
And talk of it
Let it fall upon you
And question you and me.
Women come and go.
I dare to say
In a minute I
Should know you in the way
I have known perfume
That makes me digress
And I shall say that
Lonely men have
Stretched here beside you.
I have wept upon the moment
My greatness would
Have been worth you and me
Would it have been worth while
To have to question all you say?
I mean if the worth should
Mean all I meant -
Almost a fool.
I shall sing till we drown.

Love is a cold war,
I'm a colder soldier.
My heart has become barren,
A frozen wasteland.
Cracked like the ice
That encases it.
Its been the target
Of many a snowball's chance.
So now I hold
Strong and cold
With weapons in hand
Prepared for this cold war
Which has made me
Even colder.