Staring down at pink hands.
Stamping forms?
Exploded pen?
It doesn't really matter why they're pink,
But they are.
I wipe them on my clean white shirt.
I can't really remember.
All I know is that I'm living this life.
Wake up, work, sleep, repeat.
I stare down at my feet,
These are not my shoes.
I don't know whose they are,
But they aren't mine.
Wake up, work, sleep, repeat.
Flash back to spray painting your car,
Your clean black car,
Now features fluorescent pink writing.  
I worked my *** off for you,
Turns out you're just a *****,
and I want everyone to know
Wake up, work, can't sleep, repeat.
Flash back to leaving my bosses house.
Invited for a family dinner,
Discussing my promotion.
This is my life.
Nice house Mr. Boss.
Nice roast beef Mrs. Boss.  
At the end of dinner Mr. Boss explains he can't afford my promotion.
I tell Mr. and Mrs. Boss to go **** themselves.
Only to walk home in Mr. Bosses shoes.
Wake up, fired, can't sleep, repeat.
I look out my window and see
Mr. Boss driving down the street.
My life is gone.
Passing by in the form of a black Honda civic,
With pink writing on the passenger side.
Inside is a red faced man
Throwing shoes at my door.
Some lives just aren't worth waking up for.
At least I have a new pair of shoes.

Reaching towards the sky,
On my knees, my palms begin to bleed
As well as my feet
A stigmata instigated by my self destructive tendencies
But just what does that insinuate?
Am I another sick starved madman with a twisted messiah complex?
Will I end up stark & raving, naked on the Cincinnati streets screaming obscenities & salvation?
Is that the worst that could happen?
Is this the worst case scenario on the other end of my linear destiny?
But no, this destiny is not linear
It's thermo-*******-nuclear
Manhattan-like, I shall disassemble and reassemble at will
My revolution is ALIVE
A revolution of fire & chemicals swirls madly around my subconscious
I'm no pragmatic protagonist from any perspective
I'm a *******
A modern day strung out anti-hero
Spray painting realistic ***** on the walls of reality
Reaching for the sky
To **** the ******* sun

Gone it seems are the days when I would structure words with grace.
A perfect place for them to stay,
To say what I need to display.
I struggle hard to find a way,
To keep the evil thoughts at bay.
The ones that threaten to destroy
and scream promises to take.
And the longer I live in their wake,
The more it seems I'm not awake.
This is a dream, I'm far away.
The nightmares chase,
I am disgraced.
They see the fear so clear on my face.
I break.
I know I cannot be ok.
They have all of me, those ******* snakes!
They promised me an artistic state!
So I could orchestrate my voice across this page.
I've traded everything for this,
I've lost my happiness.
To make these words sit, so beautifully primped.
To impress blank faces, I'm tired of this!
So imagine for just a moment,
A person sitting ever so lonely.
He writes what he writes,
While he fights with the light,
The one that shows all of your demons that hide out of sight,
And he cries.
Because the world seen is beautiful in his eyes.
But not from naivety,
He knows so well the horrid underside.
But he loves it.
What would he write about otherwise?
He needs it.
What else could inspire his mind?
He craves it.
All while it eats him alive.
Is addiction to sadness any less potent than madness?
I didn't choose this!
What's to gain?
Words in exchange for sane
Thoughts in my brain I can't explain.
Maybe I won't ever be able to.

We all have habits
Hang ups we turn to when words fade from use
When the touch of another feels false
And the skin that you're in feels ill-fitting and loose
Of addictions we choose, are you the user or the used?
Light-headed from smoking far too many cigarettes
But it's better than the spins I get when your name is said
Her toxicity is met with one of my own
Eroding with every upturned stone
To find a reason to use the air in my lungs to talk to her
Instead of fill them up with smoke
But I don't.
Returning burning bile from drinking far too many drinks
But it's better than the taste of blood from getting hit in the face
A father who longs for the respect of fear
Maybe he hits you because he hates himself
And he sees in you the colour of his eyes or the curl of his hair
Or maybe he just does it because it's easier to hurt than to love
The same way you drink because it's easier to be drunk than to forgive.
So **** anyone who does anything to keep you from being able to live
But try to forgive
Not for them, but for you, to begin to heal these wounds
Because your peace of mind was not built for two
Live while they rue.

Moon of my heart
I haven't called you that in awhile
in the language that isn't ours
or heard you say it's response back
Even so
you are still
Jalan at'thirari anni

Sit on street corner
with my hand written sign
Delicate letters
and scriptwriting fine
whisper your desires to me
love loss lymric & rhyme
I'll promise you sweetly
it's worth your dime

The way you rapped me around your little finger
Twisted and twisted till I could untie myself no more.
Rocking and rolling my poor heart, letting it linger
Leaving it left so sore.
Yet this passion clutched me, hung from my every limb.
I would not leave you. As I knew you would not me.
The country moves of yours swaying, humming hymns
Every move so elegant, so classical, so free.
I could not grasp the way you did it,
Moved me from my deep burrowed Blues.
My hero in every form, like a candle lit
In a darkened, dusky room.
You will be my song, my tune, my being.
For you and I will breathe as one breathing.