Stitch me up with words and ink,
Between the pages, let the black sink,
For I am a tale,
One to be told,

Lest I become human and *****.

I am fragile, hold me tight between your pages,
There, I can live for lifetimes, for the endless ages,
Cover to cover, I shall be bound,
Until the next reader comes around,

Never shall it occur to me the words are simple cages,
Lest I become human, and *****.

there are some mornings, like these,
where simply getting out of bed is too much.
The thought of leaving this room overwhelms me,
I'll nearly collapse if I must go on to share small talk,
explaining  w h o   I      a m
where I've b e e n
w h e re      I '   l  l   g o.
These chats feel like a million bugs crawling on my skin,
as I anticipate the thumbs up to be able to shake them all off

She didn’t believe him
When he called her
Beautiful
She didn’t mind
That the visible notches
Of her spine
Worried him
When he ran his hands
Down her back
He could feel every connection
Wrapped tightly in sinking skin
And despite the imperfections
He still believed
That she was a masterpiece
Crafted for the world to see

Lust, pain, depression, lose and love are my muse.
lust's passion which knows no bounds frees me.
pain's intensity and relentlessness push me.
Depression's depth, which out class even the sea, teaches me.
Lose like a loaded gun keeps focus and flashes what is important to me.
love with its fickle sway like a new flame ignites my page for all the world to see.
My muse are not new they are not uncommon they are rusted and jagged but they are the pillars on which all life and poetry now rests they guide us-
No they control us.

"This might be my grand finale the world will be quite fine with out me falling out with a smile on my face  but at least I'm going out with a bang" - Larry Fisherman

In school, they tell you all about the monsters that hide in dark allies and creep around corners
But they don’t tell you about the ones that smoke cigarettes outside the mall,
the ones with eyes so blue that you could swim in them for years and never see land,
the ones with too black jeans and too sweet cologne
They don’t tell you about the ones that pierce you with a look so deep that you never think twice when they take your hand a lead you into loud parties with too much smoke and too many people
You never think  twice when he slips his hand down your shirt because you've never been looked at this way before and my god this feels like love
no.
No.
It isn't until you leave the tenth message that hour and you feel tears slipping down your face and you can't stop the hurricane roaring in your chest that you start to think
And ******* I wish I could stop

An artist with a universal canvas, using words as paint.