I have a habit of dreaming, screaming, hurling myself into the arms of love-coated guilt and tying a bow around her with smoke, smoke that burns my throat and weakens my lungs; but I will not apologise. I will not apologise for loving what destroys me, and destroying what loves me, because there's no point if an "I'm sorry" falls onto a broken heart and deaf ears.

I dreamed that
I was my own god,
that I had more control over myself
than you, but
2. I must have dreamed that
I was filled with air
and tied to a string
because when I woke up that morning in October
all I wanted was to get high
and hammered as hell, so
3. like Sean Thomas said,
I must have dreamed I was a nail.
4. I must’ve dreamed that I was deathly ill
because I wanted your touch more than anything
but woke up completely isolated from you,
and reacquaintance comes at a great cost;
I really shouldn’t be feeling
as lost as I do when out of the blue
you show up to my house at 1:30 a.m.
5. I’m sorry.
The few hours between kissing another man
and my decision not to tell you,
to leave you instead,
haunts me, but
6. I dreamed that he was the one holding me
for weeks on end
for weeks on end
for weeks on end
I did not say a word.
7. I dreamed I had a crush on him,
but I’m fairly certain I woke up
falling in love.

The party tonight should be good
I wonder if you'll be there
No, probably not
What's this fly doing in here?
I wonder what purpose a fly serves.
Does he know he'll die in 24 hours?
I hope so.
The sound of this washing machine is rhythmic
1, 2, 3, 4,
1, 2, 3, 4,
See, dirt, no, more,
Fresh, clean, for, me
1, 2, 3, 4...
Where's the five?
A five should be here
why is there no ******* five?
Oh well, back to the poem...
1, 2, 3, 4...
Are you thinking of me?
Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
I wonder if you'll just appear under the strobe lights
So I can make your face out
Through the screen of hallucination
Tonight
1, 2, 3, 4
This fly is still here
I hope he tries jousting with the ceiling fan
1, 2, 3, 4,
My, heart, is, torn,
Walk, through, my, door,
1, 2, 3, 4
I, am, so, high,
Lo-sing, my, mind
1, 2, 3, 4...

Dream had a glass of wine with me,
Faltered through my reality,
Disrupted my slumber,
Caressed my wandering thoughts

He picked a book, old faded cover,
He turned a musty yellowish page,
Picked out a line and read,

"You, my own creator,abhor me.
What hope do I have? Shall I not
hate those who hate me? Shall I not
lash out at those who wish me ill?
You accuse me of the worst,
yet do not yourself shrink,
from inducing far greater violence on me!"

I woke up. The tale of the lonely monster lay next to me.
The pages were turned but I had turned too.
I need to love my creations. I am a creator of my own.
I can be a classic tale after all.

$1.54 in pocket change.
An empty wallet.
A can of travel-sized body spray.
A pen.
Some gum
And an mp3 player.
I take my silent journey at twelve-thirty,
And use my pocket change as an excuse.
I smoke a pair of cigarettes,
One there and one back.
And I buy a drink to hide the fact,
That I'm sad and confused and unable to cope.
With my daily thoughts and my loss of hope.
I **** myself a puff at a time.
And spent all but my last dime.
I hate myself more and more every day.