He loves me when he loves me
He convinces me
I’m the kind who serves up suicide with every Ciroc poured
in the neon blue of this town
where dreams turn cold but where,
He says,
I,
I am as hot as the blue light flame
He opens the Pandora’s curiosity in me
With warm breath and a silent scream
he makes me say his name
I know there’s fiction in the space between us
covered in polyurethane that some would consider toxic
but where I,
I rub my flesh into the smooth and dip fingers into my inkwell
He makes me an artist
He has a way
Hurt me a little
Make me cry
Rubbing this little pendulum of mine
I want to know I knew you even before I knew you
Savor you like an oyster
Memorize you
Hold you under my tongue
Learn you by heart so when you leave
I can go to the inkwell, again
*Orlando

A darkened scar across my eye
a lightning  crack against the sky
this morbid creature standing by
this place where horror tends to cling

What God has cursed you with this frame?
your crippled form,  your branches lame
but let him speak and he'll proclaim
"I'm far more tame in spring"

I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

Battle thrones are waged and lost
The tables turn and then get tossed
Aside for five hundred years or more
A settlement of ancient score
That leads him on the road to ruin
Destiny that ends too soon
A failing grace of innocence
A flesh that falls of insistence
In time we dine on silver plates
And carve into the light that waits
Upon the hill of lovers gates
And time will tell what faith it shakes
That gets into your head at last
A fake revenge that goes around
And comes around to make no sound
That government that holds its grip
And power that never seems to slip
In truth it sits on hollow ground
All set to fall without a sound
Into the hole that the people dig
To keep them all from getting sick
That fills in tight with everything
You keep in mind and then you sing
Of grace that kills the song of kings
In time it might come here to die
The love that lives comes here to cry
The tears that get you oh so high

It's not too cold of a night for a walk
Even if this one was not by choice
I'm not sorry for being so drunk
I only ever wanted to hear your sweet voice

Even if the only words it told me were,
"*******!"
Sometimes it's the little things that mean so much

Your spirits weren't as bright as I remember
I suppose my own had something to do with that
I'm not sorry for losing your number
Just kind of sorry that you won't give it back

But I'm never sorry for the things that I do
I just wanted to see how things were working out
Sometimes I really do worry about you
You said that I'm the one I should be worried about

Your hair color has changed
Your pajamas said "Somebody Loves Me"
That might be true in more than one way
More ways than you seem to need

I tried my best not to look back
But I know you stood in the doorway as I walked off
Sometimes it's the little things that mean so much
Sometimes a walk in the cold is enough

And I want so badly
to do more, more, more
jaw clenching madly--
"don't stare at the floor!"

"Find more sensation,
feel it deep, deep, deep"
"use imagination"--
the corrections I must keep

"Try to look happy!"
my eyes are dull, dull, dull
"Remember, ballet's sappy."--
"dancer, think of the skull!"

All of this in my core,
I do gladly, gladly, gladly
And I want so badly
to do more, more, more.

my greatest hope
is that, in time,
I will be able to look
Within
for resolution
instead of finding
the tired echo of

                          I do not know

but when
or if
this day will come

                         I do not know
                         I do not know