run from the land of ice and snow
where the heart beats so slow
from the midnight sun
burns my eyes
but you have to love her so
she must have her own answer
to her,  and forgive all, to why she is blue
no not
red sat with her today
make you more purple
or maybe white came alone
singing that song
well let me enlighten you
Violet was a piolet
slipped right out of palace
right in your face
but Chris
we love you to
and yes that might hurt you
but you are here so we do.

Colourful toucans, magic disposables
with pretty specks of dust, fallen pixies
and dreams of an escape.
take me back to that place.
I wanna go home, I wanna go home.

I miss that pretty, twisted place-
I miss that other half of me;
it seems to have detached,
leaving open wounds for me
to find zero comfort in.

Where reality exploded before our eyes
and travelling in teleportation devices
seemed so logical and the only method
of reasonable transport.

The world will not be crushed
by my fragile shaking hands
but I dream of the day it does.

Everything is just a dream
that is vanishing as I wake up now.
I don't wanna wake up, I don't wanna wake up.

I wanna stay in this place,
with fragile hands and the creatures
that are so tragically beautiful
with our minds as the creators.

I wanna stay here with these illusions
that have become our world.

I wanna stay here with you.

She sits in her little ball
of self diagnosed depression,
self inflicted sadness
and weeps dry tears
she sobs hoping someone
will stop
hoping prince charming will pick her up
even though she knows
he does not exist.

I feel sorry for this girl,
she has no one
as I watch her life through glass walls,
(glass walls that I can't break down)
she has become my favourite channel.
each season is almost the same as the last;
like a horrible soap opera
except this is real.
people see her,
pause for a moment,
weigh up the pros and cons
then continue on
like she was never there.

Very suddenly her life
becomes dark
and she's controlling the storm clouds
the roll and crash and boom
the spinning of a
self destructive tornado.
it rains blood on the world
shedding the now only present colour.
its all become black and white.
Its all become black and white
and she's dissolving in the smoke.
with a broken smile on her face,
she floats away on *** and coke.

He materializes in white, as though from cloud
out of petals and vines--bright ferns whose arms
flower and wrap as though silken angel's yarn
breathing a sheer and layered freckle-shroud

about the capacious canvas of his back
in an uncharacteristic ceremony of purity or bliss.
So capricious a beloved yet elicits a dual image
in the mind of her who's also seen him black.

An old friend sleeps
somewhere you've not been.
He may be seeing
awful things
or lovely ones.  Of course,
you've no discernment,
for you dwell outside
his sphere now and outside
his dreams; for that matter,
you cannot sleep at all.

When his body gives
the sudden ****
you tiredly await--
when he falls
from the hammock
and breaks his arm,
will you reprimand him
for his fault?

Yet, could not you have told him
when he asked
for your advice
those years ago
that you doubted him
in the first place? that
his ambition frightened
you? that high-up hammocks
are beds for the foolish
more often than not?

Through the pain
of malbent joint and forced
awakening next to you
where you've watched
from the ground,
will he learn only then?
What if he reprimands
you, then, upon consciousness--
what then?  Or what if it's his spine
he damages, and Something Goes
Very Wrong, and he cannot speak,
but it is in the misery of his eyes
that you can hear him declaring,
"You could have spared me this!"
--what then?

Or what will you say
if he never comes down
at all?  And when?  How, even,
will you know that he has woken?
--that he's happy? --that he wishes
you had come with him,
hopes that you might yet?

An old friend sleeps--
or seems to sleep--
somewhere you've not been,
and as you ask yourself,
"What became of him?"
he looks to you
from his high perch
and also aches to know--
as someone below you
asks of you;
and someone beneath him
and someone beneath him
and someone beneath him...

Buried beneath
a broken home.
Day dreaming
of ****
that's long gone
down,
down,
down
to the darkest ditch.

I miss you.

Hell just isn't any fun, when the Devil's not at home.

Red skies and lingering screams almost seem to fade
Almost
Smoke and steam drift lazily out from between cracks in the
Crumbled buildings
A mirror lies at my feet
It's cracked where my eyes should be
And completely shattered into
A trillion tiny shards
At my heart
My heart, which has now
Turned to dust in my
Black cavernous chest
Still seems to explode
At the sight of
The writing in the concrete
I once wrote those words
And so did you
But you're gone now
Faded with the rest
Into the ****** sky