And, I keep running and hiding from myself.
I tap a few of me on the shoulder then disappear; this is what magic looks like.
The rugrats of me scatter to globe corners I don't care to scan.
A daycare of the same fool.
I'll let the spiders and their webs move the me's closer to me.
That is my advantage; my fault.

My first-aid kit drys up in the sun, but everything important still works after I shake out all the love.
The words I need to release next can dance a seizure in your chest.
A prom of the heart.

It feels strange to whisper caving secrets across a desert.
Like how I fear that I'll run out of skin before patience.
How lots has been bleeding since we last spoke.
And how it feels better to rain over an aqua covered Monday, than to drown my lobes into infomercial.

Old love sticks to these nights like good habits turned villain.
New love outgrew her cape and sold it to some **** that went to her high school.
YOU DON'T PLAY WITH LAST YEARS TOYS ON THIS YEARS CHRISTMAS!

With my teeth, I would tear this stanza to a molecule just to know how much of a 'dog' I am.

Water is seldom here.
Throats peel back words on occasion but it's usually nothing too important.
It's something like a brief conversation between very shy mirages.
All is said though; and all is done.
And finally, we get to smash our palms together creating that beautiful sound to let them know that the pain can be over.
Curtains. (preferably blood red)

Lots of halves occur around me.
So, it's only fair to the night that I take only a half nights sleep.
I hope for whole nights; like any moon would.
But that comes and that goes.
The years haven't  offered full nights for cheap.
I  alley-way gamble my good dreams away.
Yet, I still give myself to the night freely, letting it swallow whole and digest of me what it can.
Trusting that, if I fall through the sheets and land under the bed, with the ghouls and goons; it won't be morning until things aren't so dark.

Its lost its spite.
Expired under my control.
I've saved this moment for too long.
Its bland now; gray with purpose.

We’re here again; an unfortunate collection of the past couple mornings.
The newest montage to carpe diem.
Our unbroken rhythms of montage blend danger with safe.
But we lack the caution for a montage of bacon and eggs.
This collage again; these unstrangered floral plates.
Doctor says one montage a day keeps the bad bad times away.
But he said that half-past yesterday.