The she-devil that rides my soul
Her putrid breath stinging my nostrils
Her decaying teeth gnawing my flesh
Her ragged nails clawing at my heart
ripping my life to shreds.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Oh baby I can tell
You've got that self destructive
Streak in you

You like to drink hard liquor
Without any chasers
Smoke too many cigarettes
And dip if you're offered
You'll try any drug
At least once
But marijuana and Molly
Are your favorites.

Staying sober isn't on your agenda
Because when you're intoxicated
Life is a blur, a movie

Your tumblr is littered
With too skinny girls
Who you wished you looked like
And pictures of
******* **** and *****
Are every other repost
And inbetween them are soft little
Poems about being alone
Or being in love

And you've never felt so empty

You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive.

Be aware that the velvet sage
of the leaves belies their power
to take over every space, remember
roots burrow deep, anchoring in
fissures we don’t even know exist.

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.

And one day he said to me
*Do not be fearful when I leave
Do not hide, and do not weep
We shall meet every night- in your dreams.

My head clouds with old memories that I can’t shake. I can’t express, but expression still shows.
What is it that’s making my head flow the way it is? It’s stinging me to the point of aching my heart. The past is crowding me now and I can’t escape the initial feelings of hurt that I placed on myself. I’m aching in every way, burning in every heat, and crying in every tissue.
There was love in the poet, now there is none.
There was life in this being, now he is empty. What’s the matter with me? What’s happening to my heart?
There’s a rising power in my body in the form of emotion. I can’t control it, but I can draw from it like energy. It’s Built so high that nothing will stop its escape but escape itself.
But I can’t let it out.
I can’t let an entity become my reality. I deserve to be free of this emotion and be an open book for somebody who shall fill my pages with love and trust.
I deserve redemption and deserve the prosperity that comes with it.
But I don’t have it.
So I must stay content with myself, poem after poem of false emotion. Day after day of fake feelings. Hour after hour of missing love. And now the lonely has returned.
Stronger than it ever was before. I can see it every time I close my eyes. I miss the past, so I live in it. It’s true, my past is my reality, my future is omnipresent.
I am a weeping willow in the middle of the botanical garden, sad, life-drained, sick looking. But I am just as beautiful as any other plant in the garden, in fact, maybe more so. But I just want a heart who wants mine. Please, god, stop this maddening emptiness in me. I feel like clawing out the sockets in the walls as the rain breaks the roof and pours onto my raging body.
The thirst has returned. That feeling of needing something so much that it seems essential. I am starved of lust and lacking the healthy love that comes with it.
I need Love.

So young and wild, she’s a southern child.
Her heart of expression and her smile of the sky.
I can’t tell you my luck just to be her guy.
I’m so lonely without her that I can’t deny.
And if she isn’t pleased, I will find out why.

His love is liken to hers: infinite, never wasting.
A flavor I savor steady at tasting.
His Love is desired, but who shall give it to who?
He holds it tight, so none may have it, but there’s access for you.

Decadent, delicious dark desire with a warm taste, it’s love.
The main ingredient in the mix, the best that I know of.
Fun and fuzzy feelings of fantasy, she spoils a heart in truth.
And it makes me think of how it would be if we were still together in youth.

Wet and warm, a quiet storm, no rains, but sound is mild.
So soft and sweet, so young and wild, by god, she’s a southern child.