She decorated her soul with dreams:
the kind that can't be stolen,
not even by the inexorable march of age
which eventually robs you of yourself.

Her love was a massacre;
savaging everything in it's path,
but with a beauty that you forgave her
before she apologized.

Her eyes were lilly pads,
and her voice
was the crunch of snow underfoot,
and while you couldn't believe that she could be hurt
you knew from the moment you met her
that you'd be her unneeded Don Quixote

Scrape the sides of my stomach for emotion.
I know it's in there somewhere;
somewhere past the flesh-eating butterflies and yesterday's *****.

You say you'll help me swim,
But only when I'm drowning.
Those words **** my butterflies and fill their space with warmth.

Treading water in the murky pool of blood in my brain has never been easy;
a lifeguard may be just what I need.

You're not a physic,
You're not a doctor,
But you're helping,
And I can't thank you enough.

The Art of Subconscious Illusion is an elusive tendency towards the averse,
             or rather,
the act of lying to oneself

        Oft times you’ll find yourself wondering how...
             …how you lost her…how you lost love…

                            how you lost yourself

         Your mind a jumble of
               spiral static,
         coils of confusion, twisting malevolently,

                             failing and falling,
                   flawed and faulty,
          feeble and fading,

you slowly begin to yearn for a second chance,
        wish that you had performed more charmingly in the blistering tragedy of feelings lost...

but there are few second chances in the misfortunes of life.
      the damage is done, and now you must live with the consequences
       of a dying will to persist in this journey,
                              the ups
                                                the downs
                                the laughter
                                                        ­ the pain
after endless days of convincing yourself you’re not to blame you finally see it for what it is...
                    You made the choice
     you made your bed, and now you must lie in it…

and as you slowly make your way towards the reclining ***** of the soft satin covers you’ll begin to see….

it was not a bed your actions relayed....
                                                                       ....it was a coffin

A snake doesn't just throw shade
We thrive in the shadows
Stalking our prey,
Think you've got what it takes
We'll swallow you whole.

I dare the kittens birdys & roadkill
To make a mistake
You really think your house spits
poison Better than a snake?

Our Partsel tongue is "forked for her pleasure"
Each time we seal a letter
witches get wetter

other houses cringe at our fame
cold blooded killers

don't buy it? Just wait.
Our Snakeoil salesman
Will Have you beggin' for change

You dare to stand against a python?
You don't even know code

I can't pull punches
if I don't have hands, Bro.

Like medusas hair dresser
Expect-to petrify
Better call Cobra
Get insurance for your life.
What's the matter
Gonna cry?
Because We can't.
Ask science.

I dare you to challenge
My Reptilian brethren

We're Unhinging our jaw
getting fed like it's league of legends.

Stretched out on my table
bound gagged brunette
I admire the bolster && ****

Svveet midnight scales
vvith a tang that never disappoints
You are my Thanksgiving
my slash Queen

My ruin runs deep & cold
vvith it
I vvill **** everything You knovv

Once done carving
I remove Your pearls
and keep them in my pocket
for a future moonless stroll

Roses are red,
violets are NOT blue.
Who ever said they were is lying to you,
okay, maybe one can argue violets have a blue-ish hue,
but they are not all the way blue.
So stop saying violets are blue because that's not true.
Here's how it should go, so no more people are confused.

Roses are red,
Violets are purple.
[ Insert something romantic here ] Circle.

The great clocktower stand dilapidated
Grinding, churning, clicking and creaking
As the thick black clouds cover the dim moon

The evening is silent
Save for the calls
Of distant treacherous birds

The bell tolls at midnight
Gently swaying the flames of candles
Within the upper rooms of the tower

As the bell slows
The candles go out one by one
As if a sentient breeze passed through

Until they were but wisps of smoke
Swirling beneath a fading moon
Never to be lit again