How low do you have to be? Stuck in a crawl
Stuck in a place, counting cracks on walls,
Wish my tears would run like waterfalls
I need my mind treated for a full overhaul.

Can’t seem to speak or say what’s on my mind,
People use me; my weakness is being to kind,
I only wish I could speak up sometimes,
So I don’t lie when I say I’m fine.

Atheist, was never saved, I wonder about karma,
My mind builds up, erupts, thoughts flow like lava,
I need to become my own mind master.
Choose to wear an emotional balaclava.

© Emma Johnson

Well lookin back it seems i think little  somethin
always beat's a whole lotta nothin.
The road at night is a mystery  yerning to remain unsolved.

No direction sometimes  seems better than the reallity of
a dead in street.
Burnt out  from pills and *****.
A head that pounds with a steady rythym of
of past failures and false starts.

As in bottles we seek answers to the unasked questions
of the dammed soul and promising lie.
Four walls  a asylum  or a hotel of your choosing.

Last times regret cant match tonights need.
Burnt emotions frozen feelings.
A great  lie love is dellusion  a drug for the
junkies soul.

Cold even on a mid summers night.
I paint in colors of a doomed nature.
Void yet alluring to the naked eye.

Like a records unclear sound the flaws are what
make it true.
This writers  fire has all but faded.
I ask does that glass appear  half empty to you?

I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then--
It was in the womb all along.

I was thinking of a son ...
You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy's breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are--
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor bulging with life--
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan's eyes?

All this without you--
two days gone in blood.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn't bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What's wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider--
die!

My death from the wrists,
two name tags,
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right--
It's a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death
and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease--
year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old,
waiting always for you on the porch ...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.

Even dead poets need some credit
For words well done, no matter how long
Ago they enchanted, don't take it for granted
For saying their name, other folks
Discover their fame; get better acquainted
Even dead poets deserve some credit.
And their writings left untainted.

Even dead poets should have their moment
Of reckoning, some homage paid to their efforts
Their art of word and phrase, even in other days
To honor their good name, is only fair
It's the same if today you or me
Had our works stolen, and our dignity
Even dead poets still have their vanity.

Is love out of focus
or just a warm fuzzy rabbit
with sharp metal teeth gleeming
Is love giving up or giving in
sloppy smiles or showing skin
Can you hear the static beige
of my radar gun
or ride my camel through the trees
Is it water in my bed
Wake you up keep you cold
make you shiver in my soul
Love is all these things and more
and less
vaporize to nothingness
Was it ever there
Oh, cruel trick
Will it ever be?
I ask a thousand starry eyes
while they blink at me
while they blink
Are they winking or blinking
What is this mess inside my chest
Who tied me all in knots
Help me unravel all these ropes
Just set me free
Free to find something more
something more than me
Help me find you.

I dream of the summers apon a distant shore.
Visions of a paint by number life.
And old friends  I seldom  think of anymore.

In my mind I live in a world that does not exist.
As the smoke flows off into a night here I stand .
Dreams so endless apon my command .

Trying to mask my feeling's underneath a smile.
Another drink   cements the mask for only
a little while.

Ive tasted passion kept warm in sin.
Kept sweet secrets  acted as only friends.
Torment does linger from all ive kept locked within.

She can  be with him but is no stranger to me.
trapped in a game.
The soul slowley breaks of what can never be.

The clown must wash away the face paint
every night to so his sanity can remain.
That vessel haunts these sheets.
Calmness on the  cusp of a  life insane.

Im a madman to the  blind eye to this world
im forced to exist  to which to many give in.
My mind roams free.
As my soul  and true voice stays locked within.

Dread not, that fickle time knows not your name;
Nor fear, that vanquished age will stake its claim:
For evolution is the game of life,
It soothes our ancient wounds, it ends all strife.

The dust knows more than paltry men may learn,
The end to all our future enterprise-
But holds its stony tongue, lest we discern
We're drowned, beneath an earthly weight of lies.

Our fantasies and dreams; but sediment,
Our darting eyes are full of nothing real,
And we can have no notion where they went,
And so our lies, from rancid truth we steal.

We would at once all things save love, impeach
If we could view ourselves from heaven's reach.

From behind the bar I recall what led me here.
Not to see people fight over  spots on a board.
But to bring them togather as friends.
Not drive them apart as enimies.

To see the glass stay  full.
And the spirts to bring cheer.
Jokes hold truth.
As the jester I know pain.

Smells of perfume and smoke beautiful eye's
and that invisable desire.
We dance in hope of capturing life.

To embrace in darkness.
The page can never capture the passion
of two lovers spark.

From behind the bar  I see life
for more than what others belive  it is.
Jokes comfort as the flirt kisses  the ego.

Napkins written with numbers passed encounters
promised.
Some never to know the light of day.

Hungover friends  gather whiskey  laced
plessures  with a tinge of regret.
But life is one play  my friends  that no
single act shall we froget.

The drink sit's neat apon the bar.
You can see blindley for years.
And never know who people truley are.

Drinks as people dont last long.
They gleam the same under neon light.
So friends always mix them strong.

Frozen was the ground warm was the flesh.
A total whiteout.
Yet not a single curve was missed through
such thin mesh.

She spoke frozen in the moment
to every word she said.
So cold was the night.
Warm was the bed.

Deep within  passion written with
with a kiss.
Warmth cannot be ignored.
Even on a snow covered night like this.

Snow drifts slowley as i view
the moon's light illuminate your
silhouette as across the room you slowley walk.
Confessions in the key of plessure
with such gentle pillow talk.

Ice cicles  and love bites.
Memories etched deeply within are hearts.
From these lovesick nights.

And as snow does melt.
We will not question every little word said.
Just cheerish the moments.
When cold was the night.
And warm was the bed.