A fresh cut, a new mar
Soon just another scar
One more to add to the collection
Every time I look in the mirror

Yet I still seek my reflection
A fresh cut, a new mar
I can't help but keep collectin

The sort of cuts I make
Could make minds break
And still I seek my rejection

I don't know how much I can take
My mind it's strong
But everywhere
There's another mirror

There's no escape
When the blades
Are my own eyes

Staring with their haunted cast
At a shadow cloaked in lies

These scars are ugly welts
I stare at shamefully
But the cuts need to be made
For I hate what's become of me

Release the clutch
Pin the throttle
Never felt so free
Never been so in touch

Bang second just before redline
Best rush you'll feel
Hands down every time

Straddling barely contained fury
As it pulls the wheel

I hit third doing ninety seven
I know I'm in the zone
Surely this must be heaven
This power has my mind blown

Fourth and one thirtys all I got
I need to change my backside
So I think now I'll cruise

I'll take Throttle therapy
Over any kinda *****

We slept on your living room floor that sweltering Summer. Our overheated bodies attempted to absorb the small amount of, cool, humid air escaping the deafening swamp cooler.
No matter the night, your eyes always closed first. Accompanied by your slow breath, the feeling of loneliness would fall over the room like a dense fog.
Despite my proximity to you I could not fight the feeling of singularity. If you would have folded yourself into me, I would have still needed you closer.
On some nights I would walk to the large window that faced a busy intersection, and watch as the city performed a symphony.
The changing of lights, the passing of cars, the drunk laughter of strangers.
Somehow these strangers felt more like home, than you ever could;
with them I was able to imagine possibilities, with you, I knew this was as close as I was ever going to be.
We were actors, waiting for someone to claim the role of the villain. I'm sorry I made you play the part.
Yesterday I passed the bench in Union Station where you would wait for my train. I imagined you there amongst the chatter, and honking horns and there I was, 8 years later, alone (with you) in the fog, again.

Excitement can be addictive
I know that because I am a recovering addict
What's wrong with peace I remind myself
no need to keep on running

I had a dream the other night,
                   I visited an old friend
                      who had died last Halloween.

He drank himself to death,
wet brain, liver failure,
the whole nine yards.

In my dream I asked him
    what it was like to be dead,
he said "Oh it's okay....
can I borrow five bucks?"

I don't know I said,
    "How can I be sure
               I'll get it back"

"Ah come on" he said,
"I'm five bucks short for a case"

I relented and we called a cab.
       The cab driver comes
            and he says to Barry,

"What's it like to be dead?"

My ink flows
as tears roll down my cheek
When I write of that chick
dressed in as snow
the heartbreaker

I write of her tales
the  worst of whom she is
a pretender worst than a murderer
to me an angel she was in my point of view
hoping to have found my perfect match
Only to judge a book by its cover

In my nolstagic memory ,I recall
her beauty and hardwork she was
As time went by ,beauty and hardwork fades away.
Only to learn she's a fox amongst sheep

All that glitters is not gold

DO YOU REMEMBER THE NIGHT I HAD SIX DRINKS AND YOU HAD NONE

BECAUSE I DON'T

I know where you are right now because I have been there too, I know how it feels to be so sad for so long that you can't imagine being happy again, to be so sad for so long that you stop trying to be happy again and so you just feed the sadness, just try to give it what it wants in the hope that it will be content enough to spare you, but feeding it only helps it grow. You have to starve it out. You have to lock it up, have to tell it "no", have to fight it. It will claw at the back of your eyelids, it will moan and howl so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts, you will ache because it is aching and you and it are one but you have to remind yourself that it is created entirely of you, but only a portion of you is made of it. You have to make it shrink. It will not be easy. There will be days when you give in, when you feel bad for it, withering away, and so you throw it scraps of food under the table but there will also be days when it is silent. It will have grown so weak that it can no longer pound on the door, it will lie still there in the dark and you will forget about it, if only for a moment, and you have to hold onto that. There will be good days, days when you think to yourself "this is how happy people feel on a regular basis," days that remind you why you are fighting this beast in the first place and the next day may be bad again, you may not hear that silence again for weeks but when you cannot see an end to this torture, you have to remind yourself of the good days, you have to keep them tucked underneath your pillow and reminisce about the way walking felt easy for a day before you go to bed, you have to keep telling yourself that although this is an uphill battle, it will be so much easier on the way down the other side and the view from the mountaintop is breathtaking. You have to convince yourself that you want that mountaintop, have to tell yourself that the good days are worth the fight, that the sadness will not last forever, that you are not made of darkness although it is made of you. You have to starve it out; it is so much easier to live when you only have to feed yourself.