The chains grow red
The taste of the teeth I ground away
I talk too much (not that I didn't know already)
And I hate myself for it.

Change! Where does it come?
Why do I try when all I end up feeling is alone?
**** my soul with the taint of struggle
To pursue everything but the American dream.

My place is no where.
Into space is everything I want to bleed
The filter in my head (has never been present)
And I hate myself for it.

Please! All my friends come to my aid!
This is a cry for help if I had any.
Fake my happiness every time you ask me
If I found anything that works for me.

Lessons learned untie in my mind
All the smoke clouds are fogging my up inside
My father once told me to shut the **** up
He told me to speak when spoken to.
I dominate the conversation
Obviously I have no place
I never know when to talk to someone
I never know what I shouldn't say

Letting go of the rose
Just keeping the thorns in my hands
There's a gun in the next room
And if I sneak past him I can bring it to my bed

Stay alive! Thats all I try
But why when I push all I love away?
Things I invest in I can never stick with
I put one egg in every basket
And I can no longer mask it
I got all my eggs in every basket
But I have no right to ask it
Why can't I be good at anything?

(Cry for help)
(Look to sky)
(Try to hope)
(Don't see why)
Should I?

For the longest time, words were like bricks in the mouth. Weighing down, suffocating and harmful.
For the shortest time, words flowed like so many rivers headed home through drying basins, rising rivers, past gargantuan sheets of ice and through the town one may call home.
                                                                ­                   Sealed shut.
                                                           ­                The words build again.
Thoughts, memories, ideas, the resentful wave of hiemal turquoise waters crashing upon the furrowed brow of inconsequence. To tell truths would be dignified, one isn't always able to choose such an ideology. Often an ideology is ****** upon the undeserved. Perhaps through social conditioning or other such time honoured institutions. History should not and yet does often repeat itself.

Although each generation is different,
as is every single person that,
does walk this planet,
has walked this planet,
and ever will walk this fine planet.  
                                                       ­                Cosmos over Chaos
For those that choose to read, the world is yours, the plants, the animals, every Microorganism, each and every grain of sand that litters the shorelines like a googolplex of fine jewels for an undecided amount of monarchs, rulers of lands and emperors of distant planets that in no way resemble our own. For you are such people.
For those that choose to love, amour you shall receive, every kiss that screams of desire, every touch of heavenly organs, every man woman and child that has ever felt the imperious desire to hold another body closer than is physically possible.  In this dimension at least. Every time one embraces another you shall feel love. You shall experience me as I experience you. Worlds apart, countries apart, towns, villages, houses apart, metres apart... atoms apart.
                                                       You will be of one ever tender consciousness.
                                                  ­                  The truest of all consciousness.
                                                  ­                                         One.

This liquor tastes like
a loaded gun
Each sip propelling bullets
through memories of someone,
I can't remember who
so I guess it's working  
as my brain tilts this room

This smoke feels like
the gentle embrace
of my mother,
before she divorced my father
Now she doesn't even bother
getting out of bed

I'm sick and tired
of pulling the trigger
on every ****** beer
trying to steer this
body clear so my mind
can keep on thinking itself
to death

Just like most Christians
I believe in the Bible
I won’t know when the world ends, but when it does
For my sins, only I will be liable
The Apocalypse will sneak up on us in a sense
It will sneak up and flip our lives upside down… That’s intense
Intensity in a lot more than ten cities
Then money becomes just paper, no awe at the sky scraper
And all in an instant, a fate that seemed distant
A fate that you blew off, becomes so significant
How come we’re not cautious of such horrors atrocious?
It seems we got born… and from our ‘morals’ got torn
We live and we sin… Though He’s not surprised
He knows what we are all capable of…
Good and bad
No shock in His eyes
But I sit back and ponder… I wonder sometimes
Am I predominantly good or bad?
How do I appear through those eyes?
I don’t fret about ‘The End’ so much… you see, everyone dies
We all have our views and beliefs… even the atheist his
I’m in no position to judge him… I just live mine, and await my surprise
But sometimes I wonder, just a bit… but I do
What if the Mayan’s prediction of the last days is true?

I want you to know
That you are dear to me
Though I know not your name
You are special
You are you
And that is something no one else can achieve,
but you and you alone.

held up in gutterwork masterpieces,
half a shard of torn and ragged paper edged on,
where once it bore, proud and in eager definition,
a reminder of little importance or,
a note of sweet insincerity or,
the last refuge of an eviscerated mind;
and, lost to entropic freedom,
no-body would care to ever even want to begin deciphering those smears.
not that they could, anyway.

the death of parking lot culture,
they say,
is all down to the skin on the teeth,
of a couple earthquake-gowned security wardens,
and the irresistible clamour
of city lights:
"just gotta get away, get outta this place" you say,
when you haven't slept
a real night
in three or so months, at last count, in the best-case,
whereas the real tragedy
is the drizzle,
that you're sure
will never,
ever,
cease to fall,
inside of you,
even though you keep telling yourself,
it's still just a lie.
it's all just a storytime fabrication.
it's all just waiting to fall apart.

and you're just hoping it's sometime soon.

I've got this sinking
feeling in my chest
I hate to say I've got
to go
when we just
met

But I hope
you know
That if I
controlled the clocks
I'd set them back
so I could
spend the time
I wish I had
with you.

And there are obstacles before me,
But I oh so love the challenge,
And while I burn with a fever,
It is the fire that fuels my passions.