Crippled creature broken in ballistic bone fracture about the blind tile,
freckled in blade licked flesh,
back strap shoulder blades quiver gaunt as skeleton wings
sprinkled in splashed satin fruitless reds and auburn oils,
the child’s insides splattered across the stomach of the floor,
limp muscle binding that of bundled circuitry,  
the boy only resembling needle and sticks
a mass of anatomy straightened out in lifeless splendor,
bone splinters clotted in saw dust muscle grindings
the face showered in locks and tangles,
galaxies and embered suns,
tassels golden simmered,
the creature’s hair a mane torn over his black socket eyes,
fierce in ferocity growling,
a monstrous roaring of prideful bangs,
Fallow face and cheek stomped to the floor as a rag
his form splashed about ground and surface.
Skin nearly bleached in cancer cell white,
a body folded as parchment, joints and ligament playing the part
lightless strewn as an idea lost in lifeless.
A white room hollow, muteness staling,
the busting of a boy broken in scaffold limbs torn
intwined amongst netted nerves wound about spindled bone
branched out in checkered blood stain
Shattered arms resembling puzzle pieced wings,
boy bathed in synthetic sunlight kisses,
But a watch crushed in brittle bronze shards about God’s feet

That’s me,
but is it me
or just the thing
I’ve grown accustomed to wearing as my face and skin.
Does a mask ever dream of being the face,
does fiction ever fake being for real,
when does pretending become acting
and acting grow into living.
Am I who I was or am I what’s left,
is my soul staring at me from this mirror or someone else.
God’s playing tricks,
and I’m falling in everyone.
I’m not staring into a mirror,
I’m staring out of it,
I’m the mask cloaked across these burning eyes.
I was never me,
I was just playing the role of me as someone else
and now they’ve lost who they were and I fill the shoes.
These shoes are uncomfortably heavy,
they’re crushing the sanity I’m pretending to have,
and now the worlds coming to end,
I’m losing this war.
I don’t exist,
I was just a mask worn to fool the world,
I am no person
just the memory remains splattered across his shoes.
I Am….
I Am…..
i am…me and he is not him,
because he was never a he I am he,
there was never a mask for I never needed one.
This world never challenged me to hide from its devilish eyes
as I am no fool to its cowardly ways,
and I most certainly am no mask.
No skin to hide behind,
no lie to cower under,
for I am the mind of this body.
I am the reflection across that mirror
and I am the misunderstood individual before it.
That is me and this is I.

It wasn’t me,
so I kept pleading
not only to the suspicious uniformed figures
impatient and wide
in front of my only means of escape,
but to my still scuffed and blood stained self.
The steel hearted butcher blade
appeared fairly realistic and believable
discarded on the hard wood floor,
and the ocean of rosy glazed blood
accompanying it seems to match the scene drawn out
in my now deceased neighbor’s house.
The ****** weapon strewn across the floor,
the body torn vicious and ****** in its own house,
my ****** and violent appearance
with the full audience of two curious officers.
I now wonder if it was me,
could it be, is it.
Oh well even if it isn’t
these cops could really complicate things
if they decide to take me in,
good thing I keep a spare blade hidden in my sleeve.

Burning down,
blazing round,
I’m the monster in this undying,
blame these wounds,
and open this sky.
Spite this thing of once kindled joy,
slaughter forth,
and live this line.
******* flaw,
linger on edges sharp and tainted,
burn me round,
blaze me down
and shake the pain away.
I’m the wrong,
that’s the wrathful,
**** my exist and bury these memories.
I the monster,
these are the claws,
****** me and live away,
burn me down,
twist me out and turn around.
Pull the gun to life,
shake the frustrate,
watch the show unfold,
****** me under the moon oh so a glow.
Forfeit,
give way,
forget and hate me.
I’m the end to this dreading day,
nightmare this and burn me away.
Burn me down,
blazing round,
**** and bury,
die and live,
roar until there is no end.
I the wrong,
you the right,
I the cruel,
you the never-ending song.  
Forever live on and on.

(For the Words of LIFE have already been spoken tens of Times over through the Centuries)*


I’d write,
spill out words,
letters binded and bond,
pasted to structure and form.
Language to engage and interact,
to mean and defy,
but this tongue of fingers,
lips of print and digital paper
have laser printed the world out upon the glitter of the screen.
Whispered to sing
and shriek sonnets of the reality I’m chuckling within,
presence surrounding.
I’ve spent shadowed years to form my personalized blue prints,
the architecture of the emotions and logics,
the laws to routines I’ve overseen.
I’ve grasped reality and found a serene among terror and sadness,
wretched and blurred.
Obviously I can contain contentnous when I’m so lavished,
family surrounding,
medium wealth cloaked about me,
but it only gives me even more reason to convey calm,
control, and content.
I’ve bathed among aloneness to puzzle about in confuse and wonder,
figuring to form a philosophy.
There is nothing left to pass against the parched flesh of my lips,
for the universe has already grasped it within the wind.
Devoured my sense of self and awareness,
there’s little left to say when every significant philosophy and observation
I’ve known and could provide
I’ve already said
or has been said
for it is but a well known to sought after cliché or element of the living.
What’s left to speak when every thought feels as common knowledge.

The fuzzy hug that never loosens its grasp
Clutching as a barbed wire hugs and puppies cuddle and love,
whiskers and noses nuzzling, the straitjacket loves your mind,
wishes it could just squeeze the nightmares out and streaming as juices from an orange,
but its might only pressurizes, the more you fight the more you hurt,
bruising our precious straitjacket heart, he’s here to help us
take the tasks of fettering hands
just to hug and coil about us
Learn to love them, the society blanket,
the crazy snuggler, the bunny constrictor
Crazy’s not useful and our little straitjacket cures our woes
strangling us within linen cotton folds
simmer our fires
breaking our bronc
hushing our tantrum cry
It’s the mother we Learn to love
Kin that keeps us in heavenly grip
The Straitjacket’s here for all our insanists

The insane live forever,
lust lawlessly over all things conceived fascinating
to the validity and gluttony of the mind.
Brain feasters we live to strive,
exist to be,
all things so mundane to our gluttony,
we hunger for something on border lines,
the limits of human mumbling over morality.

Cease your everest squirming,
your infantile homage bearing,
you find so viscous an evil,
so vile a fiend in us the broken chains.
Godless we sing the marching banter of forlorn free will,
we have no conscience to bear,
no after thought found alive anywhere.
The psychopath lurches out about child like smiles,
lives a second agenda basis before any infant experiments sin upon innocence.
Born divine this mutant knows free will without restriction,
closer to a limitless ever enveloping power than any mortal.

Breed me a man slewing monster,
a shape shifting skeleton reaper,
those that fear this untouchable being,
this godless singularity,
fear the very will we wish to contort,
constrain,
control,
but a demon answers only to that of it’s own greed,
no man may quiet its roaring,
its heartless contortioning.
It’s an angel without a heart beat,
a cadaver with a taste for its own flesh,
make me a monster manufactured under every roof,
we’ve got too much human to feel.