Alone because it behooves me, it suits me like clothes that's too old to throw away.

Music playing but it isn't mine, and I have no say over what it says.

Betrayal is in my midst and underneath all my lines.

But because I know, I cannot say they are all lies.

Love has seemed to be the most perilous of ending themes, in that it begins but never flees past the initial scenes.

I am not alone, but accompanied by my mind.

The butterfly with knives for wings,
she stings far more than she sings,
and her colours are pronounced because she's chosen to never hide.

A yellow stem, birthing her blend to the sunshine,
lively and fiery, an embattlement of emotions and potions,
the soul of a bird who no longer gives way to commotions.

Behind her, are her eyes, because that presence never hides,
fading like before, are only the flowers and green vines,
moving perpetually forward, her fury is now kind.

Give them peace, write them lines,
float amongst the beasts, let death be an unthought of rind,

Let wings flutter, be in who the ever-working bees confide.

Let's feel the steam,
turn it up,
slide your fingers across the sheen,
bliss,
being traced by your fingertips,
drawing to a kiss.

See through,
and you're the painting,
the wall is blue, we're the pink and
subtle red.

Those locks call my digits their keys,
but they're drenched and so I just squeeze,
I felt the wall tremble, with every nibble,
from careful artwork, to fierce scribbles.

I am a master at work, in the palm of his muse,
the oils and stream, our dance, we fuse,

She is a mastress at work, in the storm of his mind,
thunder and lightning, an unbothered vine.

I promise I won't let go...
I know there's things at our throat,
and our backs don't have much further to go,

It looks like there's cliffs waiting for us,
I don't think things will be good for us again,
but if you told me infinity was at my back,
I'd press forward to the never coming end

It's kinda like drowning, or having emotions poured into your head,
kinda like hypno glasses spiraling in reverse,
releasing feelings into things we don't comprehend,
basically it hurts.

Tricks of the trade,
when nothingness becomes something bold,
like that last number a paper did fold,
so you call and call,
playing a tone through all the halls,
and bridges falling down,
and houses no one has found,
in the midst of filled place people call a town,
with no air that doesn't walk brisk,
no stories sharing besides with a fist,
oh, how we see the things we wish to seed,
misery makes a mess and not just of me,
history is the best when it isn't your story,
or when you have a place that isn't this stormy,
and you're looking back and proud to hear his story,
of how he met her on some rainy day, and pain and clouds,
isn't the only thing she took away, because ultimately she gave,
and it's a perfect trial, fair and just, harmonious and without grave,
so she calls and he answers her name, until one gives, and steps,
past their hallway into yet another loving place, their bedroom,
their headroom totally unbetrayed by anything except play
loving the quarters and the pennies others throw away,
stopping never and only ever desiring to say, I,
my dearest, love you, and I swear I'll stay,
and it goes without saying, this
could never have been amiss
and I will never miss you
and I beat for you
and I for you
for you
everything.

A fortunate fella, walks into a cellar,
and there hears a song, from a lowly bank teller.

She hands him the cash, he bestows her his soul,
unlike his spirit, the money wouldn't fold.

Eyes are made, unbeknownst to him,
the same as to all, like the blame that was hidden.

Let us just say, our boy was now smitten,
and her looking faint, somehow only he would fall.

The dance, like a horse ridden,
tame but unsolved.

The ball, everyone attended,
but only he seemed attentive.

Magic equipped them with calls,
lowlights befell neath the stars.

Highlighted pupils, of flames
and pasts absolved.

The story was just beginning,
but the end already solved.

Driving far, just for more time to listen,
out of gas, but no smile missing.

Fading fast, because three years pales to infinity,
a beautiful ocean gave way to commotion.

A corrupted affinity, a mirror that could bleed,
if it could tell the story, maybe he could breathe.

She spells like annotation,
never spills her invisible ink.

He holds all her knives,
along with her mittens.

One carelessly loves, the other
stops to think.

A heart made with questions,
a soul like a coat.

Betrothed and invested,
in the bank of her throat.

A person that is tested,
a tester who cannot know.

A safe, and a man that will trust it,
a teller that won't tell, and
an audience that already knows.

Let them read, past the wind,
have them say what we've written,
in their mind, in this time,
in the midst of us being


The night is fine
but you
are
divine, dripping rain of the goddess
of outside, of my life,
my wine.

Crestfallen, brokenhearted,
until
but you
became my line, my reason to get started,
my blood.

Consummate, assimilate,
become one, because you,
are
the star that rose up, at dawn,
my flower,
my vine.

Let them read, past the wind,
have them say what we've written,
in their mind, in this time,
in the midst of we drinking
of our goblet, divine,
throughout all time.

Envelopes upon any place I befell.

Notes written for the sake of forsaking what I thought created but knew I'd never know.

Such are the stories of the taken, and those held by their own throats.

Whiles the heart styles itself like bacon, on a table where the heart has chosen to sow.

Empty chairs for miles, empty seats and seething seeds, making files on how to not to be.

All my loves, are stones that have landed where I have thrown, empty handed, giving only a fate to be bestowed.

I'm so worried about everyone else dying,
and yet I'm the one who's going.

The door is at my neck and I'm still talking,
saying prayers while I'm being layered
with everything worse than anything cancerous.

My heart seems to ask questions,
wondering whose chance this is.

Speaking of the golden rule like I'm not buried
in gym socks and thoughts of second chances.

Fancy myself some kind of mancer,
hoping I start myself going,
stop myself from slowing.

I dreamt of you and woke up to go hug my mother,
I'm tired now, and moments ago me feels like another.

Staying still but rocking back and forth,
it's like a sway and fear what it has to say.

Maybe I'm lost, or finding myself in my own lost ways.
I don't know, and neither do you, I suppose,
is the best we can say.

It's all the same night, except for the background of getting worse,
I don't need to be understood,
but I don't want to end up in a hearse,
keep the period away, grant me further ellipses,
allow me to dream of her eyes, and how her lips kiss,

I've set the bar low, is what they say,
and allowed myself to **** off the feeling of dismay,
cannot see that I am burned while loving the sun's hottest rays,
sun bathing in an urn, keeping peace rather than being betrayed,
burnt to a crisp being the secret to bewray,

Midnight is the moon, and classic reverie,
a wishing and wanting like a fountain,
washing in my ears like an ocean I need not fear,
but it's quiet, when your company is only dead things,
grasping for life until you remember its sting,

Ultimately alchemical, and unfinished,
varnished by an unseeming finish,
fingers snapping at the air with no supernal intervention,
no cosmic charade or visual parade,
it just, ironically, ends.

my armor of life

is purely of light

I could hold her, before she bestows

eternity with beauty, merely by flight,

I've cast eyes on a curse,

i'm trembling unrehearsed,

this might be the beginning of the worst

spare me, call the hearse, tell them I'm not answering,

he might have truly succumbed to the words.

The clock is ticking,
the realization is what hurts the most,
I can fly through the seconds,
glide past the minutes,
scratch through every waking moment,
and yet, it is looking at it that draws any blood,

My hands, I see you cracking,
under the pressure of merely existing,
all these words, coming from us millions bored,
consequences of living, both sublime and repugnant,
subliminal and explicit, corroding towards the same distance,

Snap, twang, click, slap,
exploding, all to the same foreboding,
shadows and dark notes,
singing down the same halls,
crying to loves of different names and different faces,
all for the same tears and tears.

Some babies ain't made to make it,
sometimes you fake it till you break it,

but the sun shines and **** everything feels fine,
the wind blows and you'd might as well be living in a beautiful home,

food tastes so good, you have a family and aren't alone,
sounds so familiar you can pretend your dog isn't gone,

focusing so hard, studying, you might actually make it,
ready for the world, and no one is trying to take it,

smells like your favorite breakfast,
feels like christmas morning, beaming under a blanket,

I love you is awaiting you to enter a room,
favorite show coming on soon,

It's a beautiful morning, and all the babies make it,
It's a nice afternoon, grandma's gonna make it,

It's a nice sunset, you're no one's regret,
a gorgeous evening, nobody is leaving,

It's the night, and I'm dreaming.

I got one for you,
it is my tale,
the tail of a demon or dragon, I'd like to fancy,
probably something much more benign like a squirrel,
dare I say he's fierce and fancy,

Perhaps a monocle in the eye,
and style that grazes the periphery of glancing eyes,

Has a bold tree, with bold and brash leaves,
belonging in the heights of glory,
with a halo atop,
of course the rising sun's glowing, naturally,

Fun for the sake of it, life,
but a break of it,

Rifts waving from underneath your pits,
right there in the heart, have we all equipped,
the same care to stop and fidget, to play against
the rules of the play, without saying I quit.

You're twisted
again
Likeminded to the she devil
you promised you'd never be

Said we'd sit in the sun and swing,
but you talk me into it alone,
with no around

you command,
you magnify, everything till it's blue,

my angel, angling to have me dangle,
Like a fish

Push, bring in the light,
let ellipses fight

such a daring battle, to choose,
pleasure, or the night

the shield or the knight,
the steed or its might

whispering or shouting,
talking or jousting

grass or the darkness,
black air, or a full moonlight

passing you by, or drowning
in the midst of it.

howling, and it's all black outside, except, of course, the street lights,

a box to be untouched, because you can't hear or see what's in here,

I'll give everything to make you leave with nothing,

I am secondary to the love of my life,

we'll watch eclipses under romantic ellipses,

Welled up tears won't pour, and ambient noise won't be the score,

It'll be a silent painting, hung by ones that scream and

hung will it be in the finality of satisfied artistry

Bet and lose it all

Don't know what to feel, cuz you're lost in the fields,
and the roses don't want to talk no more,
You're my brother and I feel,  I hope your soul is outta steel,
because the weathers getting worse and the sweaters are a steal,
but the flowers don't want to talk anymore,
they just want you to kneel, take a breath, and make it last,
so the flowers cant ever talk anymore.

The lovers by the trees, skies blacker than not seeing,
and petals don't have any color anymore,
seem my mind for your sake, grab a hold and take,
what grip might slip, in the mind never shakes,
there's no colors to see, nor a mind to break,
the world isn't black no more.

In the clouds like a shield, in her eyes like a field,
and I stare but they don't blink anymore,
You're my lover and I feel, nothing like a colorless field,
I take your fingers, but they don't hold on, and you would never let go.

When the skin is pierced,
at that point,
your finger,
breaking past the ring,
like a midnight petal of drear,
to be called my dear.

To be called,
be near,
when everywhere you steer,
my dearest like a demon at my behest,
what about all the flowers,
are they not all a sum of hours.

Characters at loves command,
answering the sweetest beckoning,
now sullen and deafening,
at the rate of this infernal pounding,
a resounding no,
for the sake of your own rejection.

A mental machination,
the result of a twisted imagination,
is my last hope,
to deny that you are the bold face of fear,
the candle is the only thing alive here.

I won't know until it's that way, that it will ultimately be,
some call these lines vapid, and ultimately that's what they'll be,

Smoke or vapor, hard drugs or paperwork, smiles or kisses,
lies or tales of false blisses, perhaps a wise story to gain a misses,

fingernails or the rope, both burn and can end hope,
one cries, the other won't even know,

ducks flying by, quack, quack, quack,
such a silly think can be such a needed crack,

***, drugs, and euphemisms,
The mister with a pen revealed a quack,

A trench coat full of waddly things,
administering precisely what it's like it seems,

care to mind only the seamstress, with thousand lake eyes,
and a beauty like you've never seen, pay only to her your mind.

It's a feeling,
that ends underneath the eyes,
and I couldn't tell you its beginning,
but ultimately it's called crying

kind of like skin that's torn,
maybe what you imagine,
if you picture a wooden shack,
pillaged, strewn about,
now make it beloved,
it's grandma's, or love
however you shape it

the teardrops seem to have only one way,
but don't dismiss them
they are varied

some come buried,
others help you drown,
some accompanied by a sound,
some fill the town, and others follow
only a silent frown

but you can smile too, when those dastardly things
are coming down.

Blessings to this shovel,
all praises to the sheen of a stolen thing,
having no place but the soul's face,
seated in my one seat,
minuscule in comparison,
to the finality of this grand thing,
the dirt and me,
begging for the killing,
a sunlight that's finally singin
a target worth stingin
how can the hum and buzz ultimately be
a hymn to a thing that couldn't be,
what tears are you talking about,
they are what make me,
and so I call out, and you shout back,
a dearest is what this must be.

Getting close is the best I've done,
and even then, it was still a distant run,

through the showers and floor being undone,
in the midst of shadows and a mist that spoke of fun,

they all say there's nothing there,
nothing to hold on to,
for that I am sorry,
but my apology is about being me,

the mean of hope and a fate disagreeing,
with instruments strumming,
for a thing unclear to be,
what's staring back at both of us,
I'll just smile,

for what is left, just further into this mess,
the same to drink,
and a wish from the same genie,

hoping for more coping,
not believing in the dystopian,
while living it in a chorus of chords now broken,

making music out of the screech,
twiddling fingers as if I'm playing,
but I'm laying dead on the stage,

and, at this point, it's worth it,
even underneath not a single petal,
to be seen.

The truest of all the colors seems to be the blues,
so shall I lie and refuse to speak of the sky,

Karma calling on behalf of Klarna,
chuckle because time can't go back, but it can smile,

Pay stubs from nineteen ninety-you-and-me,
money in the currency of the soul,

Percussion, playing concussion by
long drawl and forgotten words,

Tigers pretending to draw,
tigers, pretending to draw,

lasers pointed at the sky,
and no one is impressed and no one is coming,

A head bob with the life that is dying.
jam out. Fade out.