How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.

she wears 12 human teeth around her neck and when i ask why she tells me it's art
but i cant help but wonder where she got those teeth and if she made the necklace or did she buy it?
are they real teeth or just molds of something that used to be?
and is she a sick psychopath or just an unusual artist?  
as the weeks go by i touch the teeth they're real, they're human, shes sick
there's 14 teeth on the string now and she holds them in her palms
tears down her face she plucks, like petals, the teeth, shes sick

grabs her hair, cuts chunk by chunk off her head
i grab the knife still she cries she wont let go shes sick
we walk in the house, bodies,
bodies!
dismembered people strewn about her kitchen
how can the neighbors stand the smell?
i count, one two three fourteen shes sick, dear god, she's sick!
she cries she screams look what I've done!
its art! she cries it's art!  

the sirens come close who called?
thirty i mean sixty men push through the door surround
put our hands on our heads why me ?!

i scream she screams our hands go up
i close my eyes make it stop please god just make it stop
open shes gone i turn around the cops aim straight
flashes flashes flashing back to the night
its me, it's me, dear god, i'm sick!

News feeds and nose bleeds,

staring back through the screen,

shouting, and screaming,

everyone is doing fine if you catch my meaning,

photographers and band members,

but the poet, no one remembers,

singers are showing their songs,

and painters are filling their bongs,

messengers going on benders,

but the poet, no one remembers,

they are burning up the page,

with their eyes filled with ambitious rage,

saying things that have meanings to another,

everyone likes,

everyone acts like future lenders,

but the poet, no one remembers,

everything is great,

in the pictures they take,

doing something that matters to the rest of the Earth,

people heralding what they have done since their birth,

born into ambition,

showing another used up rendition,

to them, it is but just the beginning of soon to be embers,

but the poet, no one remembers