You make man made gods with your colors and screens
But can you knit hearts with holding hands?
No
For you are far from the keys that turn to open these doors
To slay the selfish dragon
And behold the wisdom of selflessness
This is to become humility

**** mine eyes,
For I wrap them in the sun of days made shade by these specter hands,
That's right you're a nightly spectacle set upon a dial counting days with your fingertips sewing these lips with a strand of the melancholy black band string,
Ring the twelfth bell toll to tell tales of the twilight nights not kept by dreams, it seems my seams shall not snap against these silent sounds of reasoning,
For I am bathing in the bath of my backwards ways,
Oh emotions ocean, will your motion swallow me?
Can I be like your sons, walking on water with wooden ships,
No,
For by my burning rights,
My heart is embers,
I remember that my covenant would sink me,
So think of me,
I'm at the bottom of the sea,
You'll find me in the grave of lesser explorations,
Where all the sailors sleep,
Reaping seeds of defeat,
Sewn into water,
Water without end,
Lo,
Waves wash over my body
Crashing against your feet
The sea has taken me,
Whole

As red draped pride runs down your shoulder
You'll only get older with paper cut eyes watchin' your crush wrapped round with chain sand ties while the gap between the ocean and the land swallows every one of her pretty little red feather strands as you stand on the beach with each of your bleeding iris television screens screaming back at the black hole tide of the wide wide guilt you've built with that consumer brick and mortar
Making cookie cutter chimney smoke houses for people to scream
"All hail the order of processed foods and artificial moods" out of
Yes, let us revere with a hungry ear those advertised emotions promised with the motions of the afternoon beer commercial and smiling twinkle twinkle billboard and then the next day hangover
Over and
over and
over and
being sober is just too civilized for these vicious cycles of primitive fickle trickles of substances that tickles the top of your mouth with either smoke or bad water jumping over the south of your gums that numbs the border patrol security of your conscience all because that pale skinned red bird beauty keeps flapping you by to skies too far away to count all the stars in her eyes that you kept a record of,
You're slowly losing your life and your soul with a sharp knife highway toll for the tax benefits of a bleeding black and white Lobo hell that exists back inside those paper wounded pixelated water works we were just talking about
Get it out
Get it out
It's ok,
Let me comfort you with the pleasure of the day
Over and
over and
over and
over
and


[Good news! With all this television static you wont have to look at her face anymore! Enjoy the rest of your day!]

So I sew stitches around the crown made of fingers twisted like a tangled dandelion strangled garden worn as a closet to hide my crafted paper daft boxes that I keep my skeletons in because their keyholes keep appearing on my face,
If you destroyed like me you'd see that ashes are the outcome of a matchstick man,
I cannot rest my head yet on my pillows made of dead rabbits feet and fox tails until I store them in their little coffee can tin jars far under this mattress pad of nails,
Warm words in cold rooms subsumes the silent night screens projected over by my rising motion picture smoke breath that my eyes watch alone now at a distance starting from my lucky lucky steel dagger full sized sheet set and ending at an omen reflecting my separation anxieties coming from my lungs,
Yet loneliness is the only person neatly tucked between it other than my own broken battered body with a shiver and a quiver discretely manifesting,
And like white ghosts the stars watch me sleeping at night,
You can flog all my windows,
But I'll still be sleeping at night,
I'll miss all your wake up calls,
Every single one,
So I let the music play,
Because noise cancels noise inside an introverted fire starter

You're the one to pluck the pricking rows from the gathering rose
Gracing heads in the hours of cowards
I saw you wishing at the well speaking spells without change and a bucket full of mouths
No nickel
Sans silver
I know no drunken night will get rid of the bones you have hid skin deep without fair or fond beauty
I thought you knew that broken boys were made of burning wings and puppet strings
Sticks
Bones
Glass
Stones
They bow down to my crown
So please speak the mind of your weak and shaking knees
Ease us all and tell how tall you can scrape a sun-less sky before I judge this trail of wax and feathers with a burning back
Call the red light whistles: I'm having an angry young life mistake heart break attack
You never said whether the weather was flame or shower
So my marching men cower you see, being made of wood
In fire or water a daughter of either nemesis elements will make them all fall down
You should mourn you thorn torn mess wrapped in a pedal-less dress
You dared to reckon with the second son of death
And I did not breathe my first breath being born between two eyes seeing any form of life out there
And I did not believe you'd relieve the constant arch sparking the greener side no longer cleaner than the duller parallel due to forest fires
Button up that shirt, and have you tied your black tie?
The beholder has died
We must mourn the values torn between flawed judgment cawed by a bird’s eye view watching you from petty pictures and a meaningless word they heard from the latter mentioned bucket as two of them are cracking your glass with one stone like
"You foolish fool, hasn't life shown you heaven never listens at 11:11?"
And melting the unleavened within my frowned mouth with spit and a tear I fear for you while my eye is watching it all from a distance in an instance of sickness and sadness
"What is this madness? My body is not made to witness a price paid with another laid down and made dead. In my head there are funerals, in my head there's parades; both celebrations for a nation in heartache full of memories bowing down below the crown that they break. And I refuse to let the pieces of my transparent house be collected by mavericks. Time ticks on the dawn of dying days. With words up my sleeves, I continue my melancholy ways."

You're just a plot,
For your art is sorrow

They said,
"You are Icarus!"
Because I dared to hide my face from the sun,
I do not build these heights on wax,
And the wind is not my champion,
I shall not melt my man made matters,
Under a star setting on days doomed to dissonance