i am sexually attracted to pencils.

You're a canvas smothered in fragmented glass
Mirror of beauty,
Aesthetics of God.
You're a plastic portal to the Ideal form,
Propped up on a cliff,
It leads to a brick wall.

Try to delve into yourself
Obsessed with the shining garbage on the outside
But it doesn't exist
It's just a painting.

You slice your hands as you attempt to claw your way inside
Blood dripping and staining and real,
It doesn't exist
You're just a painting

Painted by you,
Painted by them,
Painted by us.

I bit open a lie and it tasted like you.

What do I write about her
a girl artless mundane
fading years don't heal her scar
can't bury her smoldering pain.

Yet can't keep her out of mind
shut her behind closed door
time and again a place she finds
her face comes to the fore.

A bird she was dreaming a nest
a home and cold night's hearth
one shoulder to perch for rest
a caring heart to berth.

How cruel is the worldly way
that denies a soul of peace
shatters a life leads hopes astray
grants not the smallest wish.

For one night the moon was hers
stars bloomed in her eyes
till dreams broke by a monstrous curse
lay dead in the first sunrise.

She still lives a lonely spinster
on the ashes of long dead fire
her empty heart begs not a care
love she never aspires.

It's been awhile
since I've seen your face
in all that it is --
your inviting dimples,
the flecks of gold in your eyes,
the pinkish tones in your lips
-- and I can't take much more of it.