To hate what I've become is a habit,
I have it, this hatred.
Taking whats sacred from me and giving,
Donating
A living, breathing thing, still shaking.

A gift
Few take a chance to lift,
A kiss.
My Miss.

Burn me,
With acid.

Burn me
Alive.

I feel we have the same depth.
I measured it.
It is exactly 2 feet, 12 centimeters and one apple.
Sometimes two apples.
Depending on the weather in New Zealand,
And the size of the kiwi crop yield
divided by the length of a fault in Japan.
And how that effects the cherry blossoms.

Make a hole in a book without desecrating it.
I bled on a book once,
Not what I meant.

It has a rhythm
.
(period)

I hate that word
It, I hate
Vowels,
None.

Rhythm
Doesn't have itself.
Ameta.
Arhthmia.
Abeneficiary.
Maleficiary, actually.
Sinrhythmia.
Sinrhymia.
Sin
Los reglas.
Measure thing by the size of your thought, not
An inch.
Or centimeter.
I prefer the brits.
But not the hippies
I am one.
we are all one.
One with

A-god.
Not "a" god.
A-god.
As in.
Athea.
Without-thea.

God doesn't wear a suit.
Why should we.
*Cause I look ******* fiiiiiine.

Like butterfly wings, her eyes,
Flapping.
Every blink a gust.
Every thread a hue.
Searching for scents,
A new flower or two.
Or
Just one.

I can't control myself.
*I got it.

pacing around my bed at night
and leaving paths
through the back of my head
they are always there
just out of sight
ever at the corner of my eye
fleeting glimpses of greasy
black slinking behind me
tracking me through
the halls of my school
and the edges of my mind

a teddy bear is all that stands
between me and them
these things more real
than the people shooting me
worried glances

when i close my eyes
they are still there
red glowing eyes
yellow fangs

maybe if i hold tighter to my
teddy bear the world
will fall back into place