Paint each tempered vein
Time for us to begin
Love is dreamt within the pain
Passion in the tailspin
Each word that cuts like knives
Etches in the soul
Never good at holding on
Even worse at letting go

Blank stares grasp onto me
Chilling my very bones
A seashell called love in an endless sea
Senses dulled, skills unhoned
Making up words, wanting something in turn
Promises worth ****
Choices made and choices lost
Perfectly off pitch

Time a constant except in death
A warden to my jail
Looking for a key inside of me
Tired, tried, failed
Peel back this skin, searching in depth
For a reason, crazy or sane
Time to look within myself
Search each tempered vein

Tender words spring
From her heartstrings
Tender words whisper no
Turn around, see
On the ground she
Whispers please, don't go
Hold tears no more
No reason for
Teardrops not to flow
Heart on a string
From whence tender words spring
Never let her go

I can't help but fall.
deeper,
            deeper,
                        deeper.
These little blue and white pills pull me so far down.
Into darkness.

After two, I feel my once tense muscles begin to relax.

Three more and my eyelids start to get heavy.

Four more, my mind eases; thoughts drain themselves away.

Five more, and consciousness escapes me.

A sea of medicated sleep engulfs me.
I float away, far deeper than my sober being could wallow.

Here, I can't hear the voices. Inside, or out.

No one to remind me what a disappointment I am.
No mirror to look into and think about how disgusting the thing is, staring back at me.
No overwhelming thoughts to motivate a razor across my body.
Nothing.
No one.
Just the comforting silence of sweet dreamless sleep.

The home of impressionnists
skirts the perinent point.
Jagged sarecrows dance amongst silhouettes
fields scoff in ribboned light
moves  banks from their justled perch.
I sense something wrong
bravados movement always sways,
yet wider strokes almost monumental
allow the grey to merge into the  still night..

your feet are falling apart again,
let me grab a new sole
for you, old soul,
sooth you down into your new low;
let me miss you and kiss you
in my head
because that’s what the books have led us to believe,
pity the painter who has to grieve.

you painted Death from the palette in your palm
as you looked up from your hospital bed calm
and delighted, but you’ve lost this fight tonight
darling.