I could do anything I want to do.
I could be anything if I wanted to.
But I'll waste my time
living a beautiful lie.
At least I can say that I
lived while I was alive.

In a way, the whole human experience is laid out in reverse.

The more life we give to others, the younger we become.

As we give, we live.

With what we take, we make.

Our true selves, then, are not found.

They are created.

Don't tell me I'm wrong for falling in love.
What's wrong is you pushing me away.
The look in your eyes, like I'm someone you never knew.
Tell me, what exactly did I do?

So often we freeze away fears.
We're afraid of the truth in our tears.
We stumble upon our own sadness,
in a desperate mine for madness.
So what is it we shall become?
A moment shared by none?
If we leave all our todays in the pits of tomorrow,
what moments will we create
but sorrow?

Hold me and tell your tales of gore.
Kiss me 'till my lips are sore.
Passion's run our veins out dry.
But I'm much too blind to consider why.

I crave your bruises on my neck.
Screaming, but we're not done.
Two denim lovers, hearts a wreck.
Pumping 'till we both hum.

Attached at the tongue you say?
I'd only ever ride that way.

Drag me across the floor and then
Kiss me all over again.
Leave no question marks this time as you pull my skin in synchronizing rhymes.

Kiss me like the wars are done.
Kiss me 'till we both feel numb.
Kiss me 'till we both taste blood and stars dance behind our eyes.

Don't leave my side 'till you decide my fire's best left replenished.
Once our time's done, and my neck is hung, you can carry on with your fetish.

Love me then leave me
Lonely, cold on the street.
Sick and dumb,
Just another discarded piece of gum.

A shut in, I guess.
A dreamer, at best.
A star among a constellation at rest.
Hopeless? Pure?
Perfect? Obscure?
If only these eyes could reminisce
of tales told by the sky's first breath.

I get that you're upset,
but don't put that **** on me.
It's you're bag to carry, mister;
every lie you say, you scream.
I'm ******* done with all your crap.
Call me ****** if you wish.
But soon I'm out, I'll be rid of you
and your rancid poison tongue.

Star struck by stardust,
got caught in my eye.
Living a lonely one,
defining a lie.
Singing wrong verses
They're all out of time.
Which leads me to wonder
if anything's right.

I never really see you anymore.
It's not like you're a stranger,
more like a dark, faded puzzle.
Your words are filled with Socrates,
and your lungs with burning leaves.

Life's too short to not say what you mean;
but it's also long enough for your words to really sting.
Watch your thoughts when you're alone,
and your words when you're surrounded.
It's just fine to live up in the clouds,
so long your soul stays grounded.

I never wish to grow old
and become numb to the things
that bring me life, laughter & love,
the most prosperous gains.
Instead of gray hair, I ask for budding wisdom & truth.
I'll trade a life with ten cats, for ten short years with you.
I'll dream away time.
Into space & spirals.
I'll trace your wrist with my thumb
just like when we were young.

Two brilliant minds, they always clash;
an equally twisted & subfuscous past.
Intelligently designed by lonely stardust;
contradictory statements are always a must.
Born not to flesh, but to sky.
Dreams not of purpose, but life.
They live within our darkest desires,
most manifest when spoken in choir.
Long be the rule of us,
the creation who trips upon tongue.
When pens aren't enough to write,
return to our home; Starlight.

Presently convinced my mind has gone amiss.
Where from me, betrayed, does my current filter lay?
Under the stars? Over the moon?
Locked away in complacent solitude?
I refuse to wonder, or dream, or wander.
I must do what I can with this joke of a hand.

something should be said
to these voices in my head.

I only wish to see the artist play
a game that does not interfere with this.
A portrait of a mind that doesn’t stay
in line with what is taught to all our kids.
A nuclear weapon set to self destruct
a tiny tear in threadless high design
an addict who is honest to the rug
to which he whispers into every night.
I want to see the artist make a dent,
to smash the frame until it’s fine enough
to form into a line he might regret
and breathe it in until he can’t stand up.
How obvious the stakes become, at last
when every perfect piece is printed fast.