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She tries to make her voice sound like silk, maybe she succeeds.
I know what her real voice sounds like and it makes my ears bleed.
Walks with a swagger in her hips and doesn't look back.
Attempts to stride away from all the qualities she lacks.
Glowing, eyes like the spot where the storm meets the sea.
Who is that girl? Who could she be?
Looks familiar, swear to god... I think its me.

Caustic doorway blues
The fog sets in,
and the moon doesn't glow
when brick structures crumble
Rats in worn carpeting, writhing
The screaming from pensive terminals
and insects live on dead wood
trees felled in hollow rounds
This is the end of something warm
These are days of hydrogen loneliness
and grey skies applaud the tarmac
Pornographers snap pictures
of silhouettes in garages
and the playground hears no love
when gunshots deafen the trees
and the old mattress is sodden
Stale alcohol pungency
near the alleyway, dormant today
But the lights are still glowing
in the house by the canal
where somebody's memories still linger

My desk is scattered with
notes, drafts, prototypes,
of my love letters to the world.

Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of hieroglyphic ink,
pleading for my future self
to flesh the bone,

of the skeleton in my thoughts.

Beside them, the trusted red wine
to chase down the pressures
of the world, hold them in line.

Each sip, a godsend,
each bottle a promise
that love will never end.

The simple pleasure of a desk;
a confounding beauty,
the collage to your life
and all that preoccupies you.

Your personality is laid before you;
each picture, beer bottle, notebook,
a fragment of yourself.

My desk is scattered in
the loves, hates and frustrations
of my place within this world.

Ugly, thin spider-scrawls
of unintelligible ink,
pleading for some higher power
to flesh the bone,

of the skeleton that is myself.

what if the pen was the scalpel, ripping our chest open with flowers sprouting out haphazardly
what if we had the sun running through our veins, and night time made us temporarily unconscious
our bodies react as the paper, you let a stranger take a pen to you trusting them not to shred the floral
when one of the magnolias, gardenias, or chrysanthemums are cut, the rest all fall like dominoes
and the sunlight scatters like mice into new hosts as you spiral downward into unconsciousness
the secret of how i flourished through drought was my optimism and faith in others who failed me
the science of how i got through these psychological traumatic experiences were questionable
the seconds i've spent thinking about it have been seconds wasted forgetting about my future
i don't trust the time, i'm always caught observing the clock making sure that it ticks
maybe i don't believe in it's mechanics, it's acute accuracy, or it's clockwise spin
it's the numbers i don't trust, i'm certain of it, we're all made of numbers
we're all seconds, hours, days, months, and years counting down

- kra