Where's the beauty without the cracks?
What is color without black?
Where's the the love without the hurt?
What is success without work?

I like you better broken
You look prettier when you bleed
I like you better torn open
There's music in your screams.

Where's the happy without the sad?
What is lucid without knowing mad?
Where is life without death?
What is having if nothing left?

I like you better shattered
Sharp edges glitter in moonlight.
You look so beautiful hurting
In too much pain to sleep at night.

The pieces don't fit, who's going to fix it?
You can't stand, can't sit, who's going to fix you?
The bleeding won't quit, who's going to fix it?
Fight or flight, run or hit, who's going to fix you?

I like you better broken
There's nothing here to mend.
I like you better bleeding
With your heart in my hand.

With your heart in my hand.

Let's be children for a day (for a year)
And forget where the hell we came from
.
.
.
Forget where we're going.
We'll run and play and smile
And leave our nihilistic thoughts coughing in the dust.

Then we'll grow up all over again in a second
And files taxes while staring at a blank TV screen
Until we realize there's nothing more to do besides cry
Besides scream
Besides laying down and waiting for death to visit.

We'll clean the house until it's ***** and
We'll invite over a party of the entire world
And together we'll dance in a vertigo of color and light...
Until the last soul has gone home.
And we'll grow up all over again for the first time in a second.

We'll remember fear and send that country home.
We'll remember hate and send those people home.
We'll remember society and dress those people like us.
We'll remember money and haggle with that nation before we head to work.
We'll remember anger and fight and take that country's home for ourselves.

Now that we've grown up, we'll sneer at that dropout on the streets.
And that family who can't afford another bill.
And that mother without a husband.
And that husband with a husband.
And that wife with a wife.
And that child who's pursuing art.

See, now that we've grown up, we can't be seen with them.
We've grown too heavy for the clouds our heads used to live in.
Our heads are too dense for us to look up at old dreams.
But our hands are still light enough to tie a tie
And button our dress shirts.
Light enough to pay the train fare
And hand in a daily report to the boss.

I don't need a rhyme scheme to describe humanity.
There's nothing beautiful about it.
There's nothing that incites a beat.
I don't need a rhyme scheme for this.
I don't need to write a song without music
For something that never knew how to sing.

Words** ,
What do you make of it?
So saccharine
So chasmic
Yet
So raw
So excruciating.
That It guzzles your heart bit by bit
Words,
What do you make of it
When you see them caper
As you see your feet in rain
Or when you witness it
Spanking scorn on people’s mind
And forcing them to spend those sleepless night,
Why so confusing are them words?
Why the scent of them arouses a writer’s heart
And becomes a cause or,
An apocalypse.
What do you make of it?
When it pushes you to the apex
Or drags you down to the burning fiasco
And you think it Is fix
Words, that makes schadenfreude
Alive,
Death scary
And life so obsessing?
The base of hopes,  
Wings of imagination
The eyes of love
A scent, of imagination
A magic
A poison
A tower so bright
Somewhere in horizon
Words,
So many yet so little
Things to say
But, words are them
What do you make of it?