there's a heart of india ink bleeding through my system
it ripples through a different world
and comes right back through my lungs
saying "i'm sorry" took too long
indifferent in its sound, a guilty muse of apathetic pleasure
there was a man in france who died this week
dedicated his life to that of creating an ambient force of music
never settling for one medium of passion
spanning outwards evermore
they say he's inimitable
glorious
envied
my veins are wrapped around this reality-based darkness
it waltzes in my head
gory tenderness is my claim
i can't hum your story in the streets
but i'll rob you of your innocence
how you happily fall into the scheme of being
a heart of eden muse

chalk-slates and battlefields  
i'll write in cursive
whenever i get the chance
swirling through dust
scribbling my signature in the corner
running across decorated hills
it seems i'm already dead
chalk-slates and battlefields
maybe one day i'll learn to put a period
instead of a comma
but for now
chalk-slates and battlefields
i'll forever be a sentence.

I don't want to be a poem.
I don't want to be a poem.
I don't want to be a poem.

i stretch myself before you
dark streaks of charcoal
fading into shadows of shaded nightmares
from long, long ago
when i was a child
i used to paint myself in indigo
body as a canvas
mind as a painter
walking into our dismal kitchen
my mom told me she could barely recognise me
and i
body as a canvas
mind as a painter
hands as a fighter
i agreed
bending myself
into bands of charcoal.