i have been burning my whole life.
encased in immaculate flames,
flying too close to the sun
on these fragile wax wings.

— an image of icarus

my mouth is full of burning candles
and hot wax seeps from between my teeth.
my tongue knows nothing but rage and fire
and i don’t know whether to swallow this flame
and choke on the smoke until the heat burns holes in my throat,
or to spit it out
and watch everything around me burn down.

— impulse control

do i believe in god?
i’m afraid i do not have an answer to that,
it’s hard to believe when all you see is this world’s cruelty.
but if they have seen the things i’ve seen
and experienced what in this world has been,
then god’s eyes must be just as tired,
just as sad,
just as done as me.

— what do you believe?

how fitting, i thought,
that it rained the day you left.
a torrential downpour
took away all my breath.
but as quick as it came it left
and the rain ceased to be
and i was left in the dark of my car
just the sound of the road beneath me.

— to say i miss you would be an understatement

when roses rooted in your heart,
you let their beauty grow.
but in the beauty of their blood red petals,
you forgot about their thorns.

— beware what lies beneath the beauty

i stare into the mirror and tired eyes stare back. a broken smile, ink drops dripping from tilted teeth, licorice liquid pulsating through vaurien veins. i can hear the beating of my heart in my ears, echoes of once was, this is, and will be's. she whispers to me. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it me?

the mirror stares back into me and wicked tongues weep. what words do you say and what do they mean?  what does it matter with words you can’t keep. static stains this tabescent mind, ink drops dripping like spilled scarlet wine, whiskey words of whispered repeats. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it he?

i do not speak like a poet.
my words are clumsy and callous
and i often trip over my own tongue.
there is no beauty to my words
or thought to my form,
and my voice does not fall soft and slow
like honey song, drizzled sweetly into willing ears.
rather it is raspy and quick-tongued,
laced with mispronounced words and oddly said accents.
my sentences race ragged and jumpy,
with capricious contours and half-finished phrases,
and i often lose my train of thought.
impulsive and unrefined,
i do not speak like a poet.

— but on paper i am a different person