I have a thing for broken things.
I'll hold onto something forever thinking that i'll fix it but maybe i like things broken too much.  or maybe some things are more beautiful broken, even if its got more sharp corners and rough edges.
or maybe i just don't care enough to go all the way.


Maybe, maybe all the bits and pieces are only looking for each other.  The pop tabs and the coins that sit in the gutter and the broken zipper pulls and rusty springs are all part of some bigger thing.  or at least they think they are.  and all i have to do is pick them up and take them home with the other bits and pieces, and they'll be happy.  like they've been waiting, just waiting on that sidewalk or sitting on that bench to find the other bits they belong with.  To become some part of something bigger.  so i pick them up and carry them with me, or take them home.  because i think, maybe they're looking for something.  And maybe, if i keep collecting them they'll find what they're looking for. maybe they'll learn to be whole again, to belong.

maybe then they'll teach me.

I'm falling

       Falling faster than
                         gravity should allow
                                      sinking into myself
Days like                                  at breakneck speed
       this I want                                      with no safety net
           that sickening gut                                 between me
                   feeling of utter                                         and the
                         discomfort and the                                 blackness
                               realization that the
                                     darkness inside of me  
                                              is eating its way
   Everything                                                    out
          meshing together
                  making this world into
                      one long, strenuous dream
                                         and I'm not sure
And the                                      if I'm real anymore
      only way                                           or if I'm just
            that I know                                        a figment of
                 of to tell                                                imagination
                       where the truth                                           floating
                             lies is to push                                                        in
                                    myself over the                                                      space
                                    edge once more
                                sliding down the
                           descent until I've
                       reached the bottom
                     grounded or drowned
                      at least
                                    then
                                              I know

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Do you know a thing at all
to help me now to truly see
who is this staring back at me?

Your features fit you like a glove.
The face, maybe, somebody loves
while keeping distance all the while.
But, my dear love, why don't you smile?

Behind your lovely painted mouth
lie words that will never get out.
Their acid dribbles down your chin.
Is this, sweetheart, why you don't grin?

And if you'd look into your eyes
you'd see the cracks, they bleed the lies.
Denial traces down your cheek.
Oh my sweet love, why don't you speak?

And now the mask peels from your face.
You're nothing but this human race.
The tears burn lines as black as coal
until you're bare, we see your soul

Kiss the mirror.
Close your eyes.
It's time to give up your disguise.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
you can't see the truth at all.

There was a time when the Owl was the lover of Sound.
Sound was a beautiful creature, full of laughter and life and raucous vitality.
Sound loved the Owl, and the Owl loved Sound.  
They would perch in the trees together, laughing, listening to the calls of the peepers and the crickets yells.
Sound would joke, maybe I’ll leave you, go live with them.
        The Owl would laugh, who would you go to? Who could love you more than I?
Time passed, and they were in love.
But Sound began to notice a change.
        The Owl became sickly, thin, gaunt.  Laughs turned to coughs, jokes to weak smiles.
        The Owl didn’t eat.  How could he, when Sound accompanied him on all of his hunts? The Owl didn’t sleep.  Sound may have loved the night best, with its echoes and reverberations in the dark, but daytime was also filled with Sound’s calls, and the Owl could not tear himself away.
Sound begged the Owl, go, eat, sleep!  The Owl didn’t listen.  He refused to leave Sounds side.
        Sound knew that seeing the Owl like this hurt more than being separated from him.
That night, the Owl slept.
He slept all night and all day and when he awoke, it was night once more.
        He rustled his feathers, but, to his surprise, Sound was not there.  
He opened his beak to call forth.  But Sound was still absent.
He searched all throughout his home, becoming increasingly frantic.  Sound was gone.
The Owls pain and confusion rushed forth.  He opened his beak silently again, then threw himself into flight.
        Sound did not accompany him there, either.
The Owl flew all night.  His eyes grew large from searching, his hearing keen, and he stretched his neck looking every way looking for Sound.
As morning broke, the Owl returned to the perch he had shared with his love.  He listened to the calls of the peepers and the crickets yells, alone.  He closed his now- wide eyes, and, from the depths of his being, he crafted a reply, a plea, a call.
        “Who”
Who could love you more than I…

It creeps beneath your silent wall
And slips into your bed
Embraces you completely
So go ahead
And scream
Or shout
Its too late now
Your breath wont come
And, paralyzed, you wait the end
Of reason
As you fall into your body
And escape the fearful season
Of sleep
And all encompassing
The madness brings you down
Into your soul of souls
Relaxing now
Insides its womb
Your eye of eyes will close
And breathing forth
And stepping down
You take a breath

In it
You drown

Cruelty is in my blood.

It sings in my veins.  

I hum to the tune as I go on my way, and they hum along.  They don’t understand, and I don’t know how that can be.  Can’t they hear the discord of my song?

But they listen like its manna from heaven.  Honey.  
         I suppose they think that my veins are singing to them.

They’re not.  They’re just singing.  They perform for no one.  Yet each one thinks they’re special.  That the performance is for their sole enjoyment.  Their soul in rapture.

They can’t hear it, but I know.  

My blood is blue, blue, blue, and I love the way it sings so soft.

If they could look inside my head they’d call me mad.

I don’t need a look inside their skulls to know they’re blind.  Blind as bats, blind as beggars, blind as the blue inside their heads.  
They keep it all wrong.  

Veins pump the blue, and to keep it all inside the head, that makes the world flat.  

Let it out, release it’s power, push the blue into the phalanges and the tiny bones of the inner ear, past your inner eyes and into each and every ***** – that’s when the world slips right.  

Or left.

Blue blue blue as the blood in my veins, the sky will tilt and twirl and turn and spark and burn and fall, fall, fall into cinders and ash and decay.