Can I watch you float out to sea
and find the words inside of me
to deeply convey what I meant to be
find inside creativity
without succumbing to my destiny?

If your poison made my words more colourful
I would still hesitate to drink
watching you tread in stoic silence
towards a cold world that ends your heartbeat.

You toe and then slide foot into the shallow end
every time you open your eyes and breathe
your conscious breath
treading tepid water and ceaseless existence
once your poison takes it's hold.

Can I watch you float out to sea
and find the words inside of me
to deeply convey what I meant to be
find inside creativity
without succumbing to my destiny?

I've known you my whole life
pop can tops at 4am while others are sleeping.
Sometimes instead now there is sickness
hidden away in corners so no one hears.

Your chosen drink could transform my words.
I know it opens my soul
breaks it wide open with clumsy insistence
and gives no regard, no boundaries or restrictions.

Can I watch you float out to sea
and find the words inside of me
to deeply convey what I meant to be
find inside creativity
without succumbing to my destiny?

Monsters all,
Are we not?
Some of which have lost the plot.

Confine them all,
Bolt and lock.
And pray that they will be forgot.

Corner them,
Bring in the S.W.A.T.
Hush the rest; disperse the shock.

Poke around,
Electroshock.
And hope that they will join the flock.

Social chains,
Block out a lot.
Our moral boats have been rocked.

I am a gypsy wanderer.
The only home
I have ever known
Is my body.
And I destroy it.
Those like me
Can never have a home.
So I fill my lungs
With cigarette smoke,
My skin with scars
And my blood with *****.

the intricate stitching of your brainwaves brings me to my knees.

the delicate sound of the words that pour from your mouth make my head spin.

the way you consume time and still seem to move so fast makes my chest crumble.

Your body makes mine

aware

that we are truly living.

It always ends in ****, because the walls can't speak the honesty you need. Somehow you find the gratifying affection in watching other people make uncultured love in unkept sheets. We call this cycle, good enough. As our hollow hearts beat harder. Mass production of media, easily prescribed as a fault of technology. Mass media production is a man made reduction of ourselves behind glass emotions. Sickening potions, as you hit delete history. From your phones memory, but not yours kid.