I'm a captain trying to work the navigation
Of this worlds generation,
It's a mindfield of pseudo-suicidal thoughts.

It's a pseudonym for sympathy they bought,
Caught up in the friction fiction,
Of morality against carbon fiber addiction.

An impossible love,
And intangible hate,
With freedoms death,
First breath it takes.

And weeps,
Resounding notes the mountains couldn't sing,
Or the sky could keep,
Secrets that give flight to broken wings,
While dignity sleeps,
Freedom sings.

Upon the edge of hidden worlds,
I am temptress to my own,
Endless abandon in abundance,
In this loss I call home.

It's called subconsciousness,
Subject only to abstract,
I am witness and betrayer,
It recoils, reacts,
In a way of profound precision,
Butterfly incision.

Winged whim,
I got lost,
But was found again,
Within.

Shadow like blood,
Dripped from my finger tips,
Down the length of my hand,
From where the metal slips,
And digs,
Finding oil,
I react,
Recoil.

I'm bleeding,
I was meant to,
I didn't mean it,
That wasn't true.

Butterfly incision,
Madness precision,
I unravel,
Recoil,
Rebound,
And boil.

I am the blood of a shadow,
Whose door I dare knock,
Who has granted me its time,
But it ticks,
And it tocks.

It's fate,
Were fate death
So kindly seen,
And I,
Puppet to the piece,
***** and unclean,
Dance a pirouette,
Every step,
I forget,
The value of self,
The face or the hand,
Second sided shelf,
Where we understand,
No one knocks,
While time ticks,
While time tocks.

I drift and slip,
With every drop from my finger tips,
And stare at death while it smiles,
Bleeding teeth and ****** lips,
Winged whim
And a moments while.

A twist and turn,
Contortion spin and contended twirl,
Falling silent and forever,
Upon the edge of hidden worlds.

There's an ache in the stain,
A subtle sense of this pain,
That picks at a part,
That by chance is my heart.

It ticks time by blood,
The red reminder,
That for all the world,
Death is sweet and kinder.

I am a dying man,
In a dying world,
A cold and bitter thing,
Without one girl.

Who's eyes have drifted,
And her love followed suit,
And all my affection that rang so soundly,
Has since fallen mute.

And I am a stain unto myself,
And symbol of shame,
Who fears his own stabilities,
Who bears all the blame.

Mea culpa fell from his lips,
His sorrow seeped and slipped,
From the steels cold kiss,
Did that girl he ever miss,
Mea culpa from his lips,
His life seeped and slipped,
Mea culpa from his lips.

His body frail,
And voice thin,
When ever spoken,
Lost on the faintest breeze,
Like the courage of a boy.

He is slight,
And his voice subtle,
It is a current,
It is under,
And over,
And always,
Through.

Passing as vapor in sunlight,
Through,
Always through.

He sees,
And he feels,
Perfection at his call,
And he is silent,
And still,
Patient.

He mourns soundness,
And he is shame,
Patience an art,
Practiced,
Precise.

He is beautiful,
And frail.

Fear and infractions,
Basic senses,
Subtle subtractions,
Delayed response,
Relayed reactions,
Play off the hint,
Winter hue,
Malice tint,
Hateless tasteless,
Faceless placeless,
Placed placement,
Playful payment,
Frivolous and fevered,
Tempered beliefs,
Believers,
Belay the bounty,
Beautiful and temptress trite,
Fracturing county,
Past tense recite,
Fast forward rewrite,
Rewound and respun,
Locked and lead loaded,
Geared and gunned,
Sudden and semi-accidental implosion,
Rewarming,
Sickly hex,
Weakened flex,
Internally overcasted and overtly storming,
Outwardly warning,
Slowly learning,
Forever turning,
And in turn,
Burnt and still laid burning,
Waking a ghostly turning,
Soundlessly and -ly burning,
Smokey on the peripheral,
Ethereal,
Eternally external,
Forcefully feared,
Into inferno,
Out of opinionated opressionables,
Que wide and willingly willed questionables,
Wordlessly whispers with the whim of the wind,
Beget blindness,
Begets mindless,
Begets beauty bound by which beauty begins,
Found fearfully,
Torn tearfully,
Retold beautifully,
Molded after mourning,
Mourned before morning,
Night neared,
Sadness teared,
Tearing soundly on edges,
Destruction and dutiful pirouette,
Tasted tyranny teem and endance pledge,
Irony stills,
And the air dare not forget.

Where is my heart,
He asked in an aimless stagger,
This homeless endeavor,
Where is my heart,
He mourned in wordless ache,
Drifting on the breath of loss,
Transparent and insignificant,
Causation and blindness,
Men and madness,
Where is my heart,
He asked the sky,
Who asked the same,
The questions remains.

He asked apathy,
And he walked on,
He asked dignity,
And she walked on,
He asked love,
But love had gone.

He paced the beach,
And the sand held his steps
Till the tide tore through,
Washing away his proof of purpose,
He asked the waves,
Where is my heart,
Who asked the same,
And the questions remains.

He aged like the mountains,
Slow and steady cycling,
Breath a laboured practice,
Death a practiced labour,
To ever after is he praised,
With mortality stricken has he lost favor.

Where is my heart,
He asked in impoverished wonder,
The poor creaked like hardwood,
And answered his plea,
As only silence could.

Teething abdomen,
We've eaten ourselves into abundance!
And we're so very desolate,
Lonely,
Beside our digestive pile of excremental idioms.

I am God,
He said,
Then choked to death on a raisin.
God is subject to nothing!
Except raisins,
It would seem,
Then he woke,
God was having a dream.

I killed God,
It said,
As it sat snugly in the throat of God!
No figment of imagination,
Could make believe me,
It said,
Then poofed,
And became nonexistent.

No more late nights he said,
Then went to back to bed three days later,
And dreamed himself a woman to make love to,
And woke alone.