"Try to shoot me down?
You wish you were as fearless
as I am right now,

and if that heart beats
I'll **** it into pieces.
I'd throw it away.

I'm not an artist,
I am death incarnate but
warmer than you thought.

Aim for my bad side,
you make it look cliche and
I make it easy.

No one could stop me;
remind me who ***** with me?",
Princess Sleepyhead.

Forgot about me;
People tell me I'm great then
make me feel like ****.

The world feels bigger,
and I feel two inches tall.
You look over me.

I am lonely and
sad and I want to die but
life has it's boots on.

[Remember that pic
of the soldier dragging a
child's lifeless body?]

I'd need to be worse
to cry just a pound of this
out of my system

and there are still tons
waiting to claw their way in
and eat their way out.

Johnny told you that
he didn't trust you as I
was saying, "leave him."

He wants you obsessed
with him while he's looking for
a new hole to fill.

I tried to tell you
this was going to happen,
and I'm still sorry.

I expect the worst
and prepare a bit further;
hope is alien.

You're full of the stuff,
and I don't know how to speak
to someone like that.

My heart is warm, yet
rock ******* the inside and
colder than oceans.

Less than a question,
stuck playing all the old games;
a face carved from wood.

Stuck playing midnight,
quoting Castro on hunger;
Loss of appetite crucial

to understand
the feeling of having none,
but this is just greed.

I eviscerate
and consume nothing, woeful.
Flesh does not have me.

Ticking Casio,
breathing time into nonsense.
Digital. Solid.

Sick of platitudes,
emotional contusions,
and little white lies.

I’m tired of the ghost;
this minefield of keywords and
it’s all just a game.

I’ve never had a
birthday party and now I’m
too old for magic

Light candles for me,
put a girl inside my cake.
Sing a song for me.

It’s just a party.
I’m just another sad boy.
Just another night.

My lover tells me,
“whatever you want, baby.”
and I’m still melting.

I’m still dreaming and
the pressure inside these veins
cooks a short story.

Pressure of my veins/
the bottom of the ocean,
with all it’s monsters.

“We make it happen.”,
I’m interrupted later,
weeks, or maybe days.

Digging for hatchets.
You found me lost and hungry
for blood sacrifice.

Your tongue salts my wounds.
Your words slice through my stitches.
Your love chills my heart.

I live on my own,
selfish, absent of conscience.
A gentle rage. Blind.

Boats rarely moving,
just gently bobbing in place.
Shifting on a plane.

I'm waiting for you;
to show me heartbreak or love,
to reveal your hand.

I wonder if you
get trashed and think of me or
forget til morning.

I try not to think.
Sometimes I just ramble, rant,
and laugh for too long.

I could imagine,
me, reaching out, but is it
inappropriate?

Your frail fingerbones
against the palm of my hands.
Impossibly soft.

I dream in color,
watching myself receive a
just, violent abuse.

In my dreams I’m strong,
but not now. I’m helpless now.
Then I’m waking up.

Distortion season,
a heavy fog awaits you.
Early sunglasses.

I’m helpless here too,
just graceful under pressure.
I handle it well.