Writing.

Could you walk down the driveway one more time
To find me off to the side
On a bed of rose petal and blood
Cold dead hands
Carving patterns in my skin
With the fragments of my skull
I was halfway to hell under your hands
So why don't I just
Slip all the way, into a sweet unconsciousness
Where my stomach heaves and blood runs pure
Before I fell
Before I fell into your hell
Where the devil is in your eyes
And plays at your lips
Running down my spine
If this tight grip on my ****** hips is your love
Then hand me the gun,
Do me a favor
Ask your daddy for the bullets
Even though I've already got one
Place the cold metal against my temple
If this is your love,
Prove it to me
And pull the **** trigger

We have a thousand poems for
Every one of your bombs.
With each act of bloodthirst
And slaughter, we respond with
The force of volumes on peace.

Heaven; a holier word than Hell.
One birth overshines a
Hundred deaths.
Cowards wound.
Heroes heal.

Poets create. You cause
A thousand tears with every bullet.
Well, we compose oceans of comfort
In your wake.
Our ink overpowers your lead.

We have a thousand poems
For every one of your bombs.
You are the bringers of death to
The flesh. We are the armour
Of the soul.

Do you ever feel like you're missing the boat, that your life is like a ship floating on by but you're not in it?

Do you ever feel like your watching others live their lives, like on a big, pretend movie screen, but you are not a participant of your own?  

Does reality sometimes bite you in the **** and the pain drive you to rethink: Where the hell am I going with this?

I don't want a cheap, imitation life
I want more than just getting by
I'm not saying I'm cashing in my chips
I "m not saying all is lost
I just want to tear it all down
The paper scenario of the facade
It's doable because I've done it before
I had to in order to thrive

I don't want a cheap, imitation life