i want love to do
more than whisper,
but right now it is
more than shy.
and i want anger to
fuck this blank page
like the best make-up
sex i've never had.
i don't think i will
survive long at this
rate.
my bones hold my
heart hostage, and
my veins are filled
with clear, sweet
poison, and lust.
sometimes it's all
i need.
sometimes i want to
give in, give up,
sell all my junk,
wander the streets
like the bravest
raving lunatic.
wild wide-eyed
weirdo, soapboxed
symphonies of
sin.
the problem is,
i don't know my
own gospel, i have
no clear message.
just blood that
hates needles and
a head that loves
hands.