People like to say ***** tastes like love,
I say it tastes like the thoughts we are trying to choke down,
but pushing the poison further into our bodies,
letting it percolate in our bloodstream,
it becomes inevitable it will rise  up again.

You say you're trying to live,
how romantic,
you're really trying to drown.
It's a shame because your life is twenty times more beautiful than your death could ever be.

Less meaning is found in your blood than in your pen,
these days your heart is made of the paper you write on
and under your capable hands,
it is never clean.

I'd like to think the ink crawling across the pages of your book
makes more than one kind of poetry,
and that you unravel the words,
carrying them in your pockets,
instead of hiding them under your skin.

I can see them you know,
the dark fleeting clouds of thought hovering in the stratosphere behind your eyes,
your pupils are swimming in the contents of that bottle,
and the ***** can no longer be found.