My limbs have been fashioned from spare parts.
The key's been lost to my bronze locked heart.
These lungs of metal, these lungs of led
These locks of hair filled with dread

Plagued with faulty parts,
From heart to head,
Never showed how to love
Maybe i'll feel it when i'm dreaming in bed

No fame or fun
When words are sung
Hardly Spring until it's sprung

These polite words are scared of heights
They fall back from my tongue
Down my throat
Into my blackened lungs

Only to remain unknown by you
But known too well by me

Until a shallow breath of air
Pushes them back up
And turns them into a gamble of rambles
Abrupt and corrupt.

Broken Needles and rusted gates,
Treading over thorns and crushing glass in an apathetic state.
At best toss the thrown rock will crash,
Not without aggravating a storm of Asbestos.

Iron-lacking in socially acceptable art etiquette.
Climbing neglected buildings.
One hand gripping a rusted ladder,
The other, spray paint wielding.

Battling for space between the wall and the vine.
First time I don't feel misplaced, struggling for lines.
My minds at ease, I have everything I need.
A place to sit and think,

A place where the space is occupied by two high school kids.
Lighting candles that have merged
With the unstable rotting wood of the table.
Scratching their heart's words through bleeding pen nibs.

Loose leaf pages scatter the ground,
Not worthy of residency in my note book.
Reunited with the fallen leaves.
Reconciliation with my mind hook or by crook.

Dear those who I held so dear,
I've been left behind like morals of a Christian gone queer.
Clearly caught between two things unclear,
I'm starting to realise my apologies are becoming less sincere.

A color can't define my mood.
But if it could, the color would be darker than blue.

We ditched class,
To go the park down the road,
We followed toe to toe,
Shadow to shadow.

To forget our troubles,
To forget our woas,
To forget education,
To forget our sorrows.

You probably think this is about a girl,
Though,
No.
I'm referring to my closest companion,
My alter-ego.

Crooked fingers grasp,
A nearing empty bottle in my left hand.
Your hand,
Loosely gripped in my right.
The cigarette that hangs from my cracked lips,
We'll follow into the night.

Seventeen years too old,
Left looking for cheap thrills.
Waiting for an early death to unfold,
Brought on by unprescripted,
Prescription pills.

It's cliche and *******,
But all I can write about is unsatisfactory coffee,
And harsh, stale, half-lit cigarettes.
My thoughts and hands are not insync,
Like when my own hands stopped me from drowing in the kitchen sink.

My coffees burnt,
By now I should have learnt.
But something about a rooftop garden cafe that serves pie,
Intrigues both of my blood shot eyes.

The light on the table,
Isn't doing me any favours,
It casts a shadow over my note book.
Over crinkled pages.

But still I return,
To see your face.
And still I burn,
To savour new tastes.