He plays with my hair until his fingers get tangled,
I keep them there in fear that it's the last thing keeping us connected.

I exist in your nightmares,
lacerating your innocent logic
hidden behind your confined contorted consciousness.
Breaking out in the real world
has never been an option, for the
inhibition of your mind gives me
too much pleasure.
Complete control.
Anything you do or say is a complete
reflection off of the fact that I
exist in you.
Manipulating your feelings.

That nobody knows but me. And it's killing you.

I hope he doesn't get it on anything valuable.

I want my conscience to scream at me
the things I don't want to hear.
Unleash hidden phobia's that dwell
in the back of my mind, behind the list
of "Things to Don't" and cleverly though-out
processes that are supposed to get me
through the day. I'd like a choir of voices in harmony
chanting at me, "You're not listening, you're not listening, you're not listening! when I begin to allow all of my daily life to become the product of a carefully
calculated
equation that's imploding with equivocal nonsense that brews beneath the surface that you're slowly drowning under.
I want to wake up. I want to wake up and know that I awoke from a dream; a dream that stripped me of my pride, wore and tore me down.
I want to wake up with the realization that it was always ME
who filled the void and did it consciously. I need no illusion.
Yet the illusion is what intercedes my trust and my predetermined path to a tainted utopia.
You know, it's that place where angels go to die and people take off their shoes at the door only to still track mud made out of unfinished aspirations all
over the youth-stained carpet.
Why is it so hard to let it go, to let go of what I thought I knew.
A self I thought I was;
A book on a shelf I thought I read which said, "Free of Body, Free of Mind";
I want to free myself, from myself.

Forgive me father for I have sinned.
The relationship between us lacks blood –
Lacks existence –
Lacks creation –

Forgive me pseudo-creator for the fact that
Sinning overcomes the stress to find truth.

Forgive me imaginary figure
Surrounded by fictitious harps and
Dead babies with wings;
My world is much more devious to live in.

I created this;          not you.

Please, call me a sinner.
I’ll connect two cups to a string
And throw it in the air just to
Watch it Fall back down
Because overpowering hands of
Innocence and purity didn’t catch it.

Sorry…
I smoke, snort and speak sin
And then throw it up in your face
The next morning –

Forgive me for being so forward,
And forgive me for not being very sorry for it at all.

Your body is hard to the touch
but easy on the eyes.
I'm a *** slave in disguise, you don't
owe me anything more than your
throbbing companion.
Fed explanations filled with thrusts,
moans and scratches,
Resolutions created through the exhale
of your sleeping body.
I'm no more than a cage to poke your stick into and you want me to bite you out of frustration.
I'm reminded of my role: lay down. Shut up. Don't look at you. Take it. Roll over. Take it. Take it. Take it.
A drunken sigh of satisfaction sneaks out through your lips as if it was trying not to wake your tongue,
as any disturbance will cause my body to surrender to you, against any will I have left.
The desire to be the one you surrender to is slowly passing.
Because with each breath I hold, I find myself still gasping for air.

I've been to hell and back and I can
honestly tell you that the only consistency
is inconsistency
the only stability is instability,
the only perfection, imperfection.

You loved me once
But never twice.
Never warmly, cold as ice.
It says sorry in your eyes
Somewhere between deception and the lies.
Now you're gone
And I'm here
Wiping tears from ear to ear
Don't come back, time to erase,
But I'll leave the door unlocked just in case.

I am not beautiful enough for you anymore.

I murdered a can today, all for the benefit of me. Gashed holes in its heart with the use of one thumb-tack; took a final stab to its back to finish it off. I positioned its body to rise on the sides of the gashes, that way it could better cup my offerings. Once in place, I reached into my backpack and retrieved a vibrant green blanket to lay over the wounds I inflicted; I then create a fire. The blanket burns on top of the cans disfigured corpse, creating fumes of guilt and relaxation. Once the fragrance of ash enters my senses, the can is revealed--- it’s badly burnt. I found the nearest garbage can and chucked it.

I'll love you until the sun rises.
After that it won't matter anymore.

I don't see the color in the flowers which line the path to a supposed never-ending fairytale.
Knight in shining plastic, melting with each step that I take.
I can't seem to shake the nightmare which depicts your heart slipping out of my hands;
Keeping it there is about as difficult as trying to grab water and cup it without letting it slip through the creases of my fingers.
Yet, just like the water falling through the cracks of my blank palms, the loss is inevitable.

The willow tree looks like it's wilting more than usual today,
As if there are invisible weights tied around the branches dragging it towards the ground.
I don't see resistance in the branches; no apparent will to perk up.
It's given up.
This nature lies so strangely parallel to my life, as if the invisible weights reflect my stance in society.
Held back. Hard to break away. Difficult to want to make change.