Strip the flesh from my bones
and make from it a carpet
to better walk all over me.
Craft from my skeleton
a little cage for birds
and allow them to assist in your
defilement of me.
Feed my organs to the Lion
so that I might keep Him at bay
and allow for your further escape.
Bury my soul amongst the stars
and I can water your garden with my tears
(I've always wanted to give you life).
Cast my memories aside
and fill my mind with your own,
because my thoughts should be about you, anyway.

If you ask me to describe him,
where will I start?
I can’t possibly fathom my thoughts into words
and turn him into a description of art.

But I can try my best,
try to pick him apart.
Describe him in words,
perhaps in four different parts.

I’d start with volcanoes
for he’s just like one.
Where his touch feels like lava,
but surprisingly calm.

Up next are earthquakes,
since his heart is one.
It makes the world shake
causing me to run.

Third would be hurricanes,
since his mind is one.
He’s a drug I should abstain,
that makes me come undone.  

Last would be forests,
since he’s full of secrets.
Hiding and waiting,
to be uncovered by none.

He’s a mystery,
yet someone I trust.
He is impossible to describe,
and rarer than pixie dust.

The rain is falling on our town
and you're out in the rain,
singing at the thunder
and dancing through your pain.
I stay inside to lick my wounds
and sober up in bed.
I play my guitar bitterly
and sing inside instead.
The patter of the rain drops,
the patter of your feet,
the discord at my fingertips,
your chirping in the street.
Larks with hearts like broken wings,
one is you and one is me.
All larks learn to love to sing,
but not all larks are free.

I crave the way you touch me with your lips and the way your fingers float across my hips.
 I crave the way your legs go in between mine and the way your smile gives me butterflies inside.
 I crave hearing your voice the way you say I love you and I crave falling asleep feeling safe and sound next to you.
- bzq

stumbling home
in the evening
with my breath
smelling of cheap beer
and cigarettes;
people worry,
I tell them not to;
I do this for me,
not for attention
or sympathy,
I do this to feel
more alive,
because I feel so
dead inside
and my thoughts
are racing;
drinking shuts them up
for a couple of hours
and I feel better;
I feel sick,
but I also feel
great,
like I can do anything;
like nothing can hurt me;
is this what death
tastes like?
god,
I hope so