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Hunter Green Sep 2018
These emotions fuel fires,
I get excited watching them burn.
Every time I look it has a new flare,
So bright I don’t want to look away,
It spreads and I don’t care,
I let it destroy just to watch it go.
I sit here tossing more gasoline,
just to smell the evergreen,
It only lasts as long as it burns.
you’d think the arsonist would be the one who learns,
but mistakes don’t make lessons if they feel good,
when you think you can fix them on your own,
you only get so far till you get what you’ve sown.
Letting go of conviction will leave you no escape in times of temptation.
as i'm laying down tonight
i think of how exhausting it is to wash you off my fingers
even if it's not like i ever get to hold your hand
or touch you, for that matter.
but everynight i have to wash your essence off my fingers
like trying to get rid of gasoline but always ending up
setting myself aflame. and that despite
knowing how dangerous and hazardous that **** could be
you just couldn't stop because you love the smell of gasoline
that fills up your lungs like pumps of adrenaline
right before the stench of your own burning flesh
chokes you to death. most nights, i wash you off like paint.
you can tell that i'm trying to forget what
i bled after your face appeared on the plain canvass
when my hand automatically reaches up and
perfectly colors your lips, and i couldn't help
but resemble them to pastel pink petals
of the roses growing in royal gardens
and i know i'm fooling everyone
making them believe that such expertise
is achieved because
your bottom lip have felt my gentle stroke when i
don't even know how your lips would feel when they quiver
under a curious and longing touch.
so i watch the colors spiral down the drain.
i watch my hands brush against each other
so intensely, trying to scrub the paint gone even
if it won't go away. even if the blood is clean.
even if i look clean.
how can loving you secretly be ever clean?
i'm scared it will never go away.
i am a painter in my own sense, capturing a glimpse
of something so intoxicating and aesthetically forbidden
then turning it into something tangible.
this is how painters show that their hearts
collapse with just a name
with just a glance not meant for their way.
and they paint what little of the hope
that shouldn't have been there in the first place
and every night. every single night they would aim
tirelessly to turn it into something they could allow.
something that could exist not only in my head.
something that i can call mine even if you
don't know that i am yours
and i knew this because your face
have begun to fill every blank wall
in my ******* house and i wonder how it is
possible to fall in love with someone the whole world
believes you shouldn't.
they say that when we turn our hands into fists
it is the size of our hearts.
and sometimes after the long hours of painting
i wash my paint-stained hands clean of
an abstract myriad of yellow and blue and black
and red. red for blood. red for love. red for fire.
i wash my paint-stained hands
turning them into fists
so maybe, just maybe
it will be the same
as getting rid of the colors off my young broken heart.
colors for you.
yet i always end up washing them off
with ******* gasoline.
and you still dare to call me 'smart'
i am an arsonist and a painter. i burned while i burst into colors. and were the one that blurred my distinction between the two.
GreenTrees Mar 2017
She set fires in the most curious places.
The glow reflecting upon innocent faces.

In the soot and ash she left tiny traces.
The fire consumed all the hidden spaces.

And after the fire comes the mist
and that's when you fall in love with an Arsonist.

© Karl V. (2017)
Natalie Jan 2018
I could light my clothes on fire to rid them of the smell of your cologne
or I could singe my palms for every time you held my hand, but still made me feel alone
I could strike a match against my collar for every time you cursed my name
or burn my fingertips on worn down lighters and let them swallow me in flames
I could let the ashes douse my passions and let the fumes dance up towards heaven in the sky

And if God asked why you were crying,
you'd say the smoke got in your eyes

I hope my name burns you, just like you burned mine
I hope it hurts you
I hope you hurt
not one person knew who lit the fire
at the old pub in the town's main drag
it will remain an unsolved piece of inquire
who on that night used a burner's tag

back in the year of nineteen fifty three
the watering-hole went up in flames
from the locale an arsonist did so flee
after playing his match striking games

a shadow some of the locals have seen
where the timbered hotel once stood
hovering around like a ghostly screen
this figure is an omen not of the good

if it could speak what would it ever tell
in regards to the starting of the inferno
which was like a flammable torching hell
one but surmises about events long ago
I met a Carnival Arsonist
burlap sack around her
fiery heart, force taught
to start fires
bright, to distract her from stars.

Always sat in her ashes
Marlboro hacked up her passion
until the ferris wheel called her
to get a glimpse at her burns.

Each night it's siren syringes
hallucinations injected noises
bending over foreclosure
turning up folders
found an old phone her
Owner planted to spy.

He popped her first red balloon
kept the dart pressed in her side.

Manic Panic won't let her dye.
Her highlights don't hide her lies.
"I'm Fine" always "I'm Fine".

Built thick walls of timber
to guard to try Tinder.
Tender to two tired hearts
begged strangers to beat her

"Play a game, win a prize
Play a game, win a prize"

Poured gasoline on the
carnival, watched it
burn from inside.
My breath was choking on fire
It brought me to my knees as I plead
Please, someone save me.
Save me from this world
That is consuming me in fire
I'm burning up in flames.

I've come to realize
That I'm just the fuel to someone's fire.
A minor casualty in this world
Filled with the burning desire
To lie, cheat, steal.

The room was blackened out with smoke
I could no longer see the light.
My coughing was worsening with each breath.
This is really the end of my story.

My mind was racing with different scenarios,
All of them leading towards death.
I know there is no hope,
but I have to try to tell them.

Each step feels like my last,
My body was aching.
My steps heaved as I dragged them
across the blackened floor
through the rubble.

I made it to the desk
my hand staggered as I wrote
"This was no accident,
It was a ******."
It is the blackened hearts of some people
that make me hate this world.
It is the pure hearts of some people
that help me keep going.
Peninsula Nov 2014
In between strangers and friends,
And of lines to be crossed and erased,
You'd pull me out without a second thought
And every time you do, you'd whisper
'I feel cold.' Quiet and hot like liquid gold
I'd touch your arm and you gently shiver
I set you afire each time
You'd hold me closer and smile
As you try to lick a final sizzle to my finger
You're a pyromaniac and I'm an arsonist
I wonder how you see me
And I wonder if you know how I see you
Addison René Nov 2014
i've never been in a burning building but standing in that room with you
sure did feel like it.
you’ve filled my fragile lungs
with ash and soot,
and my altered anatomy
has become a black abyss

you were the arsonist,
who intricately ignited
my bones through your false accusations:
and your lack to love,
executed criminally
you've ripped the stars
right out of my sky -
every single constellation

my wrecked heart radiates for yours,
while a Siberian iceberg
sits in your chest
the stinging of languish
spills from my pores
baby, why can't you see i'm the best?

so remember to forget me, fuel my fire:
let the flames flourish,
*watch them grow higher
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