I dare you to peel away my skin,
dig in my flesh and pull me out
of this ******* shell I’m in.
Leave me raw and pink,
A sunburn from your soul,
that righteous light, the missing link.
Fill a hollow heart that doesn’t beat
but you’ll find in a corpse,
it just won’t keep

I am afraid.

My inner demons are taking control like never before.

I feel how the darkness makes me rot from inside.

The stench from my walking corpse.

I am so afraid.

I feel how they're winning the last battle.

The person I was is dying, beyond saving.

There's no turning back, I'm a living dead.

I am a walking corpse
Looking for you
To take back my heart
Which I offered you before

Your cold hands
Your harsh words
Your dry feelings
Your empty heart
Is what killed me

I am a walking corpse
Looking for you
To take back my heart
Which I willingly gave you before

My want of attention
Your lack of affection
My want of action
Your lack of emotion
Is what killed me

I am a walking corpse
With a body and soul
Looking for you
To take back my heart

write a poem.
its been two long years
and i fear I don't even know what a poem is.
i fear i've never even written one.
i look back at my fleet and
i see forced words
prematurely picked
from their fields.
****** into the arena as dogs
with their tails glued to their thighs.
i fear i have succeeded at preparing
a dish of underdeveloped corpses.

Solve the cipher
Find the answers
  
I know

You won't make it
Becoming broken
Out on your own

Free the vision
From the daylight
Before it fades

The waking world
Is not a place
You must emancipate

Thoughts alone
Free and fleeting

No amendments
False commandments
Rain down from the clouds

You're holding on...
Too late, its too late, you must know
Let it go
Corpse sober, crumbling, not so slow

Feed the cycle
Feed the new air
Clean the new skies

Eye of god

Stanley crawled along the shore
Holding the ocean in his hand
Bearing the words "Nevermore"
He was quite justifiably mad.

He had without, a coin to his name.
Nor the age of someone wiser.
Stanely, without thinking met a dame.
Who shared his love of a ****** writer.

I refrain from telling you so thusly.
But I authored this text thinking of me.
In my room, on a bed.
Too bad no one likes reading about poor people.

Stanelys dame had given him hope.
And tore it slowly without a sound.
Crushing, to his very soul.
He refused to swim, preferring to drown.

But I dare not say where stanely ends.
Or where his story dared to lead.
He did not drown within those depths.
How poetic that must have been.

Stanely looked upon the beach.
Feeling four winds at his heels.
His writers note had overreached.
And stanely cried, forgetting that girl.

His bulletproof boots
decorated with wet mud, dried blood
trampled fields of flowers
fourteen years before her.
She, a cloud of fluff and rain,
was his first shower.
He, a kick of crack *******,
was her fifteenth.
Every departure had her,
tasting of his cigarettes,
teary-eyed against his shoulders.
Every mile of distance had him,
singing to her songs,
pulsing to another woman’s skin.
Tonight, with their hands interwoven,
his lips parted open,
sweating as if birthing a confession,
her smile lingers, glistening

like snow nobody has walked on.

Floating bloated.
Life aborted.
Rotting sockets.
A bobbing lifeless buoy.
where the river meets
the sewage.