I didn’t mean to be so harsh
to turn my own tongue into a silver blade,
each word spewing from my mouth coated in blood,
but now I am choking on the metallic taste

I didn’t mean to be so cruel,
to break my bones over and over again
reopening old wounds with blunt scissors
attempting to crawl out of my own skin.

But now I resemble a wild animal,
clawing at the very fibres of my being
destroying everything in my path

yet still believing I can sew myself back together
no matter the damage I cause...

Your liver thinks you're too thirsty
Your mind runs off drugs
You'll be dead before thirty
Or killed off by thugs

You escape this reality
to where, what does it give you
You've only escaped your mortality
for your death is long overdue

You were humble, you were frightening
Now you stumble, and stopped with fighting
Where's the real you gone?
for this one's almost done!

You'll be dead before thirty
"Though will you live to thirty?"

perhaps i’ll just long for you, forever,
and perhaps, i’ll die with decaying flowers,
knowing to love me, and to leave me,
must‘ve been only a  moment for you.

you were like cigarette smoke
i breathed you in
and blew you out
and in your wake
you left a feeling like no other
as you made it harder to breathe
as my lungs turned black
and my cells died

there’s beauty in pleasant destruction

Wild was the mass superiority,
Invincibility's cherished messy fraud.
Wrath coloured warning crimson wrote Justice.
People watched as Mercy perished.

Gin lady lowers her lips by the skin of Reedy Lake
Across and further inside
Wood to share
Silence of the creek
Life that hid and flourished
Grounds for the winding road.
Three hours wheeled
A stormy ride in the night.

The blindness of lightning strikes.
Close your eyes
For the flames of deeper under.
Blindness breaks in a spark on the pan.
Thunder shatters the sky.

The girl looked lovely
In her coloured summer dress
A real lady of the sky and land
Her husband was a happy man
He admired his magnificent wife
Then Alderan exploded...

If a ship is replaced piece by piece, part by part,
It will eventually become an entirely new ship.
Not a shred of the old one will remain,
Except in memory.

I have tried to die a thousand times.
I think I’ve killed a piece of myself in each attempt.
In theory, if I **** and rebuild myself piece by piece, part by part
Eventually the “me” that is left will be entirely new.

Sylvia Plath once said, “Dying is an art”;
I wonder if I’m finally an artist.

I see a billion black boot soldiers
Marching through the dawn
In a ****** up ****** sky,
With thier standards standing high.

There’s a tale in every colour
And a line through what’s been drawn,
That depicts the hurtful images;
Of the things I can’t describe

I see a single dove amongst two spires,
Flying high above the crowds,
Calm within the sweet warm light,
With her wings spread wide; she glides.

Now there’s poetry in motion;
With her head up in the clouds;
A good soul in quiet repose,
And with her angel eye she spy’s.

A foetus in its Sunday best,
Travelling through the birth canal,
On a joyous bed of hell;
From betwixt two ****** thighs.

A brand new storey does unfold,
It’s said all’s well that ends well,
Its place of birth here on Earth;
That’s where we hear each child’s first cry.

This painter paints for me
An image I can’t perceive
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

Soon another will pass by,
Lying in a box too cold.
In a cemetery up high,
On the top white lily’s lie.

As-if in quiet thinking,
Four corners of a box men hold;
Within the body’s final fold;
A simple sky the mourners cry.

This Artist paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive;
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

This painter paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive,
And I sense that as one enters life;
Another light shall die.