It's me, can't you feel,
I love  you but I make you scream,
You won't die as long as I'm here.

You won't die,
but you'll never really live.

Can't you feel the shiver,
the paralyzing fear,
That makes you a useless ****,
Whenever I am here,

I will shroud you,
I will give
You will not die,
You'll never live.

The letter I never sent,
I write my valentine on my beating heart,
And send a perennial prayer,
That you could know without knowing.

Petals on your doorstep,
But no signature,
Pink Rosehip on your bedsheets,
Spying through your window blinds,
At someone I invented.

A label that travels as my desperations move it,
How I value the sick,
The unnatural,
The corpse and the comfort.

The will to pull me off the train,
The weight of every station,
The ommitance after the deprication,
And the awkward silence after the cosmic joke.

I lust for that iced libation,
The roseate water of ivy and redemption,
A clay to fit inside my insatiable skin hunger,
A welcomed error of continuity in my own beliefs,
And my perennial prayer,
For an ardent antiphon.

-Unabaitingly, The Romantically Inept

i love it most when you tackle me
with your arms swinging onto me
as we form our embrace.

                                                                          and for once it makes me
                                                                   feel safe, even though i'm free
                                                                                falling into your arms.

but i know you won't be the one
to catch me. because your heart's
e     l     s     e     w     h     e     r     e.

Crows
A girl walked through the field one morning,
free of worries, doubts and woes.
The path was clear, forever going,
Through the corn field through the rows.

She walked and leaped and laughed and sang,
Until she stopped to see the view,
Something strange has stopped her legs.
She would have walked on if only she knew.

There across her stood a stake
With a strawman tied and bound,
The crows sat on him,sat and ate,
But they didn't make a sound.

A scarecrow- she thought, but amused,
I've never seen one this upclose,
But isn't all for which he's used,
To chase off those nasty crows?

A girl drew closer and so did the clouds,
The birds shrieked and flew away,
The girl went pale and screamed out loud,
She aged a century that sunny day.

There on the stake bound with rope,
In the corn field attracting crows,
Hung, half eaten, beyond hope.
The girl's neighbour, farmer Joe.

She kept silent after that,
As the gray clouds spat out rain.
And the wind blew of the scarecrow's hat,
To reveal the farmers brain.