And before I extended my claws onto your hearth,
I dwelled within a secret passion: I brushed up on sneaking and marking the spot for my next apocalyptic arson
And yet I could never spout the rage that fuels my husk of a being onto your haven
Your abode stinks;
The reek of naïve youth and ***** lust at night
And yet I could never expunge the puny shred of mercy embedded on my aortic psyche
You win this round
For now,
my claws will try to cut the life you absorb from the air that pervades your hearth
Before they turn to fingers, before my wrath subsides in mortal disbelief of its own vulnerable
                                      humanity
I shall incite fresh fear and death inspired odes within me once again

And on a fateful humid night,
I shall let myself perspire at the sight of infant wreckage burning with fervor and life
Your abode in flames of red and azure
And if you burn,
Apologies.
I merely hope your ashes will spark the flame bright for at least a little while
Ahh...such sweltering warmth

God of the dead
Death all he sees
Prince of darkness
Bow down to Hades

The collector of souls
Surrounded by screams
The guardian of hell
It precisely seems

Consumes the bad
Devoured by wrath
Strong vile powers
Don't enter his path

Lives for the pain
Enjoys his crown
Watch out for king
Of the underground

I think that you only care about the relationship you have with flames and desperation.

You told me once that you got so high off a blunt that you floated up into the sky and tapped danced with Jesus on a cloud.  When I inquired about his appearance, you lite a match off your shoe and nonchalantly said that he looked like the love child of Patrick Swayze and the curly haired Jonas Brother.

I hid your demons under the broken steps that you used to climb to catch the morning train, as I know that you would rather die that feel that suffocated once again. Of course, I still watch you fill your lungs with smoke, but your mother sighs and whispers that you have been improving. I choke on the air you breathe.

You are dying fast, yet this doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest, and you would rather lay in bed and watch your ceiling fan that climb out the window and see the sky. In your defense, the fan is a nice shade of blue, but the morning light is my preference.

You disappeared for a week in July and were labeled a missing person by the government. After you showed up on my doorstep half drunk and *****, I couldn't bare to tell you that I was so relieved that you were gone. I let you inside anyway, because seeing your brown puppy dog eyes makes me wish that I could save you.

I am watching you destroy yourself, and you don't even have the decency to remember my name.

A blouse droops across my moonlit breast, scarred horizontally
one                                 two                           three
Stars disappear beyond eyelids; they’re too beautiful to view.

He unveils a balded below with vertical, light strokes from his knuckles.
one                                 two                           three
Flames freeze any hesitation floating upon my heart.

I twist to turn the opposite way, to create crooks in my spine, I bend
one                                two                            three
Pressure rises against my bladder, pounding in fervor.

Sterling silver scorches a line around my left index
                                                          engraved with a contrasting verse
“flee from youth
desire the pure”
         I moan
         and moan
             and moan

cooling whiskey flames
pool in the corners
of my eyes, drying
under the afghan
crumpled on the floor
where fallen pieces
from the puzzle of time
count off the ticks
of my grandfather clock

While you're finding someone to put out our burning house, I'm throwing the 'home sweet home' mat in the flames.

writing a poem
is like
setting yourself
on fire.