There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said,
where masquers revel in moonlight in the dark city streets.
Their iron shoes burn a smouldering red
and compels them never end the song they sing with their feet.

There is a leather Curtain, made up of silence and shame.
They place upon each dancer's face as they waltz through the night.
They never share a longing gaze, never whisper a lover's name,
and as their souls lose their lustre, their iron shoes burn ever bright.

There is a lonely Ballroom of sad rain and cold concrete,
where masquers revel in terror at the symphony in their heads.
Their steps move ever faster, but their empty eyes never meet.
Hearts cold, they dance with hot feet, ere they're dead.

     There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said.
     Their icy hearts stave off passion's heat.
              They'll dance that way till the shoes burn through their head,
and only when the ice melts might their heart's dance be complete.

My mind is frayed
Making me miss the days
I used to self-medicate
Didn't have to hesitate

Those days are far away
Sobriety making a lengthy stay
And it makes me manic
Paralyzed in an unending panic

Honestly I feel like ****
Calm and composed for a bit
Then hopelessly falling
Substances are calling

And it's ****** up
That I'm stuck up
Left confused and alone
Not to mention dangerously prone

To hatred and deprivation
Brutalized on the verge of starvation
I'm on a downward streak
Feeling more and more weak

So my pen bleeds words
That no one has ever heard

when i see your name pop up on my phone
earth. stops.
i saw it today
from a ******* mile away
& if i'm being honest with you,
because i know you like it -
the thought
of you
thinking of me
reaching out to touch me
makes me *******
drip
with a heavy
need
for
you

My soul is nervous, desperate
My fingers burn with a familiar itch
Ink pushes, trying to bleed out
Frantic to cover the pale white paper

I haven't slept for two days now. The nights pass by slowly as I am in deep thought, my grandmother’s radio plays at full volume in the other room, and my parents and uncle talk loudly into the ears of their loved ones an ocean away.
I hear my father tell his brother to search for his son among the bodies of the dead, I hear my mother asking for the latest news and picture her standing there holding her breathe as she listens to the tired frantic voice of the person on the other end of the line, and I play the scene over and over again where my grandmother walks slowly into my room, with a back, hunched because of years of hard labor. She stares at me with a wrinkled face and a look in her eyes that I recall seeing only a few times but only when she speaks of her past, during the rough times.
She asks me if I know what's going on, and I tell her yes. Then she begins to summarize anyways, speaking in a lowered voice so that is just above a whisper enunciating each word clearly and I understand despite the usual misunderstandings between me and her, I nod my head, and release noises known worldwide to reassure someone who is speaking that the audience is listening.
And as her words become separated by seconds that tell stories in themselves, and that look in her eyes, she says in a grave voice and in a language that seems so familiar yet foreign, “chi we dak, chi we dak” then she turns around and walks out of the room in the same fashion in which she came in.
I ponder her words as I sit there.
“The world has broken, the world has broken.”