My hands are cold from the touch of a monster so loud.
He would always say: "You should be proud."
But what is there celebrate but just a cold hand?
I like to please the monster.
Pathetic, I thought to myself.

My hands are numb from the actions I made.
All these distractions are worth the pain.
Pain, a feeling I would describe to make me feel stronger.
Pain, to lessen the aching feeling of my heart.
Pathetic, I thought to myself.

My hands are frozen from the mistakes I made.
The monster isn't happy with what I have already done.
"Is this not enough?" I asked.
All the more that the monster punished me.
"I am not satisfied." the monster says.
I closed my eyes as the tears started to fall.

And everything will just repeat itself.

Even the coldest of hearts can burn.

I look into the eye of the man before me,
And see the soul of a man worth loving.
His irises twinkle as his hand reaches for mine.
As he smiles and makes me tremble,
sadness there is none to find.
I'm happy. I'm blissfully frozen.
Frozen in a moment in time
that seems to go on without end.
I am worthless. I have no dime.
Yet he looks at me,
and gives me all his time.
Is this obsession? Is this madness?
Nay, it is simply my heart
finding a soul worth loving.
And as this frozen moment continues,
I can tell he feels the same.
Should it last or should it fail,
in this moment it does not matter.
I'm in love and happy, and he is to blame.
Frozen in this moment, he is a god.
Frozen in this moment, I lay in awe.
Frozen in this moment, I find peace.

love isn't always
an open door

In some autumn nights
I’d sound aloud a shriek
That pierced my own ears
And fell, shortly after
To the hard stone floor
And tore what little sanity I claimed
Channeled a surreal, cruel name
And summoned a demon I wear on my sleeve for show
For I once claimed to know all about such things I knew nothing about
Yes on some autumn nights
When the sewers were dry thanks to my tear-drought and a year of northern lights shining in the distance was not enough to make up for it, on such oddly tender, half shivering nights, I found myself in a mirror or a lake looking back at myself in all that blueish haze of a time when I’d put a puzzle piece through a glitter door and call it art and dream about methodical things that spewed out of my heart
In a sky of purple dust
And amber ash
I’d fall flat on my face with a splash
In the snow, my blood would not clot, but spew out and then I guess the two distant eyes in the sky would look down and call such a thing odd
But being there in solitude
With no one coming or going; I’d lay
They’d call it art, but it’s just another off-day