This stress
I can't take
anymore
with
no doors
With no way
to escape
wood scratches
nails break
screaming
for some help
darkness finds
this a joke
the only humorous
part
I brought this
upon myself

people write poems
about subjects
such as him.

with painted nails,
glittering eyes,
polished skin,

he is like poetry
about women
with lipstick
the color
of sin.

and as he drinks
his wine, they
will sit and write
poems about
subjects such
as him.

I am like cheap nail polish;
When first applied into a person's life I appear fresh, neat, immaculate.
But the next day I am chipped, broken, hurting.
It's not you, it's just the way you see me.
I put on a fresh coat to please you and make me seem fine.
But it's no good.
I'm not fine.
The new coats won't hide me forever.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Tomorrow I'll apply a fresh coat.
Tomorrow I'll be fine again.

Writing on The Walls
A bloodstained handprint
Are you alive to see this
Do your eyes pierce now?
Where the soul sees a mirror?
Oh God why cant they see
Why can't they see
The writing on the walls

Wed like to stay blind
But the rest wont last
Time to break a flatline
And wakeup from your bed

Pray now
You fall on your knees in grief
Do you see what you've been doing?
Do you see what you have left?
Another bloodstained hand print
The writings on the walls

Wed like to stay blind
But the rest wont last
Time to break a flatline
And wakeup from your bed

Press your face to the floor
Don't leave your posture
Don't move a muscle
Your eyes see it now don't they?
You can't hide
The Writings on the wall
The Writings on the wall
The Writings on the wall

The Writings...

I dug my nails into the dirt so I could tear the continents adrift to rid myself of the petty distances between us.

I kept pulling at the seams until the mountains started crumbling. Sweat drip, drip, dripping from my brow, but I'm still prying at the pieces.

Until at last I raised the oceans. High tide and high time, I pulled myself from the ocean floor.

If I let go, I would disappear.
There would be nothing left to keep me here.

I built castles made of sand and built them strong upon the shore. I laced in my fear of the ocean and of waters running cold

into the foundation and these walls; of these places I'd call my home, but can I really call it home when I'm feeling all alone?

Until at last I raised the oceans. High tide and high time, I pulled myself from the ocean floor.

If I let go, I would disappear.
There would be nothing left to keep me here.

We spit rhetoric in rhyme.
Who will save us this time?
There's nothing left to say;
I like it better this way.