It is not fire
that burns
          the most.

   It is not anger
of an untold
          story's ghost.

It is the
          poison
and the
          pain
             which it
                    brought.

Yet without
              it,
  our tiny stories
mean
       absolutely
    naught.

There's no water
In my well;
No pulley,
No bucket
On the end of a rope,
For you.

There's no water
In the cup
Of poison
I spew.

And you never saw me dancing in the dark
You will never believe me, whats inside the dark
Cause you never stood inside the black
inside the dark, giant gap
My love died, an ancient tale for you
Cause you never felt something that cruel
A long way to home I have to walk
Please, don‘t!, stay!, I just want to talk…
Why can‘t we stay, why do we have to go
I wanna stay, I hate this blackened road
Oh, i‘m wishing me back, to my home
if I could only see you, I‘m so lonesome
My memories are a fading world
Oh, I remember how I learned to hurt
So much pain I felt
So many weapons I held
Now it‘s forgotten, it all
My memories, of my own fall
I fell into darkness
I‘ve been cursed with blindness
Please, let me hear your voice, just one word
I promise you, I didn‘t want to hurt!!!
My reality is a world of mirrors
Hit by an poisoned arrow
I‘m standing in the death‘s halls
And I‘ve forgotten the world‘s fall.

Evolution has chosen jealousy
To be an intrinsic trait for us all
Even at the top of the world,
Novels and songs are written
About how much easier life is
At the bottom of the *****.
Perhaps this is the reason
For the routine poisoning of ourselves
Just for a break from all the monotony
To finally be someone else
If only for an evening.
Drinking and smoking
To celebrate to become
Someone else…
Nobody, in this life, wants to be
themselves.

like the blood that seeps
through the holes n gaps in my skin
i patch it up
with paper and tape
but what lays underneath
calls every blade to my skin
i try again
to keep it away
but it causes a hunger that's impossible to satisfy
in any other way

but maybe that's a story for another day.

a statue quietly lurks
in the corner of my mind,
waiting until all is calm.
when the dark shroud
falls over the blue sky,
the statue comes to life
as a vicious, fang-bearing,
red-eyed, gnarly demon.
the demon pulls a dream apart
with its long, pointy claws,
injecting the shreds with poison
until they tangle up in each other
to become a tight, infectious knot
that can only be untangled...by waking up.

The knife I take down my throat
To vindicate my thoughts
Of ruinous infection,
Deceives all sensation,
All thoughts, and ceases
To exist myself,
Until the blade conceals,
And the only tell
Of even its unsheathing
Is that of the daylight
Pouring in through
Windows of which
I had forgotten,
To strike the flower
I left out alone in the open.

The scent of the previous day
Made aware though permeation
From the bottles
Left open
To fill the air
With their intention,
But lit candles
Will once again
Flush the awful realization,
As the day sheds colors
To the night,
And when the music hits,
And the temperament
Fills veins with built and bottled-up
Stresses, the candles will smell great
As the chaser takes away the sting
From the blade,
And the flower, unconcealed,
Let without any pressures
Or internal guilt,
Finally able to be myself,
If only for one more night.