the boy has a match
                       in his back poc ket. hovering
                                                     janky steps
                                             sheathed by fluffy ice
                       chest reverb erates
as a single rain drop
                                   trickled in pinful loop...
theforestwaits
                            Undisturbed
not wanting to be burnt but he rations
      not wanting anything at all.
in destroying one makes                                something

                    whence once

     there was                                                       nothing. he

s t r i k e s the match aflame and alive,
    l
      o
         w ering it fit to spread
and surely cause his life some havoc... havoc...
havochavochavoc
                                  HAVOC
                               H A V O C
                                                   havoc;

   he ruminates the meaning of the word a while
and settles
    on it being better than boring old nothing.

Man starts dreaming—
greedy dreaming.
He begins to burn
a different kind of fire.

His heart like an ember
can be fiery and fervent
can burn a silhouette
a shadow in love
a ghost in grief
all in his deep shades
of crimson blue.

Here he is
here he's been
here he will be
burning memories–
photographs and things in pages
curling into black
the stench of obliviun
is one with the smoke
that is how he builds
a different kind of fire.

Plunged his hand
it shines in his very eyes
dancing gracefully
like a wild gloriosa
rustled by the winds
restlessly,
like a scarlet swan
in a lake of stonecold ashes,
as if the only thing at peace
in a holocaust of memories.
Then stares back
before it sways back
into being the ordinary flame
it was.

If he would listen
the fire has a pulse
a flicker beat
almost like his.

The flame did not burn him
as if it has always been
a part from within
as if he was made out of it
as if it was made out of him.

He felt the soul of the fire.
It's pulse—

felt like home.

they're fighting again, what's new at this point?

i've got my mentality at gunpoint

it's hard to hear my screams under the sound of broken glass

i'm riding the train to insanity, first class

running mascara, slits running up and down every arm

dear god, i really don't think i can take any more

my head hurts, hands around my neck

realization hits me, i'm a ******* wreck

what the ****?

looking for the labels that say flammable as i tuck

a lighter in my back pocket

wouldn't it be nice to see this all go down in flames?

there's a lot wrong
with the earth-
& with my head
i'm trying to shed my addict skin
i'm so much more than what i depict
& i've come pretty far,
considering where i've been

& this world may be bleak
but i've gained some light
by burning down every
bridge in my sight-
you may say my pyromania
is born out of spite
but your toxicity is now gone.
i can finally breathe right.

so i'm going to continue
to fix myself
i'll box up old memories,
hide them high on a shelf
because i’m done treating the past
as my prison cell.
i've roamed ******* far
from the pits of your hell.

I just want to be set on fire.
I'm not asking for a funeral pyre,
or to burn like the sun, and light up the day,
or to shine like a fireworks display.

Just let me roast 'til I'm charred a deep black.
Let the smoke rise up in billowing stacks,
and once I'm burnt through, take hold of my ashes,
and toss me across wild vegetable patches.

Let me take root in the summertime haze.
Let me find peace in the cool autumn days.
Let me take shelter from winter's contempt.
Let me sprout new leaves as spring is redeem't.

I ask no forgiveness, no charity, mercy.
I don't wish for anything granted. Conversely,
I ask for two items, and if you're so keen;
A matchbox, and one gallon of gasoline.

and i would light fires
to feel the heat and see the light
i know i cannot be

Pyromania teaches you
something;
Playing with fire
is much like
playing with hearts,
someone will always
feel the burn.