the boy has a match
in his back poc ket. hovering
sheathed by fluffy ice
chest reverb erates
as a single rain drop
trickled in pinful loop...
not wanting to be burnt but he rations
not wanting anything at all.
in destroying one makes something
there was nothing. he
s t r i k e s the match aflame and alive,
w ering it fit to spread
and surely cause his life some havoc... havoc...
H A V O C
he ruminates the meaning of the word a while
on it being better than boring old nothing.
Yes,I've read e.e cummings,why do you a
sk ? ?
Man starts 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
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
like a wild gloriosa
rustled by the winds
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
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.
felt like home.
Pyromania: the obsessive desire to set fire to things
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.
we don't need no water let the ******* burn
You cultivated, harvested and produced everything I would desire
like Embers, I was once discovered by your fire.
In my darkest hours you'd always give me reason,
like wildfires in unexpected seasons.
Every part of me learned to radiate,
ecstatically exposed to all your burning states.
Then came the day I turned into dust,
and like a volcano you annihilated my trust.
I was the property of a ****** arsonist,
and starting fires is how his wickedness vents.
It's hard to fathom that this started with little ignition,
because it grew so fast into a vicious obsession.
I asked you to stop smoking that day and it wasn't because I was simply sick of it,
I just hated the fact that I saw myself in your half dead-cigarette.
Sometimes your perfect "match" can perfectly burn you.
With an all-consuming fire,
He pulls out his lighter.
A little flame of hope
For a hopeless little pyro
I am writing a story about a pyromaniac at the moment. Guess what it's called? Inferno. How typical of me, so original
and i would light fires
to feel the heat and see the light
i know i cannot be
Pyromania teaches you
Playing with fire
is much like
playing with hearts,
someone will always
feel the burn.
— The End —