waltzing along
our beloved song

I used to be
quite better at this,

didn't intend to step on your feet,
you didn't intend to care about me.

and when the music stops,
will you say a prayer

for the sake of a soul remnant,

for the sake of a no longer living
man that believed
that dance with the dead
was the cure for his pain?

Too much life runs through my veins.  A very poison in itself.
Lost and confused I turn my own sharp anger and hatred to my chest.  
Ready to cut forth my beating empty heart.  
If my chest were a cannon, and my heart were shot,
   I would fire my very soul upon thee,
              loaded with unfathomable love
                     and primed with bitter contempt

She kept her heart encased in glass
  Or elegantly displayed
     On a moldy old canvass
   For callers by of gilded
      Or passing note

Wrinkled skirt crumpled in the
corner of the hardwood floor
poised to take the stand
and testify about the madness
and the lines of demarcation,
    The hollow harrowing haunting
     harbringer of the haughtiness
     that once served her so well;

I thought I spotted her reflection
in a magazine,
soot stained pages outlining
the continental shifts in her veracity
and the keloid cracks
running along the base of her foundation
a wrinkled old romance novel
in today’s latest fashion,
pretension the wayward child of passion

Through the storm
through the fire and brimstone they made for me
I still found the strength to run the blade through my own heart
And down the poison you let me take

Your liver thinks you're too thirsty
Your mind runs off drugs
You'll be dead before thirty
Or killed off by thugs

You escape this reality
to where, what does it give you
You've only escaped your mortality
for your death is long overdue

You were humble, you were frightening
Now you stumble, and stopped with fighting
Where's the real you gone?
for this one's almost done!

You'll be dead before thirty
"Though will you live to thirty?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Far, far away..."

"It doesn't seem right."

"Never it did"

"Was that supposed to hurt? The constant disappointment."

"..."

"Your mind is in a dark place and you let them win, don't you?"

"..."

"You can't keep it all inside. You're torturing yourself."

"I always end up getting into this situation."

"Stop doing a damage to your ownself."

"You have no idea what I've been through, do you?"

Beauty has been murdered by my hand.
Every feature disgusts and appalls me.

I have strung my own noose,
Stepped through the loop.
I stand ready
For you
To kick
My stool

The fake world speeds communication
Yet quickly sends sin and the devil too.

I stand a ****
And a harlot
Unworthy
Of your sweet perfection.

Death is not how you think she is
or how I think she is.
She is silently staring
from a dark corner
in a shady alley.

She is tall, slim,
like a skyscraper.
She has dark,  long hair,
that falls to the earth and covers it, like curtains.
(It blinds us.)

She is beautiful when seen from afar.
She waits for you,
patiently,
on that old motel bed with spread arms (and legs).

Her eyes are deep,
mirror-like.
They show you what it could be.
And her lips whisper empty promises (falacies).

Death smiles at you.
(she likes to smile)
You can see her yellow,
splintered teeth,
that reek of coffee and cigarettes.

From her mansion, she laughs,
throws *****.
Spreads pests,
while drinking wine she collected
as you cut your wrists with expertise.

It falls like a stream of crimson
inside her cup.
What a delight!
You give her that alcohol (addictive).

Death cries when she loses
does not go to funerals.
Jumps the rope with a bag of bones.
And sometimes comes
as soon as you call.

Deep down, she is very lonely.
Wishes for love.
Wishes for you to love her.
You wish to love her too.
(It is easier than loving yourself)