Feeling uncomfortable in my own skin
I wish i could just rip it off
And breathe again
Its so tight
Im suffocating
I wish I could just
Change

Roll up! Roll up!
Examine the corrupt,
the nose, hair, the olive of skin.
Dishonourable, alloyed blood.

Rub, Rub
I can't get it off.
grate, burn, scour,
I can only cleanse, gloss, polish.

Look! Come and see
the fresh, clean impurity.
Lay on the table,
sparkling shimmering.
We cannot control these sinful things.

words drip like honey
from your chin
i lick up the syllables
that make me grin
teasing me with talk
of your favorite sins
and then making new ones
against my skin

There is always this flower,
Ever so beautiful, Ever so lovely.
A flower that grows just right for my soul;
But a flower in someone else's garden.

I'd water her,
Each time I passed her by.
She grows no thorns to my skin,
Delicate to her very core.

But as she is beautiful,
Often attract other passersby.
They too would try to nurture her;
And often too she would fall for them.

How could I even save a flower;
That was never mine in the first place?

-HIY

Your skin is a pastel melody,
Though you enrich my days
With a rhythm that is
Anything but monochromatic,

Your eyes a steadfast housing
For waves of gray-blue, green speckled swirls akin
To a summer storm just before dusk,
Thunderous like your will,
Raining refreshment like your essence,

Your curved pose carved in
In loops of my mind
You're always seemingly tangled in,
About where we will go to eat
This weekend, and
How many hours we will lay
Huddled up like hibernating cubs
In a nest we've built from blankets,

Winters no longer soaked with solace,
But now with the eager chance
To shut ourselves in,
If not only to enjoy the eternal company
Of two beings who love being with each other.

Now forever doesn't seem so nearly long
When I'm tripping over days
And sliding through the weeks
With you,

You make the cold days seem
Too brief in their presence,
And every day a little bit warmer
Than the last.

If my flesh could sing,
It'd bellow, it yearn in endless echo
For the familiar comfort
Of your fingers gracing over me
On a lazy Sunday morning
With nothing better to do
But enjoy one another,

For no longer am I
A man standing lonesome against the
Stiff gust of the present moment,
But a being who is only a
Malformed morph of skin and bones
Without the extension of myself,
The inner of my core,
The hue of all my colors,

The movement behind my dancing,
The alleviation to all my sorrows,
You,
For now, and for as long as I am me,
You,
For tomorrow, from yesterday, and all the years we dream,
You,
For as long as time tells and suns set,
You.

there's a hidden man
he a fan of mirrors
his first name be terror

see this hidden man be
like writer's block and white paper
like planes in skyscrapers

there's a hidden man
skin made of cobweb: an-other
no friend sis or brother

there's a hidden man
wenn er dich packt: renn!
there is a hidden man

he a cheerleader who
became the grim reaper

the last time you
felt inresitable closeness
where when you went
into this dark basement...







there was a man in a cage
he received you with rage
as you animalically engaged
in the provocation of greed

amber on his skin
yellow-colored fluid
and your pulse beat
the same speed
as you turned into a unit

then you woke up and smelled
his grin