It's like I've written volumes of reasonable responses,
But burnt the pages in the furnace of my lonely subconscious.

Being hardly conscious of what defines responsible,
I'm slacking, toying with a recent lacking sense of passion.
Another constable and I'm basket-cased,
Basking in darker masks,
because I've abandoned the single greatest answer to my asking.

There's a fine line between an open mind and empty head.
There's a long bridge between actions being taken rather than words just being said.
I'm quite the sweet talker,
Candy words from a bitter tongue tied to a head filled with resentment and a body that carries rotting lungs.
I'm quite the mediator, I can lie and you'll love me for it, but I'm sure you know the rest,
I mean, you've gambled your heart for it,
Always reading the wrong words from the right lips.

I'll have you know I'm fully aware of the damage I cause, and full of sorrow over the time you've lost.
I've done what I can,
And what I couldn't do,
I tried,
I've changed what I can,
And when I couldn't,
I would lie.

Yet you would lie there with me,
Hoping for the best when the truth is we both know in reality this is all that there is.
This is all that there ever was, yet God thought it'd be funny to play a joke instead.

This is no laughing matter, I mean look at what's come from it;
Empty cabinets, soiled carpet, and a part of me that's dead.

All the patrons called and the tablecloths gone cause of the nosebleed stains of the house favorites flaws,
The demons that I seek met the skeletons I keep to pay the rent to all the scars I let them crash inside for weeks.
And boy, are they deep.
The scars, the demons, the skeletons in my closet.
And it bleeds through me-
And it bleeds.

From blue collars in Bangkok looking to keep up,
To college dollars wasted looking for a new rush.
It's incredible, absolutely, that everything went to hell over false power;
It's a tragedy, but nothing new that it all drowned due to fine powder.

So many will claim me,
But there is no home I know.
You'll try to save me,
But out the gates I'll go.
The best way to complicate is to simply not decide;
The only way I can compensate is to burn myself alive.

It's my two cents that I'm at a loss of sentience,
And I can't feel to the touch.
Regardless of if it makes much sense;
I'm not empathic anymore.
I have a lack of emotion.
I'm morally bankrupt,
And right down to the bone marrow-
I can't feel to love.

Can I show you my scars?
May I expose what it is that has torn me apart?
We can both serve as surgeons;
Sewing slits in the uniform that once resembled skin.

Sad chords and body sores reveal false power and faint accord.
I need them both but highs nor lows are something I can afford.

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

My shoulders have been aching all day
This jacket is making me hot
My knees are about to give out beneath me
Someone, anyone, please make this stop..

Carpet to the wall
***** colors dancing shapes
Gosh my back is sore.

my entire body aches
from wanting
and needing your
ice cold touch
to engulf me
and ease the tension