Into a spiral of words, we go once more
Into the head of a madman;
On the contrary, he is self-proclaimed,
None proves he is a madman, after all.
He sets his machine ablaze,
Sculpting words upon his hundred epitaphs,
Exclaiming he'll end his hell today,
And rise again, tomorrow.

He is but a tinker of words,
He is but a feeble being;
Unable to voice the change he desires,
Unable to converge in the norms.
His machine seems rusted,
Rusted, but not broken;
Spewing out nonsense in disguise,
Molding empty grandeur.

It is not his machine that needs repairs,
It is the Tinker who seeks soothe.
He toils upon his machine,
Only to find that none is wrong;
It still basked in ivory and gold,
It still made what it does.
Yet, why does the Tinker feel such incompleteness?
All was vague, until it, came;

It had a smile that rivaled the sunrise,
It gave the Tinker the eyes to see the truth,
It showed him the light, and umbra of life.
It guided the Tinker to the stars;
It made the Tinker feel new again.
Together, they tinkered the machine once more,
And together, they saw the marvel before their very eyes;
They were truly, a cog and a catalyst.

Yet all is not forever.
It vanished without a trace.
It left the Tinker lost.
With its departure,
It left wake of the darkness in his heart.
His eyes grew dimmer,
He saw his masterpiece again, as a loss,
A failure.

The Tinker left death to feed upon his happiness,
The Tinker felt incompleteness once more;
He gambled for it to stay,
Yet all gambles fail in the end.
Yet the Tinker never knew,
It never left him.
The Tinker was made a fool over nothing;
Art lest, just offer nonsense, in love's yonder.

When I was a boy,
My heart resembled a rose,
Which could not see chaos,
My innocence did show.

When I became a young man,
The rose, it grew thorns,
Dark, hardened bits formed
When I was made to mourn.

It seemed life handed death to me,
Like it was running out of time,
Running out of time to break me,
That conclusion I did find.

But those deaths have not affected me
Like the living tragedies have,
And the living tragedies drive me closer,
To thoughts I once never had.

Here I am, reaching the end of adolescence,
A time that is meant to form us as people.
Here I am, feeling that I deserve more grief,
That I have always been inherently evil.

The horizon offers much for me,
But I fear it will not come easily.
Then again, it could not be worse
Than what life has dealt me habitually.

So, onward I will march,
As I have done for quite a while.
Though the bullets strike me often,
I will somehow endure this trial.

an enduring cypress
immortal knotted rings
until death
two as one
held breath

a contorted filbert
purple catkins bring to flower
deeply rooted visions
creativity, awareness, knowledge
enlightened fruition

a variegated willow
to drink up sorrow's rain
in tolerance we bend
but not to point
of breaking

three trees
foretell a future
laced with little deaths
cypress, filbert, willow
lest we should forget

The curtain frays at the edges
Unwinds, disobedient
Only to reveal
No bed (where one should be)

Dainty white muslin
Conflicted, floats
Away from the pane
More like a halo (than a shroud)

Here, in the cage of your mind,
Lies a mandolin
Hollow (with no music in its heart)

Towards another window
Its brother may lie
Born of nothing (but of itself)

they say
if you reach too close
to the sun

you fall
to the depths
of the ocean below
​
like icarus
on his wings of melting wax.

Blazing eyes hot with slow fearful contrast fired together, coloring a vivid sonic boom.
Blinding all with fired pistols quivering through many of the mighty dead.

The light in my eyes was the only movement that could be seen.

While a lone bro cry of "HAZAH!" was desirously pining over a share of the glory in this galvanic conquest.

That was the signal-NOW WAS THE TIME!
Victory was in sight drawing near and aggressively holding on tight.

I assure you of this, we really are the prey,
playing this cat and mouse game we were never supposed to win.
This evil creature of trickery let us destroy him-so who is the real hero?

When I fell into your cave,
Your stalagmites pierced me;
I became impossible to save,
The rock much too deep.

The sun did not shine there,
People did not see me hurt.
They did not see the blood,
How the rock made it spurt.

Some tried to pull me out,
But they all failed upon trying.
My strangled cry became a death shout,
For I was slowly dying.

My body, pulled from the deep cave,
Remained lifeless in your arms;
I had never been saved,
And I met the face of harm.

I was too far gone,
I could not return;
I did not see dawn,
Death I had earned.

Today is better than last night for now the delicate cords held within my throat do not refuse air its  passage through them for anything more than the oxygen it carries even though all I was wanting to do was scream.

Today is better than last night for now my sight is clear - free of the tears which could not fall due to the dam I built too high and too well who's retribution was to refract my guiding lights into nonsensical shapes which could offer no comfort.
                                                        ­  
Today is better than last night for now the sharp daggers of keratin are not biting at my skin frantically trying to purify me of this rotting flesh which coats my bones,  and my mind is past   not being able to wrap its tendrils about the idea of people possibly loving this wretched creature I have become... Or perhaps it did wrap around that fragile concept but instead of absorbing it those vines of the rose garden of my mind stayed true to form and grew thorns to pierce and tear at the idea like my nails once did to this alabaster canvas while holding as tightly as doubt sometimes holds my lungs keeping me from breathing,  but this concept is more breakable then my lungs... And so it was crushed into stardust.  The same stardust that comprises or bodies because every element of our bodies is created within our guiding lights we wish upon. And I see that sparkle of stardust every day in each of your eyes. I see it in everyone's eyes.. except my own... And  it makes me wonder if maybe dad was right and some people are just made of a different type of dust.  A dust comprised from the ashes of hell itself which will forever smolder but never more catch aflame... The ashes filed with the agonies of those souls which lost themselves in the madness and feel into the eternal night.

Venom dreams of waving smiles
Circled suns all caught in a line
Made of lead tears
That wished you were made
A promise that broke the earth
In a perfect peace.

And then the rain of blues
And the words of white
That washed against the sea walls
And flew kites
Fast against the childhood skies
And made music
For the deaf.

Sunship dreams of *** in rivers
Of ***** that flowed like milk
In a harmony Hellenistic
Like mosaics of the buried past.

Venom dream of number nine
In the ways you will be mine
To hold and love forever.

Serpent sails for the guns of tomorrow
Not bullets in your ironclad heart
That cannot pierce no love or feeling
But rhyme always
Against the fallen grain.

When the bracelets that you wear become
symbolic of who you love,
and I wore two while you had none.
Would it matter how these bracelets looked?
If it does:
One was pink, it bore the symbol of Christianity
I had been asked many times if it was
but all it proved was my unconditional sinless love
for you
the other was striped, red and white
while everyone told me it "was so much like me"
I wore it because it "was so much like you"
and by now we had melted into each other.

I suppose we started falling apart when they did,
the first I lost yesterday.