I'm a *******
I guess
but i always thought of me
as a human canvas
your blank slate
do I like the pain?
I've always had a high tolerance
but do I like it?
I guess not
but when it boils down to it
I'm happy
to be your punching bag
the dead air
which you fill with songs
older than time
these scars
are an ode
to your life
a beautiful poem
even the ones
which you can't see
I'm more like a billboard
than a man
but my ad space
will always be reserved
for you

once again saved by strangers delight
except this time there's more to understand
he leaves like a grain of sand
travels down her hourglass
for the length of the night
never promising this will last
but to briefly hold out his hand
and for the second time
everything will be alright

you cannot start over
when you do not exist
whisper sweet nothings
like we'll never exist

numb but no longer bruised
tired of gentle strokes
sick to the stomach of touching thoughts
richer of time but my minds broke
ironic to have nothing to lose
when there's no wars to be fought
no longer a fine china display
rest in peace to my words, here they lay

Show your demons love,
But never give them a name.
What's your name again?

numb, number and dumb
he put his finger on the trigger
and pulled it back to his thumb
swearing to god
'love is a flaw'
she is natures *****
messing with the value of power
and the need to want more
her hands reach with greed
sowing thoughts with fantasies
then tearing away
before you can plant your own seed
overcrowded, with 'flowers
growing in the darkest parts of the mind'
where hope is soiled with misery
and damp from goodbyes
if he could, he would cut her,
**** her, then crush her like mary
get high off her sorrows
and become legendary
a man who could live free
of the devils caress
but instead, finds his life
in the shell of lead death

His lips spoke a thousand lies, but his hands held, what once dwelled inside.
Hands that reached so far into the oblivion, valleys of scars stretch along the inner flesh of his arms.
Hands like his fathers because he didn't know them, especially when they were tightening around another's neck.
Hands that bruised then bandaged, then bruised again when they were pulled off like a new band-aid.
Hands like a broken home that could only be whole again clasped in the hands of another, or on the body of a lover.
Hands that left fingerprints on my thighs, my heart, my mind.
So I will never forget where he once dwelled inside.