I take in my last breath,
hoping that you catch it.
I just hope you hold me before lonelyness is past death.
I used to be the one to please, i used to be the man u need. I used to be beholden now just broken down on folded knees

I’m coffin in a yard of graves. Like often but now dark and strange. The cost of when I start to change, is lost wits and a heart of rage.
With practice came a new routine. A habit made for you to leave. In fact it saved the few you need, from havin to stray and loosin me.
So every night I rose to dred. And wake alive in rows of dead. Then weak and weathered I’d find my way home. To piece together the night now unknown.

In him a demon that’s keepin him hostage. Even when sleepin he’s dreamin of promise. Seein no reason he’s needin a conscience. Screamin and swingin like he was a mash pit.
Season to season its re-runs of lost wits. Strings of his peace must have begun to drop quick. He must have enough of these drugs to stop it. Because the legion has reaped up his profit.
And sobs heard were proverbs but not learned in classes. The bought curse will cost earth as crops burn to ashes. With all sin the fallen will call in the masses. And strong men will stall them til all ends and passes.

Livid seems to limit peace and rigid dreams begin to crease and when it leads to instant grief I dig in deep my skin it leaks. Avenge the piece of him deceased, the him that’s weak the **** the freak. The friend to lead to sin and leave. I bend and breach the fence and leash. The pen they grow us in to keep. To end and cease. To win and seek. To send relief , to my kin and peeps

This is a poem about writing poems, when lonely and broken these notes seem to hold him. When happy and open he’s lacking the notion. When laughing when hope comes, when past deeds don’t show up, his craft leaves its so dumb like lapsing devotion.
Without any anger without any grudge. He puts pen to paper but the pen just wont budge.
But instantly pens will leap stricken with rage. It sickens me how quick he’s writin a page.
As a student of light and a master of dark. Its prudent to write from both poles of the heart. Til his brain has a talent for more than just grief, he will train for a balance endorcing his peace.

All these scenes so extreme with no peace in between will soon bring me to means of escape. Like me sleeping for weeks or just leaving completely believe me its things I would hate......
And still recently reaching for dreams that are shrinking so easily seems like a waste. So increasingly pieces bleed feeding indecency keeping me thinking its fate. Til whats weak in me leaking free streaks down my cheeks in streams screaming I plead to be saved......
Then appeasing my demons with deep cuts and lesions I'm seeing no reasons to stay....

I give in willingly spilling these feelings free. Millions of drilling teeth pealing my brilliant peace. She can appeal to me, leaving my will too weak. Killing me still I speak, tilling my field of grief. Frilling these shields I keep. Filling me til I leak.
As my concealing ceased. Glad eyes revealing he, Chastise the last lies and baptize the stealing thief.
Sighing his sides sting and lighting his pipe dreams. Crying when finaly devising what life means...