I've written a thousand words
I've dreamt a thousand dreams
Oh, how bleak
Oh, the dread
Of knowing what to say
And saying what you know
To only be misread
Not knowing how to show

I've decayed to my bones
I've rotted to my roots
Oh, this death
Oh, my brain
From being who you are
And showing my whole core
To only be misread
Not knowing what it's for.

Our small cups will fill
Our small cups will overflow
Like graves on a plot
A rivulet to the soil
Pouring till the end of time

This distaste for life,
It beckons me.
it ruins me.
Severing my aching nerves
to those who love me.

This sopping wet-hearted life.
I’m wasting it.
I’m washing away.
squeezing what’s left from within
For a reason quite unburdened.

This dead man’s life.
I can’t become it.
I relinquish it,
for those who seek impurity
you have my blessing.

This artist’s imprisonment.
My abysmal life.
My intimate fantasy.
secretes from the ducts
of the one who bears none.

A brash and destructive rage pulls the petals of life
from a sun-drenched flower.
How the tears and rain have nothing to grow,
but brash and destructive rage.

As wasted sunlight drops upon the skin of atoms,
I sigh limpid ghosts along hell’s diamond eyes.
Out they shake with gusts of dubiety.

Ouch!

The glow ignites my wintered skin.
The rarest turns to pain again,
Yet, I am safe in lush calm sin.
I wish to saunter home again.
- I wish to feel at home again.

She is my home,
But she is not where home is.
When will home wander to me?

We’ll set the breadth aflame
And expose what lies in the ashes between us.
Dancing,
Until our flesh turns white.

As it seems to be,
The days connect
In make believe.
The summer’s eve
Won’t sing to me
And as we sigh,
So foolishly,
We’ll feel regret
For everything.
For nothing ever
Truly ends.
No letters written
Ever send.
Our words will lurch
At every turn,
In hopes to reach,
Or to return,
To whom it always
did concern.
A love you’d always
dreamt to earn.
A whisper fated
- To adjourn.

Slumped and grumpy.
Soft and ugly.
God’s at the end of my bed.
I rolled around
And lost my head.
God’s at the end of my bed.
The farthest I could be.

They fake *******:
Dust’s collecting in a box.
All alone
I ******* teeth.
Lonely tongue
Itching sores
On the back of your neck,
Surfacing amongst silk
Far, far way.

Entangled comings
That spread through static
I hope are lost.
I hope you’re lost
Running over follicles,
Allowing them to breathe
And drip.

God is at the end of my bed.
I lose my head.
God is at the end of my bed.
I take his head.
The closest we could be.