Lost are the ways
of respect and love,
people just searching
for lust and other drugs.

It's easy to lose yourself
in the world,
so many moving pieces--
easy to sway a girl.

But I will continue to
root myself in faith,
and search for who I
am in this crazy place.

Step up your game,
you're shallow and weak,
with more shame behind
the words you speak.

A liar, a fake,
a backstabbing friend,
you're the person who's
masquerade never ends.

But really, you're just so
inside of yourself,
and you're feeble in
caring for anyone else

besides the inadequate
person you always see.
You're awful, dreadful:
a number of terrible things,
nothing close to what you
pretend to be.

Beautifully tragic:
warm, but smothering.
Home-like, but woeing.
The sight of the bed that
swallows his hopes and
dreams.

Each day, I lose glimpse of
his fight: his endless struggle
of heart, mind and body and the
15 inch foam coffin that holds him
hostage to the world inside his head.

"You're worthless. You don't matter..."
Screams uttered by the supposed
"supporting team." Who the hell are they to you anyway? Flesh and blood
mean little when his financial value
is higher dead than alive.

The greatest fear, sitting in the hearts
of viewers (idle victims of the scene
unfolding), is the penultimate event.
The second to the end: for it is the one we will never see coming. The last "good" one before the worst one.

The last night that the bed holds him tight before the bullet squeezes him tighter.