Love*
I humbly bow to you
and promise to follow
your quiet whispers
to my heart

Where you lead
I will follow

My lips are moving but my brain is not
I've got my smile handy, I'll never be caught
I'm nervous but it'll never show on my face
I'll pretend I fit, I belong in this place.

My hands aren't clammy, I don't have a stutter
My voice is steady though my legs are rubber
I'm sitting down, no one gets to see
I'm nervous, I'm unsure, but I can fake happy.

I'm an actor, a professional, I'm perfect at what I do
I'm smiling, I'm laughing, but, god, how I hate you.
I fly through moods as though it's my sole purpose
I go by an alias so no one knows I wrote this.

I'm nervous, I'm nervous, I'm ******* terrified
But far be it from me to be typically traumatized
I'm a 'survivor', I'm doing just fine, I'm not panicking
I'll never display the bad moments publicly.

"I know it's cliche, but-"
You may stop right there
As, yes, cliches exist
And nobody cares
But life is cliche
We're all just living jokes
With stories told and lived
Since millennias ago.

Be as cliche as you wish,
You can't change what's done
And the way you express it
Or the need to tell someone
Wear your cliche with pride
Because, years before you, another did not
And it tore them inside
And now, in the earth, their body rots.

"I'm in so much pain, but none of it's physical
And god, that's so ******* cliche,"
But it's the only description you know
Your played out storyline's seen better days.
Because it's such a played out, worn out cliche
But it's unique because you hurt in your own way
And lord knows we're all dealing with the same thing
Living a cliche and fighting for something to change.

You smile, you laugh; you hurt, you cry
And I promise you another in the past
Laughed and cried at the exact same time
Right up until the day they died.
Because you may be something special
But don't ever think you're something new
You're life's been lived, been replayed
By hundreds, maybe thousands, before you.
So, yes, it's going to be a cliche.

I'll never admit it
If only to spare my own
But somedays I run a knife across my wrist
When I'm alone.
I never break the skin
There's not a drop of blood
But I'm considering, thinking, 'maybe'
And that's normally enough.

But at the bottom of the barrel-
Where the sludge of Earth runs thick
Where I crafted my essence
Where I sometimes hit-
I don't want the knife
And I don't want a gun
I don't want a rope
I don't want to run.

I want to fall asleep.

I want to fall asleep
And simply fade away
And the world would never know me
That I'd gone or that I'd came.
I'd want to leave with a whisper
In the middle of a desert
Where no one is listening
So no one hears.

I'd like to fall asleep
And let it all end there.
There'd be no 'beyond life'
The be nothing, everywhere.
I'd like to simply fade away
As though I never eisted at all
I'd like to forget life and it, me
Like a friend I never called.

There is a certain misery bred
into children of the night,
most notably the 20,000 a month
born under a full moon,
a rare combination of being born
in the dark of night, yet under
bright white moonlight,
a mere 1/100th of the total born
each month.

If you are one of us you know it.

The moon is alive and effeminate,
pulls on us, pushes on us,
at least on us who call her mother,
and though she shines her sweet shine
her soul is as cold and indifferent as
the belly of a black hole,
and we will war with her influence
all the days of our life.

Chaos,
compulsions,
sorrows and sins
our constant companions.

For she alone
knows the effort it takes
for us to live ...

          The anxious tide within my head
           was put there by the moon,
           the ocean too, its waves of blue,
           respond to what she says

All our days a high wire act
where everyone looks on with
eyes wide and mouths agape,

and when the night comes
we are alone,
and in fear,
and the end of us is always near,
and our numbers will not cease,
her bright light will grant no peace.

she is a GRAND MULTIPARA

and INFINITUS GRAVIDA

while we are beggars and thieves,
tired as hell, asleep when awake
and awake when asleep,
swimming in brain matter
madness
and churning recollections
like a duck on a lake,
calm on the surface,
fast as hell underneath.

In the end
it’s the crazy debate
that brings us down,

          To find ourselves we lose our souls,
           to lose our pain we lose control
           to find the norm there is no peace,
           to lose it all she will not cease

The pendulum swings back and forth  
and there is no rest,

The ***** is out for blood,

and she pulls on us
and she pushes on us

          The push of truth, the pull of lies,
           the pull of hell that push denies.
           the push of God, the pull of sin,
           the pull of what we push will win

unless of course we break
and bleed out,

but she does not care,

there are many more
to take our place
and they like us
will find no rest.

It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.

don't I know it? I
answered.

I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night

nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.

I walked down the stairway and
into it.