Let these creaking bodies play
the melodies of lust and test
my mettle upon the metal grey
and cold upon this weary chest.
I knew those lips would tear away
that skin, and those eyes my heart infest.
I knew my mind had gone astray
when I realized I knew who knew me best.
And her lips tasted like metal
And she boiled my emotions in a kettle
And she played lines on my chest like treble
and bass notes rose from my throat
and those lips sung slashes for the rest.

I'm tired of deleting my sadness.

Beautiful prose is my pride, but pride can be broken
just like a heart weary with the world, and soft spoken
words can cut me like any other man. I bleed. I need
love and laughter and starlight and music in my life.
We all need poetry and dancing in the kitchen and flowers.
Yet... The power of my words isn't a sacrifice,
and this language is not an altar to your smile.

I haven't bared my soul in quite a while, and for you to tell me not to...
Bite me. **** your needs and *******.

I'm tired. I'm weary. My normal flights
of fancy and music and puns and laughter
are taking a reprieve. Skip over it if need be.
These words are mine to seek for shelter
and this page is mine on which to bleed.
Sometimes my playlist is full of spite
and tonight "Welcome to the Black Parade"
is really just what this recovering punk needs.

I recycled rhymes, penned cliches,
and god help me today I don't care.
Here's the exhibit. My wrists on a canvas.
Feel free to snicker.
Feel free to stare.

His teeth brush her skin and she flinches.
Breathy gasps on shifting eyes
Slide across the icy air, and inches
Of separation mark porcelain lies.

Porcelain teeth mark crimson brands
And whiter still the skin where wedding bands
Rested not long ago
Upon skin that recoils from his perfect hands.
And choices that only she can know.