Tic talk lunatic,
walking creepy and scary.
Romantic click unlock with no
knocking, too sleepy to carry

The shovel.

This shovel.

The shovel is very
heavy like a rock,
makes it harder to bury
realistic-tic in time, outrunning the clock.
And to talk so simplistic is stunning; we left in shock.

Come write outright, you're right.

Come right out, write your right.

Come write outright your right.
For some succumb without rite read out to right from
being outright far from the right to play being dumb.
So it's mumble along, or remain under thumb.
We both know to be humble is wrong, when you're numb.

Come right out, write you're right.

Stumbling, shout insight;
incite doubt, crumbling.
In slight drought, the sun found dead
the unfounded site gets ahead.
I am astounded by the blood being shed,
when it sounded like the flood
all along was simply dread.

Everything is all inside your head.

But that was wrong, I limply said.
But you were strong. I see instead
that I belong back in my bed,
to track a song I wrote in red
before it's dead. And there I bled.
While I said,

Everything is all inside your head.

Find coastlines along the edges of your body,
mark your territory
and invite gallant young men to try their hand
at crossing a huge wall made of crystal glass
and steel verses.

Let them be afraid of the tombstones gathered
at the gates; tremble at their own risk
because your heart can't handle an unsteady hand:
it's filled to the brim.
And as the tourney dies down,
as the men scratch the surface
and leave with pieces of your arms,
your eyelashes, your cheeks,
there will be one
who is there when the dust settles.

Allow him to love you,
in a most consuming way; let him
take your body a shrine and let him
call it his only home.

Finally,
break his heart,
and watch as the poetry
spills out of you like
an angry river, from a spear
he wishes he'd hit into your chest
not cupid's arrow instead.