You cut right through me.
I am the dying man in films,
gasping and choking on my own life,
shocked at what was always coming.
How is it that death feels so very alive?
I stumbled in a world of darkness
when you found me and cut me down
and all was clear from there.
You, who I thought least of all
taught me the best lesson:
weakened, and losing blood
my heart pumped stronger than ever,
raging and fighting for life
as it never had and I knew then:
I was happy to still be alive.

Stepping out into the yard,
my curvéd bow strung tight.
Thereupon my driveway,
three blackbirds share the light.
The moment is opportune,
it must be now, do or die.
I've got thoughts of my belly
filled with hearty blackbird pie.
"What did they ever do to you?
They're not a threat in the least."
Yet should I die in my own yard,
they'd pick me for the feast.

This heaviness in my chest is a grim room.
One cherished by a fool,
something that will never come to light.
It is a constantly dim room,
never lightening,
only strangled into night.
There is a lone rocking chair
in the room, cast out of yew.
My madness here is aplenty
and my silver thoughts a few.
My heart is made
of gray rotten walls
and deadly nightshade.
Maybe one day,
when a certain light
passes though the curtains,
I will walk out the door.

I write letters to God and burn them;
the smoke is my prayer.
Each day brings salty cheeks
and a recurring headache,
the circular path of pain
that storms in my head.
Lightning strikes my nerves
and thunder shakes my shell.
The two are cackling twins
guiding me on the path to Hell.
I've led myself here, and they know it.
Fire and smoke are my hope,
burning scrawl is merely history,
and wounds are only moments
that will cease to be.

A block in my heart angers my hand.
I cannot write, I cannot write!
I fear i'll find no respite tonight.
All of my letters melt into sand.
They are a black hole: everything and nothing.
We are but star dust the Sun sheds off his skin.
We struggle through our lives fighting our original sin.
I cannot write, I cannot write.
I know i'll find no respite tonight.
My words are everything and nothing.

In moments of my life
I lie, I do admit.
I try and guard my heart
with my rancor and my wit.

In moments of my life
I gave a piece of myself,
for nothing in turn.
There's always another woman
for whom a man's heart will yearn.

In moments of my life
I doubt I will have a one and all;
one who understands me
when I cut and when I crawl.

In moments of my life
I try and run from my fate.
Yet as I've found,
with growing dread,
I'm already too late.

You are a thought terrorist.
I can't go on a walk
lay in my own bed
or have a conversation
without you there.
You have hijacked my eyelids
you linger in my mind
-its maddening!
Maybe with these words
I can cut you from my head
and trap you in paper.
You can not become
my background music or
the rhythm of my soul
-its MINE!
Yet still, I think of you.
Why do I do this to myself?
If you are the terrorist, I hope
I am not the plane going down.