Wake up and smell the stench you made
again, you fucked it up again.
Self deprecating, grating shame
surrounds your stupid, childish hope
that you could live in love again.
That crushing disappointment fills
the eyes and hearts of those around
and grabs your gut and wraps it round
your beaten, broken promises
in faith and fancy cruelly drowned.
What fooled you into thinking that
redemption was within your reach?
Who made your mindless mind so each
and every time you try to speak
you piss all over verbal bleach,
a choking stink that makes them retch
and run from you, the grody glitch,
the thoughtless, soulless, brutish bitch
that bites each hand of human help
and digs her deeper, darker ditch.
It rolls quite nicely off the tongue
Like the type of disease one with
Deep seated fears and complex facades
When did this bad habit begin and form?
Has is always been silently lurking within this body?
Ready to pounce on any destructive opportunity
That would arise from my gut
I can overcome it, I know I can
Wait no, an hour went by and oh
Another pile of discarded hair on the floor
Again. And again.
If this luxurious mane of thick, dark hair is so
Admirable and wanted.
Why can I not stop plucking it from the very
Fibers of my skull’s skin?
Keep it up and there will be naught
A single strand left on top of this girl’s head
My fingertips are aching and raw
Pleading with me to stop this
Nitpicking of these brown straws
Even as I type my nails
Scratch and burrow into my flesh
Pricking and prodding for what?
I wish I knew so I could tell you.
Maybe my innermost desire
Is to rip this bruised skin and broken hair off my body
Until I am nothing more than a hot, bloody mess
Of congealed, dripping, internal organs
And a new case of polished, refined
Poreless, porcelain skin
and ruby- red sensual lips
Could suck me up and out of it
A perfect stranger would emerge
Free from my vice and sin.
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
the tension building up within your spine.
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.
The finest mist of rain falls down
upon a grassy hilltop crest.
Far in the East, the sun is born
and gently wakes the world at rest.
A silhouetted oak stands tall,
its twisted branches hug the sky;
Beneath its bough I rest my feet
and listen to the Spring breeze sigh.
And at my side there sits a stone,
a single slab of charcoal slate
which marks the spot where once we sat
and through the sky watched comets skate.
"As Summer turns to Fall, my dear,"
you'd say, "all good things have to end."
But here I'll sit and dream with you,
my tender, dear departed friend.
Whilst rain may beat upon this drowning earth
and flood our minds with misery and pain,
a pale sun breaks her way out from the clouds
and gives us hope of life in light again.
For where her rays meet with dark clouds of doom
that thunder thoughts of hate on those below,
their bigotry begins to break away,
and our true shining colours show.