Where will this take us now?
Is it us who outruly guiding us as we march dramaticly to the next room?
Will it be us who slams the door shut, or will we be boxed in with some automatic door opening and closing as more and more people come right in? Will we move along romanticing every little acomplishment we do, or will we morbidly and silently stubble on as we are poked and proded to keep moving? Will we finally rest as we see fit, or will we be told we have done enough? We all can easily anwser this in a way most people would generaly. We could stubernly and pridefuly declare that nothing shakles and moves us from one feeding trough to the next. We could so easily be just another rebel with a hollow cause that eagerly awaits to rip open the binds of all those around him, and finally take his spot in the limelight of respect and admirition. We can continue to dream and strive to be the philisophical moses of our generation, and lead our fellow brothers and sisters into a time where we all walk at our own pase, we all slam the doors we ourselves opened, and take any path we wish to travel in a way we feel best suits us. We could all be the one to hold on to the chains, or let the cattle go, but all of us are simply black sheep. So again I ask, who? I do not know, but I non the less seek an anwser.
Where will this take us now?

The sky rips through itself with ease.
Self-destruction is an art form when
you are nothing but constellations and wonder.

Black holes tear
through the fabric of the universe
and celestial hands reach through them,
scratching at God's flesh.

Stellar voices echo
through these pits of imbibe
asking it's creator
one question:
"why?"

Fistfuls of stars thrown into
the jarring teeth of inferno;
a flame that feuls more fire.

Planets are crushed
under gravity's legs,
and, like a child unsatisfied with a drawing,
the space between galaxies
crumples like paper.

Tired of being a feast for human eyes,
and being

Poked, Proded, and Penetrated by People

God's first and best creation
consumes itself whole
to satisfy
the hunger.

she said she couldn't believe i was real
but really, i was made in a lab
where they proded and poked
till this thing came out!
want me to do a little dance for you!?
balance on my dome?
swallow a sword?

find an exit off the interstate

This fine Sunday morn ,
a pigeon flapped into a tree ,
then straight into my window thud ,
I know this because it now lies in front of me ,
It’s lifeless face ,
It’s wings so still ,
and I’am wondering if it’s really Ill ?
I proded it ,
It did not move an inch ,
so I sat it on my dinner plate ,
and still before me in rigamortis lay ,
It did not move it's tiny head come what may ,

nor flapped it’s wings  upon my dish .
Now my rat pie really should be flying high ,
i think not I should end its life with the faltering sky ,
I know not why ,
it had to die ,
but that bird never moved an inch ?

Before I met her I was a pathetic man
only sixteen and already hooked on *******,
Doing terrible things for a living,
letting the past surround me like a shadow.
Always keeping others a bay

But then this whisp of a girl
a new teenager of thirteen,
she came plundering in
all left feet and no grace.
Talking to much, spoke her mind.
Stood tall where others hid.

She Smashed down the walls
I had so proudly Built.
She dared to speak of things
that the others shy'd away from.

She didnt put up with my ****.
Refused to believe I wasnt better then this.
She poked and she proded,
until I finally opened up.

She took this loner,
this cold hearted soul
she brought back the child within me
that I thought was forever lost.

Pandora has her hold on me.
She may be my sister,
But she is so much more.
She is my savior
She is my strength

My Hero