Five feet left from yesterday,
I think that's where Beauty died.
She didn't die from lack of anything
forensics says there was just
too many hands around her neck.

Its boring when real people are fake
it would be better for a story to have
fake people that are real
in timeline where the hero doesn't get the girl
but he gets a girl,
and the two teach each other
to become the couple,
not a couple.
not a story about being perfect
but a story of finding out how to be human brilliantly.
Its bad enough that we only learn extremes,
how not to do things
not how things could be done.
we could be trapped in the lines of fake
heroes and
a story might teach us to be real.

Its not that I am lazy
or even qualify as depressed, it is just
that everything tastes like cardboard
and I have forgotten how to cry.

Maybe you can forget to see in color,
and resign to politically correct,
where grey is the new black and white
and contrast was killed in the womb.

Society does have a thing
against the dead coming back to life,
or do they despise those they've buried reaching toward the light
I never got the story straight.

Even if its weird, I wish I had an outside
with a sun just of my own
so I can fight to give it's light to people that I like
instead of  having to pretend that everyone is perfect.

Maybe its that humans tend to go crazy
if there is no hero to their villain,
and the survival instinct could just disappear
if nothing tries to **** you.

I wouldn't say I am tired of living,
but I may be bored of being dead.

A trail of bread crumbs to the witches house,
through the forest that haunted that strange little town.
she was never quite loved-
that lone confectioner.
pushed to the outskirts
by those that live for white picket fences
and the grass growing green and even.
When the authorities came by,
they found two kids, fat and happy,
but not by the hand of the woman.
There was no cage in the house made of sugar;
for what sweetened cage could hold a child?
No, the once fragile and beautiful house
that glittered like spun glass,
sat eaten and worn at the loss of her owner
for little old ladies do not devour children,
but children will **** for candy.

I've spun my memories into a cage and,

I am sorry, I am not a good person
And I could never make myself care.

Now I am trapped in nostalgia
Looking out through these brittle bars,

I remember the day we met
And we never talked again that year,
You spent all that time wishing I would see you

But it’s hard to see with these tears
Forming glass on my eyes.

And one day I tripped
Right into your arms, I brought you happiness.

In a way it burns my sight
Since the rooms are too dark
For my eyes to see

You were more beautiful then I knew,
And I left.

Outside my head,
The world became fearful
Or I became afraid

Wilfully walking out,
On friendship, love,

And now I wish I had been strong enough,

*I was frightened to never be alone.

The skeletons
I buried out back with a rusty shovel
claw each other
to climb out of the earth;
left there from days gone past
they fight to live again.

The dwarfed squat bones
of whims that died in conception
climb the bigger ones-
the ones that walked in the light
and those climb those bigger still,
and in the center...

an imposing mass,
lies the biggest of them all.
the only one
too big to move,
fed by shame and loved too long;
it was a giant at it’s death,
and has nothing he can climb.
His hand’s outstretched
to grasp for life
and finds only the soft brown dirt
that keeps him in the ground.
All the other little fears
climb up him,
as their ladder to blue skies.

But I slew my monsters long ago
their souls no longer rise.
All that’s left is memories,
to haunt my weary eyes
as they climb upon
their ladder to blue skies.

People like to lord their humanity
over those they find
less human,
to those people
that a certain definition of human doesn't fit.
"how can you-
hope to be me."
as if they were the pure form of human...
What they forget
is we are all merely monsters,
gallivanting as civilized
and sometimes

we forget which fork is for the meat
and eating our pasta with the salad fork;

we betray our monster.

But also people forget
that angels are just another form of monster
who forgot to be human.
And if we ever could forget our skins
we could just lean down
and help a fellow monster
find his wings
before we meld back into the sky.