deep within the black shirt
are chamelion hands making mocks
of string
when they should've been
digit deep in a bowling ball
or around the handle of a sauce pan
or on the arm of the couch...
sometimes they'd be cupped
amplifying yells around the mouth,
sourcing the tooth obsession along with a slew of other medical problems,
another bushel of ******* for the stew in the ***
maybe her foreign claws
could rub the knots out of your shoulders
but she is suspected of dropping the world,
and, as with many other things,
would garner your reluctance
to hold risk for,
your red hot fear of hatred
your red hot ******* hatred
those shoulders hold your house
your saxophone
those shoulders hold your experience
your lack thereof, your anxiety
your ******* hatred
your black shirt

you want love. you want a
a sense of self
you want
to sense something else
i need you
i need you to know
you've got it all
and we can thank God it's alright
it's alright to be out of control

Is this life
or is this death
it feels like hell
therefore i must be dead

I wish I were a cigarette
Perched in-between your perfect arched lips
Breathe me into you
I'll swirl in smoke tendrils around your face
And then I'll happily fade away
Until you light up another later
Being your bad habit isn't so bad
If that's what I am to you,
I'll take it