too many times
i've found nothing to find
in between the lines
and i've lost my mind

too many times
i've lost my mind
in between the lines
and found nothing to find

I don't see what's wrong with my
addictive personality.
the only thing in life that's
restrictive is morality.
we tally these
burning trees
and build the lees
for holding seas,
pretend the knees
inside of me
aren't shaking at the sight.

the alchemy
of how we be
is clear without a light.

I love blasphemy
because it's bug-eyed.
and it lets you see
more than what you're looking at.

I love irony
because it tastes like blood,
bitter and healing.
They won't know what your feeling,
and you won't either.
It's perfectly horrible.
Ironic, really.

I love guilt.
that person inside
who knows more than you.
the one who glares out through
the gaps in your ribs,
sharing the space your
heart inhabits.

I love the sound of breaking glass.
the "*******!"
gently tinkling off your mistakes
like a bell
reminding you that
beauty breaks
and the shards are sharp.

ten million lines
make up your beautiful face;

they are not your face.

without what's inside,
lines are equivalent to lies;

they are not your face.

the exact same lines
that are in you are in me,

but I am not you.

nobody can know
what isn't already there.

what more can there be?

we are made of lines,
the lines are not made of us;

they are not your face.

You listen to love songs
to make yourself cry;
like a drunk with his finger down his throat
luring the origins of his throes to the surface
and out the way they came.
but it's not the same.
because after the deed is done,
the drunk is left with empty eyes
and bottles.
somewhere to start.
While you're left with a
dripping heart
and not a single space left untouched
by your coal-covered fingers,
still warm,
telling the ice in your eyes
to run down your
dripping heart.

the melancholy snow-melt fills the cavities clawed
by your pulse.
the runoff gaining speed and reasons not to stop;
until the reflection of a smile
freezes your form once more.

The white spots in your eyes wane
as you see the cycle;
but you still don't notice the rain
is just a disciple
of the patterns that be.
Because you haven't listened long enough,
Because those love songs still play
and distract the usual numb,
and because in the furthest reaches of your
solitude
you still feel like you're being watched.

Drugs
are the milk
to a rice crispy bowl brain.
sniff
slurp
bite
burn
snap, crackle, pop.

Do you hear that?

curled in the corner
of your queen sized
mattress

sharing a bed with my conscience
is no easy task.
she always talks in her sleep,
her feet are ice cold,
and she always hogs the covers.
I'm never left enough room
to breathe.

And the paisley pattern on your sheets
only keeps her awake
into the hours
when the ice wakes up;
Stretching its lazy, crystal bones
over the front lawn;
chilling the roof tiles
with a yawn.

curled in the corner
of your queen sized
mattress.
and my conscience,
she's stirring.