the immortal

Could I show you the apex of my soul?

The violence and the beginning?

Could I take those pretty things you say

and lock them away in my dirty heart?

could I write your songs on my skin

with the ink from my bones?

And would my love save you?

Would these long bitter wastelands

Dissipate beneath quicksands and funerals?

Could you tell me why I am not a locomotive?

Is it because the scars on my arms are

More numerous than the stars until you count them?

Would you let me drink you in deeply

And come up from drowning

Like some watery phoenix?

I hope you could.

I hope you could take me away

To some verbal escape of sexual beat poetry

And darkness and mistletoe.

I hope you can scream,

like a brutal lush, my name

through the halls of heaven.

I hope you will make me immortal.

shut the fuck up

goddamn i am so sick of people being evil to each other. its all so fucking immature. i know you must think you're clever but in all honesty you're transparent. you barely grasp the concept of what decently intelligent people would call subtlety. you could not begin to imagine how much i detest how simple you really are. honestly what the fuck is wrong with you people? grow the fuck up. and grow some balls while you're at it.



p.s. posting your childish attempts of animosity under the guise of humor via facebook????

that's classy

worth one thousand words

trees

crimes of passion

lookie what i've got

i am selfish, i am wrong

and i am flawed...







one of these nights in the deep deep dark i will say my final goodbyes to you.












but still, come home

blinded

i've been sick a long long time. i can remember nights back at home where i would pray for sleep that often never came so that i could stop whatever hurt it was i was feeling. i've been getting better, and i hate to say i think some of my sickness lies in you. something in me knows it, but i don't want to believe it. i keep telling myself i'll be strong enough to deal with what your short comings may cause. it's my own fault really for thinking that because i was getting better, you could somehow come through for me. you have proved to me once again that the faith i've had is you is both blind and unfounded.

"when i see you, in spite of all that we've become, i'm still blinded"

music boxes

ever have one of those moments when the noises in your head stop and you suddenly realize that whatever background sounds were around you have come to a crashing halt? you become very aware of how silent your world has become. its like the music box in your brain has suddenly snapped shut and the twinkly sounds no longer float from the open windows of your mind. even the wind has hushed away the very voice of God. its like the tiny inner workings of your personal noises have met with the shock of a soldering iron. take a moment to watch the people around you, when you notice someone suddenly go into a panic expression all doe-eyed and shocked, their music box has stopped. we as humans are terrified of silence. it's a thing i can't understand. silence is devastating and crushing, louder than the noises that could make your ear drums bleed. humans are nothing but music boxes, tiny skin covered containers full of sound. but even our mechanics wind down, our songs rest themselves from time to time, so why the fear of silence? the world is more grand than the objects in it, and if humans cease their noises, why not the world itself? silence is nothing, the absence of sound. if you can't hear the world, then see it... smell something, taste something, touch something. be a living music box with eyes, lips, hands and a nose, not just a voice. besides, when everything is silent, you'd be surprised what you can really hear.

project #1

Persephone: side effects may include dying

Love is an arms race
With spitfire and poison throwing dart guns
The virgins are clipping their wings
Coming in the night
Coming in the daytime
Under the brightest stars of all
Driven in the legions
By the blood of their lovers
Avengers of the modern sickness

Love is a disease of the heart
A palpitating mass of citrus peels and lip gloss
With God on the heels of the soldiers
The turning in your stomach
That metallic taste like blood
The smell of burning in the air,
Fires of distant enemies
Floating on frosted kisses and sweet goodbyes
Girding your loins with the youth of the innocent

Love is a drug-run industry
Faulty enzymes in a synaptic gap
Rolling through bodies like death bells
Made of pin pricks and numbness
Temporary hysterical blindness

Love is moving eight inches deeper
And breaking your nails off in the desire
The soft crinkle of cotton sheets
The need for eccentricity
And the waking up beside your smooth soft body

Love is Persephone
And songs for the falling
Warning: side effects may include death

once more into the breech

i struggle with falling into my same old habits. as time has gone by, i've begun to realize that you were the addiction all along. not the bleeding, not the eating disorders, not the attention. i was addicted to you. and now the drug is in front of my face, can i approach it differently? you have to understand that i will be apprehensive at first. can i handle it, be involved in it, and not let it take me over? in actuality i'd like to use you casually. i'd love to slip in close to you and feel your warm soft belly, and not worry about if tomorrow will get here. i'd like to keep my head above your waters, but i've never been a strong swimmer. i don't need your help to sink, i can do that on my own, but the rocks tied around my ankles will make the surface a fair challenge. i guess it just means i'll need to be stronger.

you see, i feel differently. like i haven't been sick for days. like being away was a cure for the illness. like the stars and childish dreams have faded from my disillusioned mind. and some reality of the beauty and strength has settled in. i know now, it would have destroyed me. i would have let your waves take me under and called it "tragic" or "poetic", these are things i don't have to be. and for as ready as i am, i wonder if some of who i has died out with the scars on my arms. you are one in a line of sicknesses i am no longer defined by. but it doesn't mean i can't live with them. so, here i march back into the fire, this time armed to the teeth with knowing that i may be consumed, but i will make it out if i choose to.