silence

Simply enough, this is one of those phases that, no matter how hard I press the pen to the paper, I won't be able to forget. If I made this all metaphorical, we are nothing but the ink. And if you don't know any other, any better, what's the point in dreams?

XXX

"Substance destroys all," I'm forced to hear a world preach. A world that is not mine, and for that I blame none other than myself. I carve this nonsense into the top 3 layers of skin, 100 more to go, because that's the world I live in. When I sculpt these words into constant reminder, and the blood trickles softly on the floor... If it's a drop of wine, we scold. If it's hemoglobin, we ignore. That's the world I live in; a world accustom to constant gore. The dirty, the poor, the treacherous class; they're the ones trying to break the mould, searching for more. The ones who have analyzed and realized what exactly is at risk. They know what is balancing on the end of a pinetree branch. They might as well take straightedge not to heart, but to wrist. Because right now, God has no part in this. I could describe, in details, what he's doing during your crime. But we are raised in contradicting ways, so I feel it'd be a waste of your time. When your vital signs becomes stories with double-spaced lines, instead of hope and a window, they are lies. So back up a space heater to my spine, because my pupils are inside of my eyes. Today, I declare, is the day they will decide to stay; right there, within my lashes below white. Everyone has a vice, whether you recognize it or not. Everyone has something that makes them tic, and ocassionally toc. There's a scratching deep inside. Starting at the core, crying its way out. Everyone wants to be left alone, but everyone won't. So be it, be my guest, for once, and detest. Detest this contentment at it's best. You're clearly drenched in sanctimoniousness. The stench is killing the accused, and the jury is merely amused. Your deception and hipocrosy is dripping off of you, onto me. The judge, wide-eyed, because you're slouched where everyone can see. But a lucky varmint, you are. Because in the world we live in; a world searching for blasphemy and mayhem. With your emotions so obviously perched, like pain, we ignore them. And it hurts.

Becky

One of those out-of-sight-out-mind-type people.
One of those ends-define-the-means-type of people.
One of those people that throws cliches around to make point.
But here I am to explain to you this:
___ and _ don't exactly exist.
I'm kindof looking for sex and drugs in between acoustic strings,
But that kindof beauty doesn't exist either.
Murder the thought of white dresses and rings,
Butcher the love notes and mythical things.
Damn you toddlers for falling in love and raping the world into thinking that's how that shit works.
I'm glad you died not a fortnight later.
Crawl on the carpet in secret streets and forced dancing dreams.
All in plastic bags, we stand alone.
Despite how close we sit.
I couldn't have said it better myself.
Thank you terrible trip.
My hands are legos so I hurt them to prove I'm still here.
I run with horses and laughter,
But I feel like a disappointment.
Like I'm here to entertain you.
Like I'm here to persuade you.
And it's working.
And you're dreaming.
And pain doesn't feel quite the same.
Hours later, it's only 10.
Relaxed in glory,
Since I found you.
I begin to like you again.