There, the wind she feels is driven by
creatures bounding across a universe, tapping gently her neck.
She sings an aching chorus composed in fear
she sings, she sings endless verse to each.
O' come here hare or horse, o' come here bird and bear
nest and trample upon my golden hair.
Bloody my brow; bruise deep my skin
poke my eyes with berry bush stem.
Here, crown my flesh caked tangles with hoof and feather.
Now, with your ears focused on solemn melody; can your eyes see only darkness?
Mock her with growls and squawks.
Use your claws and talons to end her lyric
and compose a natural song in her honor, for she like you is long since dead.
I. One Wrong Move
Fix my bed with bloodied hands
Cloud my ears with pinkened pillows
I lie still in muffled silence
As the dark room hums around me
II. Intentions to Improve
Hidden from my gaze behind my back
Turned glass eyes glow neon black------inside
A thick-skinned pseudo-demon mask
Arms tense always ready to act
III. Cut Smooth
Not a sound escapes but
Each tremble contains a witness to fear
As my throat rips open; my eyes tear------shut
Warm wet flows from cheek to chest
Almost gone, these last few breaths
Turn pink pillows red
And the dark room hums even after I'm dead
they'll never change your life
wet concrete fog thick smiles
footsteps falling toward north star miles
cold toe tips water dripped feet
mark inches on city streets
passer-by buildings blood red bricks
head spins mind turns tricks
skies move in on chins turned down
walking city streets that'll never change your life
defined: A state in which the normal sense of personal identity and reality is lost, characterized by feelings that one's actions and speech cannot be controlled.
Mans' Struggle To Fit In By Any Means Necessary
The weirdness hit me again at the store today. I felt like I was nothing more than an object in motion in an elaborate machine with the purpose of entertaining some cosmic audience. It lasted for the entire spree and so I went with it and raised the bar of the production. I danced with my shopping cart and tossed super real, super red tomatoes around like confetti splashing on the floor painting the dirty tiles all shades of red and
red wet cheeks protest imminent death
clam hands stroke crowds of suspicious eyes smiling
blood swirls in dizzy dances from weak fingers to butterfly brains
can't see, the city is growling-beckoning with sounds of blind diamond light
piercing through the darkness of slammed eyelids
asphalt tears mark carefully chosen steps
finally the street, then the house
at last the creak of a known door
my bed, I could sleep for ten thousand years
forget my hands and Monarch colored mind
to spite the city and... everyone in it
Seventeen bodies and a kerosene can
All lined up by a simple quiet man
Says freedom always comes that's what he knows
Strikes a match and the first body blows
Second fire starts by power of mind
He does a quick twirl and a pelvic grind
The third and fourth are quite the laugh
He sets them off with a string of Blackcats and their stomachs full of gas
Five through ten take some time to get going
It's pretty hard to make fire when the wind starts blowing
Eleven is special, it's his lucky number
So he slits her throat, fucks, then burns her
Twelve, thirteen, and fourteen are dead looooong before his lighter clicks
Been
The red-hot fingers plead, gripping my ankles as I skip my way to her house. There were so many burning hands trying to trip me in anger or hold me back entirely from making it to the little spot I like to toss pebbles.
She opened her window again with frigid fingers I'd been dreaming about for weeks. I could smell the chill as it dripped down the side of her neon green house. Her voice, like a dog whistle only I could hear, forced through sleep was still against my intentions.
Why wouldn't she inhale the cheap perfume from my rose tipped tongue and fall to the sea of blistering fingers as I set myself free inside of her? Did she know that
There, the wind she feels is driven by
creatures bounding across a universe, tapping gently her neck.
She sings an aching chorus composed in fear
she sings, she sings endless verse to each.
O' come here hare or horse, o' come here bird and bear
nest and trample upon my golden hair.
Bloody my brow; bruise deep my skin
poke my eyes with berry bush stem.
Here, crown my flesh caked tangles with hoof and feather.
Now, with your ears focused on solemn melody; can your eyes see only darkness?
Mock her with growls and squawks.
Use your claws and talons to end her lyric
and compose a natural song in her honor, for she like you is long since dead.
I. One Wrong Move
Fix my bed with bloodied hands
Cloud my ears with pinkened pillows
I lie still in muffled silence
As the dark room hums around me
II. Intentions to Improve
Hidden from my gaze behind my back
Turned glass eyes glow neon black------inside
A thick-skinned pseudo-demon mask
Arms tense always ready to act
III. Cut Smooth
Not a sound escapes but
Each tremble contains a witness to fear
As my throat rips open; my eyes tear------shut
Warm wet flows from cheek to chest
Almost gone, these last few breaths
Turn pink pillows red
And the dark room hums even after I'm dead
they'll never change your life
wet concrete fog thick smiles
footsteps falling toward north star miles
cold toe tips water dripped feet
mark inches on city streets
passer-by buildings blood red bricks
head spins mind turns tricks
skies move in on chins turned down
walking city streets that'll never change your life
defined: A state in which the normal sense of personal identity and reality is lost, characterized by feelings that one's actions and speech cannot be controlled.
Mans' Struggle To Fit In By Any Means Necessary
The weirdness hit me again at the store today. I felt like I was nothing more than an object in motion in an elaborate machine with the purpose of entertaining some cosmic audience. It lasted for the entire spree and so I went with it and raised the bar of the production. I danced with my shopping cart and tossed super real, super red tomatoes around like confetti splashing on the floor painting the dirty tiles all shades of red and
red wet cheeks protest imminent death
clam hands stroke crowds of suspicious eyes smiling
blood swirls in dizzy dances from weak fingers to butterfly brains
can't see, the city is growling-beckoning with sounds of blind diamond light
piercing through the darkness of slammed eyelids
asphalt tears mark carefully chosen steps
finally the street, then the house
at last the creak of a known door
my bed, I could sleep for ten thousand years
forget my hands and Monarch colored mind
to spite the city and... everyone in it
Seventeen bodies and a kerosene can
All lined up by a simple quiet man
Says freedom always comes that's what he knows
Strikes a match and the first body blows
Second fire starts by power of mind
He does a quick twirl and a pelvic grind
The third and fourth are quite the laugh
He sets them off with a string of Blackcats and their stomachs full of gas
Five through ten take some time to get going
It's pretty hard to make fire when the wind starts blowing
Eleven is special, it's his lucky number
So he slits her throat, fucks, then burns her
Twelve, thirteen, and fourteen are dead looooong before his lighter clicks
Been
The red-hot fingers plead, gripping my ankles as I skip my way to her house. There were so many burning hands trying to trip me in anger or hold me back entirely from making it to the little spot I like to toss pebbles.
She opened her window again with frigid fingers I'd been dreaming about for weeks. I could smell the chill as it dripped down the side of her neon green house. Her voice, like a dog whistle only I could hear, forced through sleep was still against my intentions.
Why wouldn't she inhale the cheap perfume from my rose tipped tongue and fall to the sea of blistering fingers as I set myself free inside of her? Did she know that