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The pen feels permanent

So that when I raise the black liquid to my crimson lips

I must drink the steady flow of words;

And I am forced to swallow the bittersweet tang of my meaning.

When I try to wipe the droplets of dark wine from my stained lips

I find my hand comes off clean

But my lips, now a little darker.



The pen feels permanent

So i must hold the cup steady

Or shadowed words will fall

And when I try to clean up the dark blood

From the smooth floor

I find my vermilion mess only spreads



The pen feels permanent

And I will write each black word with care

So that the cup will stay untipped

My soul unspilled

And the words will remain within.

I reflect the woman

Who sighs as I have let her down

The uncertain, the reserved woman

She is calm, a hesitance inside her

Squinting to see her soul



The more I stare

The more I see



I reflect the child

Who used to laugh and dance

The innocence of a once carefree child

She was bright, an unmistakable sparkle in her eye

Her soul was clear as crystal



Intertwined these two beings

Like a deep black coal that woman

Would have aged into a diamond of a child

My heart does not beat for you anymore

It powers down, ensuring no emotion

I dare not surrender to your poison potion

But flee from wounds which time could not restore

What a pedestal that has been set

An unyielding power coarse hands caress

Fear lurks beyond confidence, I confess

My own faults shall remain my own regrets

I bestowed you with height, attesting me weak

Recoiling behind acts of defiance

Gives notion your battle will not succeed

I accept our relations, we need not speak

My heart need not beat nor inquire alliance

Tonight I impede, recede, and concede.

Is a body unconscious a person still?

No mind is present to govern its deeds.

Does a body have dreams, or a fate to fulfill?

No way to feel it when it bleeds.

Can I be human, too?

Maybe I'm not even real.

But I am flesh, through and through?

Scratch it up, then, let it heal.

Or can a monster have a mind?

An evil thing, or weeping ghost.

Are living and breathing intertwined?

A being punished for its host.

With electrical thoughts, is it ever alive?

Just a skin, an empty shell.

Is a soul really needed for the body to thrive?

A carcass washed up on the shores of hell.

The Earth has not stopped swinging,

when did it die?

Like a man hanged

orbits his rope,

we follow the sun.



Death waits distantly

carrion crows cry the end

dark's car lights

chase down the world

to burn it.



A child crying out in pain

a race car speeding toward fame

a grown man blushing red in shame -

which is the world?



Cold gears released to grind slowly

their heated way to oblivion.

Combustion in a flash of white heat.

What matters when all ceases:

Who'll clear the debris, the pieces?



Vulture's hover on the horizon

somnolent in their certainty

watching with cold and cruel eyes

as we prey scuttle fervently

to an unavoidable end.



A twisted, weighted, rigged game,

A rutted one-way dead-end lane,

A fogged, dirty, opaque pain -

Which is the world?

she did not find the grim in falling apart.

for every time she found herself broke,

she knew she was brutally remaking herself,

and collapsing to be reborn like a rioting star;

haunting the dark skies

She gave,

She loved,

She shredded her lovely skin.



She bled on the pages of her days,

She walked through walls,

She lived with intentions.



She's gone.

He asked her why

And she leapt

And she tumbled through the stars

Fizzling and burning

Spilling secrets like blood

Hurtling through the galaxy with the

Wind as her tail

And memories trickling drops in her wake

And breathless she skidded to a stop

And rubble gathered at her feet

But with her blurred eyes she blinked



She asked him why

And he turned

And said "why not?"