searching for the undying lands that will save the souls lost and forgotten to hear profits find fits of rage in scripts lasting too long and never fully finished

making amends with wooden violins and crying beside snow white grand piano keys searching for that note that no voice could possibly reach

pulling out thorns sunken into apple scented soft skin and brushing away violet strands of silken hair and washing away the violent breeze with pools of salty tears

screaming hymns of fading love and last chances and sighs of lingering bodily tastes still plaguing waking dreams and sleeping nightmares

painting on black canvases with earth-toned eyes hiding behind lids sewn shut and blinded by the light of another sober dawning day

heels running in rubber shoes cannot escape the unescapable and trailing behind black stars spelling out symbolizism in the constellations

memories unthought and emotions felt with beats focused on energy wasted to give motivation to rough and tough fingers that fall aimlessley into cold satin hands

needing love like the pills in a child proof bottle shaking in the grasps of the sleepless insomniac yearning for a few hours of peace to dream a better life away

waiting for the flashing lights of the dull emergency room where talking devices distract heavenly creatures from unwritten papers and diseased filled children

avoiding temptations like bare feet dodging shards of glass on the dark cement side walk and bleeding the entire way with cuts full of gravel and dirt doesnt compare to torn open palms

seeing breathing combusts this rib cage knowing that life hasnt just yet slipped away and another awkward moment isnt too far behind so avoiding conversation isnt necessary

asking silent questions to an unanswering screen waiting for the ring but sleep barges in on caffeine and no amount of sugar sweet flesh will keep the body from semi permanent death

sex still calls out to the artist and turns away from the poet for fear of hearing a rhyme without reason and lust without heed

alone among cob webs and goblin songs learning from the dearest of things that masochists flourish for a fancy when tied up and gaged

behind the curtain the professor of OZ turns infatuation into painful lust and gives the gift of love which proves merely a fasade for death

a broken and beaten heart looking for glue to mend the marks now marred onto the surface forever slipping on cracked roseary beads and someone elses blood


what was heard behind the cello
the voice will follow like shadows
haunting passionate kisses and warm thighs
proving what was always thought
there is no feeling here

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