smoke signal serenades in the form of poetry
slowly. graze. my lips. nothing is infinate
as these yesteryear spirits dance me into a midnight bliss

how fucking beautiful is this.

rip a sentance from my vein and turn it to ashes.
my breath blasphemous and my words are anonymous
I might as well be synonymous with failure
raising my voice an octave to scream my displeasures
and heartache. break my legs. because I can't take a step in your shoes.

the vibrations of my pulse create a bitter symphony
littered with left-over citations and unhealed lacerations.
and empathy is a metaphor. filter my objections.
and I'm no longer coping. it's hard.
and I'm disheartened to the point of hoping.

with hands like fists. and rocks like stones.
I'll cast a word. and hope to atone- lonely in bliss
sometimes I'd beg for innocence. and licks the lips
of a forgotten poem. . come home.
is the sentance I'm destined to ignore.
blessed with a facefull of promises- bleeding on the floor.
and these halls are like seances. walls barren.
covered in a story- written to bore.


I'm a bore. and we're a candle. burning the house down.
with empty frowns and rusty handles.
sometimes it's better to bury the past.
because it's always worse- when it never lasts.
and I'm a cast.
in a sense.

disregard this. as meaningless.

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