August 20, 2011

So many cluttered spaces always opening and closing, holes to fill. Writhing spires, rising machinery. The decadence of offering sanity to those who scream for flesh. The sanity of offering decadence… The reward for dead hearts, limp declarations of ignorance held high. Can you smell the sticky sweet?

Broken cavities like growing up to find you’re not the doctor/fireman/astronaut/veterinarian you expected to be. Wallowing alone. Faltering breathlessly. No one wants to take your hand anymore. Not after what you’ve done. So take a breath and become the damaged property you never even imagined growing up to be.

Hold your head up, filth. Try to believe you could ever forget this.


Dreams And How They Grow

August 4, 2011

Just pictures of dreams

and the world’s a machine

wrapped and titled obscene

but we look anyways

The ending unclear

but we keep ourselves here

holding on to what’s dear

as the world drowns away

Saw the love of my life

In my dream, as my wife

stole my heart with a knife

left me bleeding alone

Woke to skies wrapped in breeze

Blue as ice, but no freeze

burning down in degrees

from without and within