Death doesn't like his job,
anymore than some of us like ours,
and when he calls forth the gentle flowers,
to answer for their lives,
he hides his tears.
Burnt outburnt out,
a synonym for exhausted,
tired and worn out,
done with life and seeing the world,
can continue without your work.
Too much is asked for,
too little is given,
too much to do,
too little time to do it in.
mentionings of that being laziness,
or just un-adaptability.
When it is never the fault,
of the one whose mind
has been destroyed.
Old and newPeople try to forget their daggers,
the ones imbedded in others' hearts.
They turn and look the other way,
laughing, making jokes and...
They think, that,
just because it's been so long,
the dagger has disappeared.
But everyone knows that the world doesn't work,
based on someone's whims and whimsy.
Instead, it lets the knife rust.
The rust cakes it in,
and taking the knife out now would be useless,
because the hole is now permanent.
Kept open by the rust that makes the heart throb....
... in remembrance,
and chemical allure of false
If only they thought to pull it out,
when they'd stabbed it in,
because everyone knows a fresh wound,
is easier to deal with than an old one.
/It's who we are,
we sing and we stomp some more,
not thinking of the other ways,
people might take our play.
Because who knows,
what's going on above or below,
with time just churning,
and rhytmns burning,
as we forget,
what we are,
and think to ourselves,
that who we are,
is just a thing we get to choose.
AmissThe air was somewhat thin,
and tasted like sweet peppermint,
and because my dear heart insisted,
my love went amiss and un-missed.
Till by the wandering clouds I came,
to the world of my mind and domain.
and my weary soles stuck fast to sand,
and down I went.
The whirling clouds now were purple and grey,
and the air now tasted much different,
more like today,
when the mind felt satisfaction,
as if it were home,
and the book in my hands,
replaced the heart forlorn.
where every greys a different shade,
and no matter what some -
one will be
where every grey is somewhat off,
with fake smiles,
that will -
Black and white,
someone has to feel,
the difference in the air,
in the clothes,
in the hair,
it's death on parade,
someone might -
NeitherHurry along the worn path,
almost grey from age,
and ignore the heart that tugs quietly,
in the other direction.
As even though it tugs,
it is the mind that picked this path,
and the heart can have its choice...
Game of LiesWe circle each other with lips flapped open,
to reveal lies that we've constructed just...
for this purpose,
and this game continues on,
until the other falls dead.
masksWhat happened to all those masks he thought...
he used to like the one with the happy face
but now it chafes and makes his eyes water
it just didn't seem to fit right anymore.
and it produced that funny tin echo when he laughed
the sad faced mask was comfortable when Rafael died
but lately he started slipping it on by mistake
most often during corny scenes in movies
or late at night when no one was around
the anger mask was his favorite when he was young
he wore it proudly with its' red war paint and menacing eyes
but now it was cracked and faded and heavy
so heavy he could only wear it briefly before his neck started to hurt from the strain
the fear mask was broken and was indistinguishable from apathy
the surprise and anticipation masks were lost
he couldn't remember the last time he saw them
maybe somewhere at the bottom of his closet
his least favorite masks, disgust and shame,
were still in fine shape though
he told himself that was because he hardly wore them
that's what he
Thank You Black Veil Brides
Thank you for starting drama
Thank you for sharing lies
Thank you for tearing your fans in two
and making them chose sides
Just because the fans weren't forced to decide
Doesn't mean that they won't fight
Who are they to judge the truth?
Only you know who's wrong and right
This problem has caused fans pain
and hearts are going to break
All I can do is just hope and pray
You will fix it before it's too late
Imagine - Dragon TFNow imagine yourself...
You're still that lone soul,
But this time
You feel a presence
Building up inside you, slowly.
You can now see truly,
You open your eyes
And witness something incredible.
You've noticed your hand,
Yet it is no longer that.
You see claws spurting out from your fingertips,
Your nails, fallen to the floor.
It looks painful
But you feel nothing.
Nothing but the strength
Still growing inside you
Now making its way to the surface,
Changing you slowly...
You watch as your fingertips fuse.
As five becomes three,
Your new claws growing longer
With each passing second.
You stare in amazement
Not sure what to feel...
Shock? Fear? Awe?
But there is one thing.
One single feeling
Surging through your body...
One feeling whose existence
You cannot deny.
It flows through your veins
Filling you with the energy
Of the beast within.
Now freeing itself
From the depths of your soul...
Yet this power cannot be contained so easily.
making teain a warmed pot
hot water and tea leaves
meet in an intimate embrace
pleased by the tea leaves' attentions
the water becomes a sweet golden nectar
but the water is a cruel lover
and she turns bitter if held too long
so the tea leaves are left behind
tired and used, forgotten
the water has taken what she wants
Dear DeathDear Death,
my Daddy says
I cannot write to you
like I write
to Father Christmas.
I am trying anyways,
I want to make a wish:
Can you say „Hi“
quite right thy father is,
for I am not
the one in red.
and I only take away.
He grants wishes,
I am the end
of wishing all.
Thus, no messenger am I,
thy foolish wish
I’ll never grant.
I’ll take you
as darkness falls
and I lie bound
to this cold hospital bed
I cannot help
the letter I once sent.
Considering your grim reply
you're reaching for me soon.
So I shall take the liberty
to write now once again.
All I really have to say
will be put in the close:
thy letter I remember well,
and also my reply.
Grim is my nature,
grim my task,
grim my dark abode.
I cannot be anything
other than what I am.
And when I indeed do reach for thee,
my hand will grasp thee
I'll Never Grow TiredTonight I'm going to stop you
on the porch, we'll stand toe to toe
the way we used to when
the pulse that thrummed
quick and strong through our veins
sang out our young, unbridled hope.
Our eyes will meet and,
just like the first time,
I'll take a moment to run my fingers
through your shining thoughts and
caress the sharp lines of your mind.
I'll lean forward and press my lips onto
the the flower-petal curve of your self-expression,
and that will be enough for you
to take me by the hand
and lead me up the stairs.
In the soft moonlight that filters through
the trees and our gauzy curtains
I'll unbutton your fears and slip them from your shoulders,
revealing smooth broad dreams. And,
careful not to miss a single freckle of insecurity,
I'll kiss my way down to the hollow of your throat,
where your soft-spoken tendencies
rest among unshakable beliefs.
Between the ridges of your ribs I'll count your worries
and smooth them away with my fingertips.
Over the subtle curve of your hips
The Super Hero DreamThe Super Hero Dream.
Since I was young I've always had this reoccurring dream.
As immature and juvenile at it may seem.
I'd have this one fantasy
That me and my peers were apart of a heroic, super natural team.
We would serve and protect the world from impending doom.
But every morning I always end up waking up too soon.
I would stir and gaze around my marvel inspired room.
And attempt to
Move objects with just will of my mind.
Completely alter my anatomical design.
Teleport in and out of realties and dimensions.
Communicate with anyone via a telepathic connection.
Have an invulnerable metal emerge from my knuckles.
Tip the balance between the ageless good and evil struggle.
Soar above and around the skies like an aeroplane.
Have a romantic but dramatic relationship with my very own Mary Jane.
Have the technological advanced capabilities of a billionaire.
This would then enable me to have a untraceable, under water lair.
Catapult spheres of synthetic web from the pa
Old PoemThat one does not
is a tragedy...
People think of
wars and weather
death and denial
but no -
it is deeper
in the human condition
which blots out
of a soul -
a cold which
in all places
is the norm
and life does not
where no warm words
reach the ears
and no flowers
the spring breezes...
Can not describe-
the frozen breath
on a journey,
once filled with
to be sure
of everything else...
Am I Worthy?Am I Worthy?
Maybe I don't deserve all the views and the comments.
Maybe there are better writers out there that deserve acknowledgment.
Maybe I am not worthy of any recognition and attention.
Personally I don't think my work is even worth mentioning.
Maybe my words wont amount to anything substantial.
Maybe I wont make it in terms of a financial,
Atonement but can we just think for one moment
That maybe I write to express my thoughts on a page.
To release all the feelings held hostage in this mortal cage.
Maybe others can relate and reciprocate my words.
And to you this notion may seem insulting and absurd.
But all these favourites and feed back gives me an added purpose.
And for that split second when reading them, I feel like I actually deserve this.
That my whole hearted words are not dispensable and worthless.
That maybe I can actually make something of myself.
Give the people something real to purchase from life's obscure shelf.
Give my parents the life that they so justly