They say to grab life by the horns,
but I've always approached it
like a second rate matador.
I stay with the cloak like
any good Dementor should
Big Bad in Little Red's riding hood
Spouting off at the mouth
'til these words turn into clout
akin to a caterpillar weaving it's crown
Cocoon doom blooming in a room
all he knows is to breathe
in through the tube

Wake up. Give thanks.
Proceed to the nearest plank.
Dive in. Bite down. Revel in the apocalyptic byss that stands before your battered doortstoops with a leaflet.
I'm just looking for a place where I can rest my face from the everyday charades of
"Hey, how how you doing?
Nevermind if the answer ain't fine."
Something with doors that doesn't resemble a first generation fish tank stuck in the muck of yesterday's basement.

I'd take my hand outa this here fire,
but you might think me less than
desirable for being a child
about what I perceive to be dire.
I'd reach out for your hand
if I wasn't already trying to hold my breath
by placing both my mitts 'round my neck and squeezing 'til nothing is what I felt.
That's my definition of help
and I doubt it'll ever change.
We are our own worst enemies
and I take it to the extreme.

It's just me and a crow
on some backwoods road,
face to face with no where to go;
a staring contest for the sole.
Hold on, let's go - Slow motion control. Switchblade rotation, high noon,  
Sun down fashion and
we packed pistols for questions.
Yet, we say nothing.
It's stiff lips in either direction.

I'm commanding a komodo.
--Lord of the Dragonflies.
I'm scraping my belly
against an utter like sky.
-So close you can fang the rainbow.

My enemies look like kangaroos
equipped with brass knuckles.
-USELESS-
But they don't know this.
So they keep swinging,
thinking, "Please! Let just one hit."
Little do they know,
you can't hold a candle to a ghost.
**** and I'm up in smoke.

I'm fishing in a fissure.
Fighting off the seizures.
Flinging my gorilla mitts
at them cowardly lizards
like look, this is my tower.