Lips press together,
A cold keep    
With an unspoken
Prisoner inside.
They dare not
Let out word
Of what the
Eyes beho. . .

I love to use words and write
About her. There's so much.

How her lips curl and dance up
Into her smile, or how --
The deep brown in her curls drips
Onto her cheeks in soft freckles -- and
Her deep brown eyes pour into thick
Eyelashes and beneath them --
All her real beauty blossoms

But she can't be captured in words;
Angels were never meant for them.
But I try anyways.

Love inspires stupid things.

I am a fire.
A son of Prometheus, perhaps.
I burn and eat and distill and
Warm and give life.

But there has been a wrong.

My smoke is black.
I suffocate and choke and blind and
hurt. Because what I am burning,
Is alive.

It's supple with the liquid of life.

The clear gold filled in leaves.
It's in her too, and my chemistry
Is off. This chemo, the kerosene.
In me, doused on her.

It burns her and hurts and I am no longer a fire.

I am afraid.

You're sick
And I'm sad

Sometimes I'd like the rain to end
I wish I wasn't depressed
I wish I wasn't so broken
Sometimes you'd like to stand
On you're own two feet
Sickness lingers, grasping fingers
Failing bones, painful moans

I was never one to play by the rules of the game
A cheater, a liar
But you don't care
You'd follow me to anywhere
Though I'm insane
We're so the same

I don't sleep with a railing by my bed.
I used to, yeah, but not anymore.
After years of one to keep me
From falling, I found I like the feeling.
Down --
In love --
Off -- any of them.
It's dangerous, and irresponsible, and
Sometimes I get kinda hurt.
But the thing is, I still
Don't want my railing. It may hurt
To hit the floor.
But hey, at least I can get out
Of bed now --
Right?

Hands.
***** and brown they reach up
From the mud. Opening their hands,
Releasing butterflies of death
From their clutches. The grass,
Is still green. The trees, are still alive.
Where life is around me it is also
In the hands where it shouldn't.
They grasp ankles and drag them down.
Some, fall easy. Some not so.
They turn the beautiful skin
Into deep brown ****, muddied
Brown, thick with biomasses of
******* maggots and soil and pebbles.

The sunrise is gorgeous.
It slips into your eyes and enlightens
Your vision with dazzling colours.
The world is alive. Everything is wonderful.
But the hands are relentlessness.  
It's all so pristine,
Even as the mud
Encases your nose, and
Cakes your eyes.