He is hot

(Not like that -I mean- yeah like that oh god most definitely like that but that's not what you mean when you say that-)

He burns

something muzzle-flash bright, eyes like stars, catching your stomach on fire, catching the whole ******* universe ablaze with the ease of someone

just

playing

a

game

(A game you bet your heart on, a game you bet your life on, what's the difference)

And you love him
Oh god you love him

You'd let the universe burn and cover yourself with matches

Just to see him shine

The words that
                               d
                                  r
                          ­    i
                            p

off your serpentine tongue
dissolves the flesh            r
                                     u    n      n
                                  b         i        g
my lungs

breathless gasping at fetid air
reckless in this never ending nightmare
derelict and disrepair
death wish traveling nowhere
except
            D
            O
            W
            N

under­ a mound of stone and flowers
twirling aimless in  buffet showers
leaving flesh devoured

by passionate winds  
soul left caged in

self-indulging bones

left to wither to dust
this is the final price
of a wandering lust
a real fool's paradise

How to explain the pain
Of feeling nothing
To a world made of broken hearts and bones?

How to justify
a shivering body
To a world that is hell and is burning?

How can one call for help
For one's drowning
To a world brought to its knees by draught?

I can only bow my head at their suffering
And dare to say that
Though my heart and bones are intact
I am broken as a whole

I can only bow my head at their suffering
And meekly mutter with a moist mouth
That though their tongues are dry and skin is cracking
Cold too is a thirst for warmth

I can only bow my head at their suffering
And whisper that as I drown
Surrounded by clear icy water
My lungs burn like the tallest fire.

I ask you a question in my head
Your memory responds in kind
Neither you nor I can figure out
Why you’re always on my mind
You’re a ghost, a wraith, without a voice
Yet loud and clear I always find
The answer’s balanced on your tongue
But for once you choose not to speak your mind
The secrets hid behind your lips
are what I crave; I wish to find
Why didn’t you hold it all inside?
Why so unafraid to speak your mind?
At least that’s how it used to be
Someday, together, alone, we’ll find
A drop to quench my burning flame:
Why are you always on my mind?

My mouth is burned
By the acidic tastes
Of the orange rinds
And mistakes
Of the toxic paste
Driveled from my head
And out my throat
With haste,
And yet,
I never let go
Of the next bite.

I’m chasing the sunset,
passing through colored blankets,
Gazing as mountains pass
me by
and water
gleams down bellow
My heart cries
as I think
of my golden fields
and violet blossoms
Light is reflected in
my eyes as I watch
time float
The sun burns the
hue of my blood
So many seasons have
come and gone in my
absence
everything has changed
and I drift on
awaiting your arms
the smell of pine
the feel of the river
on my skin
the color of the fading
day
the curve and
twists of the hills
I call home

My breath fogs as I watch
myself
come home

Burn your skin. Burn your throat  
With a cup of gin,  
Don't pretend that you prevent  
A red glow searing in.  

In your soul no control,  
Through the skin and through the vein,  
The edge of pain can drown it all,  
And gin cuts the pain.  

Cold as blade, then searing hot,  
The words so soft and nice:  
A carefree home, no lighting rod,  
Before you struck it twice

Burn your soul
Because the wounds on the outsides
Are unlike the ones on the inside:
They will always heal.

My hand just won't stop today, it's making me pay... for every time I've ignored it when it was  begging to play.

Just when I think that it's had enough, that it's tired... Down goes the pen, grab the torch spark the fire.

A small book of poems, a wall full of art all a day's work to my hand when it starts.

I get hungry grow weary my back starts to ache....no sir not done yet... you're staying up late.

I let my hand be the master, me it's slave for the day, at least once a week, so it's happy and I'm sane.