.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.some thoughts get so loud thatyou cry out for them to leave;they scatter like birds startledout of their trees, before landingagain where they wereand after a while,you just have tolet them sing
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.you were life's newwork of art;small easel bonesand a blankcanvas of skinbut he ruined you over time,added the brushof a scaror two
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.your heartalone shouldremind younot to beatyourself upyour pulseshould remindyoukeep steady
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
So SilentSo silentIt was so silent on the hill,She could hear her steps,Her breath...A look at the watch;Time's not passing,Not going away,Like a friend who waits, insists;BegsThat she must do something at last.
hauntedour house is hauntedmemories floating like ghostsscreaming without sound
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
The Dead SeaThe Dead SeaI offered water to her,but she was a seaI offered love to her,but she was deadI offered words to herand she hated me.
He came againHe came again last night,after a long time.His eyes were scanning around for her,but she wasn't here.He found another girl,a girl it seems he liked a lot,but in his eyes...He treated her, I mean last night's girl,almost like she was her,but...He also didn't wantmake this new girl,or anyone else think,that now he would love her,so...his eyes...He was a little typical,though he needed company so much.
lostto tell you the truth,i can't stop missing myself.
Dream CriterionIf you can't fly on your dreams anymore,I'm sorry, but don't worry,you have simply grown up.If you can't build a little empire on your dreams,I'm totally sorry,you are a dead man walking.
Training?Training Is For Dogs,Human Needs Teaching.
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two