A Perfect White

A perfect white dress hung from the balcony edge
Her swollen face as glassy as a doll mannequin
Her little ankles swaying sweetly with the slow summer wind
And her tiara was still there, propped firmly on her head

He said, this woman I cannot wed. I recognize,
For if she would wed me now, considering the man I am
She cannot be the woman I’ve intended always to wed.
Please… no one can see me like this. 

Show Me the Pretty Part of the World

I’m standing in the room with all of her family pictures,
Holding in my hands the one she’d always hide from me.
I guess I tried to catch the smirk as it curled up the side of my lip.
Oh the irony, it lingers now so tragically. In everything. 

Now I say I don’t believe, but every prayer finds its niche. 
Show me the pretty part of the world, show me the switch.
No, give up the ghost, she’d always say. If it’s dead, it’ll always be this way.
God’s an Indian giver, he pushed us on stage but took everything with Him.

Yeah, He took everything with Him. 

We’re so creative, let us always and ever play pretend,
Our nightlife will determine not the expense of day.
We’ll suffer breath if it is the oxygen that needs our lungs,
And we’ll toss around depression ‘cause we’re still at that age.

Promised we’d live to see the day of our apartment scheme.
Tableware from mental wards, fun-house mirrors; every room.
I choked cowardly on a gambit, swore I had not planned it.
And I couldn’t find the words to say I spoke too soon.

I really spoke too soon. 

Now I’m pretending I’ve a chance,
Pry this question question from my hands.
I’ve got such a god-complex tonight,
Worthy of another psychoanalysis.
So how far can bullets go?
I’m riddled with the ones that missed my love.
If I dodged the real ones, let me know,
No one but the soundman knows for sure.
But yet we’re all victims of His clumsy puppetry
And we’re left to laugh at the leftover irony.
She’d always say I was a perfectionist, clearly,
The way I tried to tug on every string. 
Well, I want to tug you down now.
I want to tug you down now.
Twiddle the string, twiddle it. 
Twiddle the string and I’ll find it.
Twiddle the string and I’ll find it.
I’ll find the string and you’ll pull me in.

I’m standing in the room with all of her family pictures.
Oh the irony. It lingers now so tragically. In everything.

I wrote a haiku

leslie-crusher:

I hate group projects
just let me do it myself
everyone else sucks

(Source: lesliecrusher, via springtimeofhisvoodoo)

If It Makes You Feel Any Worse

Her knight in shining armor
The prince of all charmers
But never quite good with words
Thought you’d make a handsome liar
And you fell on your sword,
Doesn’t it hurt?
Doesn’t it hurt?
If it makes you feel any worse,
There’s blood on your shirt
Right there on your collar
If it makes you feel any worse,
She likes them writers
So I’m writing a book
Doesn’t it hurt?
Doesn’t it hurt?
To discover what’s mightier;
My pen than your sword.

Calling Me Out

I lost a poet to his ego, but I’m not one to judge.
They used to push me towards the ward and now I wish that I had gone.
There’s something calling me out!

She grabbed the bars on the windows; they were as cold as his hands.
AH! this metaphysical nonsense jetting out her neck,
Banged once, twice, three times where the staples had been.
She forced her eyes OUT into the grooves of the night
White as the moon ruminating the sky
A tree a black reindeer had eclipsed behind

A PEIRCING SHRIEK! The twitching! The girl sound asleep in the next bed
THIS IS OUT OF CONTROL! Said the man with the ink and the pads
There’s something calling me out and I must get to it
Get my teeth onto these things, they must give way
Elbow it! Elbow it! Shoulder, other one, use my HEAD
Blow ONE, TWO, THREE, the staples dripping

Fibonacci, wind tunnels, 50 million Elvis fans can’t be wrong
Sequence strip my identity, a majority said that I wouldn’t belong
And there’s something calling me out. 


Calling me, calling me out.