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My car is my lady Or at least The closest thing I have to it She's been with me the longest Good old girl Thousands of miles beneath her feet Much like my own Over the time we shared together I have fixed and fettled her   Brought her nice things Some people judge us But they underestimate her at they're peril Because I know I know how to drive her Know how to push her to her limits Sure I treat her hard But she knows I'd never hurt her intentionally I've built my car up So now She's no longer a car She's a part of my life Faithful Reliable And always waiting for me with a delightful purr of her engine However deep m

I see him In every corner Of every room He is there At the end of every hallway Atop every stair He is there He never leaves He never runs Never speaks Never comes Always there Face as blank as sheet or stone As if a knowledge of fate unknown Hidden beneath those eyes of shadow

Poison me Infect me with that infernal virus You call humanity Let your drug flow through my scorched and blackened veins Mutate me Weaken me Let your poison take hold Restructure my DNA Make your bold additions Burn away those items Which meet no approval My essence remains Although my exterior changed You morphed me into a different beast One you created And hoped to control How wrong you were To try tame a Demon

Rook and Lupin were, to say the least, an odd couple Walking hand in hand through the woodland An odd couple indeed It would take a keen eye to notice the leather sheath at Rooks belt Housing the cold steel blade Another look would reveal their blood soaked hands, entwined And the streak of dried crimson across Lupin's throat His eyes a demonic cold A smile upon her beautiful face.

Two snipers Lie upon sand and stone By moonlight they watch shiny down Wind and rain does please their skin As bolts are closed and aims are set The night grows silent and shots ring out Targets fall under snipers might And so they merge Into the night.

I guess there is some fascination with the open beauty of the world Something I have never seen The existence of being lost in the wild Days of wonder Nothing fixed The still calmness of it all Freedom at its purest Endless seas and open skies Constant change of weather and season But somehow All the same Many characters change like days to night The troubles of the world seen through clear eyes Not bound by the relentless worry that drives the earth More and more faceless Join the hoard That crowds the mind A life once lived But never lived before Lines etched on skin Tells countless stories And shows countless past.

There is nothing more melancholy than a poet at a party In which he does not belong He sits upon the darkest reaches of the unknown Surveying the crowd before him with constantly unsettling eyes Please Drag me up by unwilling hand Lead me into the light Far greater light than I have ever known before.

I Agree To Your Terms However You Are Fully Aware Of What I Am Capable Of

Across the city of Stalingrad, its architecture still riddled with the scars of the war far in its past, nestled halfway up a church tower was a small barber shop. Its walls where of grey paint, peeled in places and encroached with damp in its most extreme corners, a single thin window pierced on wall, its glass grime covered and blacked as if by flame.  The room itself had only enough room to occupy three pieces of furniture, on the back wall, snugly fitted in the space was a wooden dressing table; on its top was a number of assorted items, various foams and brushes, a neatly folded barbers cape and a small wooden box. In the centre of the

it's as if you breathe sulfur because all of you is killing me all of the insecurities that you surgically grafted under my skin, so deep that no amount of the acid that spews from between my teeth will ever burn them away. I want to hate you for this. And sometimes I ask why, and sometimes I don't give a fuck. Sometimes I just want escape, from all these Great Expectations that I can't seem to reach. (that you broke my wings so I couldn't reach.) sometimes I wonder if it's all my fault. because I don't believe in anything anymore – except in the idea that maybe, just maybe, this desperation is only a phase. That maybe

You finally told me you were coming home, And I know you didn't hear it, But I tripped over that damned stool you sat on last time Because I jumped straight into the air. (I told you not to move it, and you did it anyway.) Don't touch!  Everything is in its proper place, I said.  But it didn't really matter, Because you are coming home after TWO BLASTED DISMAL WEEKS. (I haven't had a case in twice that long.) But I will have new stories for you when you're back. And I have a way of communicating that works now. Fancy that.  Now I can bother you long-distance. Because it's elementary, my dear Watson, That I should be ecstatic for

I. So much rage held in these palms. It pounds through my head and into my hands and down, down, down Bleeding from my feet to poison the earth. There is so much rage in me. It has grown slowly, like an oak, like a canyon, like the dawn. Oily and black, snake venom, spider silk. And I have built it with blood-sweat-and-tears, Cutting my teeth on its heavy-heavy bricks, Blistering my arms on its scarlet-fire shriek. It will not let go of me. I will not let go of it – Because it is wound around the deepest nerve in my body. (That is the way it must be, to remember that I am alive.) II. These bones ache like an old woman's,

Dear God, I think it might fall right through my ribcage. How unbearably sad. Whoops!  There it goes. And I suppose that it isn't so much the places I have never been, or the people I have never talked to, or the general ignorance of society that makes it so. It is the old wounds.  (Scar tissue weighs so much these days.)  It is the places I sought solace in, that are turning me away now, or are just fading, slowly, with time.  It is the people I had faith in, who really haven't done anything to deserve any kind of disappointment, but it seems to be the only thing I have left.  (And their pain is fuel for my guilt.) It seems that nothing

In the corner booth of an old coffee shop There's a stranger sitting – Hardly one of the regulars, With a smile like a razor-blade And cheekbones even sharper. She sits with a notebook in no such ladylike stance – Hunched over, writing like a demon with its ass on fire. She left the person that could've saved her life. Several days ago, that was. She is the queen of never-saying-goodbye. She's run across the world breaking every damned rule she can find, Carved her name in sacred trees and played dominoes on Sunday in Alabama, Then eaten cows in Hindu India and laughed about it, All while dodging bullets from the Russi

Monster. That is what they call me. Cowards. That is what I call them. I do not fear them, nor do I feel hate, or rage, or any of those emotions that drive some men to seek vengeance. I feel sadness, regret. For them, and for myself. They single me out - call me 'different' from a group of 'similar' persons. Why is that so? They see me. My arm, thick like a tree's trunk, sometimes hangs listlessly by my left side, moving as much as a hungry snake that waits for some poor creature to cross its path. Sometimes, it strikes with a snake's deadly accuracy. Like a mace, it has bludgeoned, beat, struck, and killed those who would have childish g

    My friend is a gentleman. He wears blazers and aftershave. His shoes are always clean, and his hair neat. He has a sassy attitude, that at times can be taken the wrong way, but in your hour of need he will be at your side and when my friend writes… You can tell his weaving of words is from an old soul – a hurting heart. He claims that he does not wear a mask. I laugh at his naivety. You can't wear a mask to a masked ball dear friend. I have seen over the past week that your growing weary and you no longer want to dance. Yet the night has only started. With each step and sway, I can feel his knees weakening, I can feel his bre

Stand your ground, and shout yourself raw So raw, You're a soldier and you will not die.  YOU WILL NOT DIE. You're an Amazon warrior, love, and I'm right beside you - Hell, I ain't Any kind of angel, but sister, I'll fight tooth and nail; I'll pull my weight. See my wings have been broken, but I'm not done, And I love you, And for me that's damn well enough. Because we weren't born for romance, You and I – we were born For combat, bullets and singing metal and ringing ears. Hold your rifle high, sweetheart, And grin through my cutting words, because – You know it means I'm shivering for the fight. You know my pet-nam