Dipping my hands in the barrel But there's no fish on my table And though we cruise these streets All we do is hurt those we meet And this life feels like disease When the trauma becomes me And I look upon you as meat 'Cause she knows he knows she nose bleed
Slithering Crawling Contorting No longer controlling Lingering Taunting Ghastly Holy haunting It’s time for you to die You reek of defeat Stinking under my feet How does it feel to be living a lie Thought you were important Ha! You’re a joke And so weak Trying to hide in illusion Spilling confusion Screaming doubt Cause you know there’s no way out You’re a prisoner of hell Do you hear the chains calling you What is snarling? Your sharp toothed cage ready to eat you alive
As walls close. When joy ebbs. At night alone. Silence crushes like a vice. Without function. Surplus to requirements Yesterdays headlines. Memories hidden in stories.
Trudging through debris. Familiar paths taken. Similar outcomes threaten. All encounters circle like outsiders. Everybody knows the truth. Days are numbered for sure. Being afraid that just maybe..... Nobody will think you're a somebody.
When the ice cracks. As free falling falls. Watch as the days turn colder. Winter's...
When the famous poetess passed out in her mashed potatoes on Christmas Eve, 1978, her husband rolled his eyes and her two children carried on glumly chewing. It was a semi-regular performance, the passing out act. George wondered how he'd ended up marrying the silly bitch.
Once on a literary tour, they'd been besieged by girls who seemed to regard him with envy for having such unfettered access to their mentally unstable idol. He'd happily switch places with any of them, or the middle-aged sad-sack men who worried at her ankles at luncheons. Two years ago she'd had a brief affair...
The hotel was more populated than the proprietor, a tall and thin man, had ever seen it.
He said as much to Abigail as he led her to her room. 'The usual ghosthunters?' she asked. The proprietor paused on the landing. Beside him was a small Gothic window looking out on the forest that ran parallel to the hotel.
Opposite the hotel was a bluff that plummeted a hundred feet down to wind and seaswept rocks. 'I don't like to talk about them' he said, referring to the ghosthunters. Abigail left the matter there and followed him to her room.
Christmas Crime (Or That Time My Old Man Straight Murdered My Mom Over Some Bullshit)
Twas a dark and sad December When my mother was dismembered By our father, for some unkind words she said It was snowing, I remember Mistletoe and chimney embers And the hollow eyes from mommy’s severed head
He lit his pipe after a while And laid his back upon the tiles Of our bathroom with a belt around his arm Then he nodded off and smiled And we gathered single file To watch as daddy dearest bought the farm
The police gave us some chocolates Which melted in our pockets And they shipped us off to live in...
alone kneeling in my sanctum sanctorum I hear you again I was cold, shivering and you said I know...it scares me to scare ...upset You I just knew there was no going back from that
bright light from the tip of the knife sharp points winking seductive in it's smooth lines thoughts played within my thoughts a small neat cut on the wrists a bottle of sandman's candy would be just right
the darkness went beyond you the screaming anxiety existed long before your light lit my...