You'd be a fool to think Heaven and I are close. I may be one Hell of an angel, But don't let these white wings fool you- I am but a dove-feathered raven Flying far from grace.
This place is full of ghosts. They exist in the gloomy light of Corpse-coloured candles In those dark cottage walls, Lingering with a ghoulish fondness. I find myself drawn to remain also. Perhaps these melancholy ruins offer More than fear; They invite somber reflections- Reflections of the living as well as the dead- And I… Continue reading Pleasantly Haunting
I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.
Does the storyteller aways have a Spirit in hand, Alone in the dark While spinning his tale? Or can it be a wish? Maybe a child? A lover? A hope? A thought? A feeling? One that isn't failure, I mean. Or maybe just a cup of tea- I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.
The Mad Creator
The Mad Creator Mixing poetry and madness In petri dishes made of cardboard Searching for the perfect drink: Make him drunk, But not so he cannot write; Make him numb, But not so he cannot remember his dealings. Make him learn to fly, So he can learn to live like angels To play God on… Continue reading The Mad Creator
A muse in a bottle
I keep my muse in a bottle. I shake it every once in a while- Or tap it like a kid at a fish bowl- It doesn't move, stir or come back to life; It just idly floats through its own filth. I sigh. Typical, I mutter as I flush in down the toilet And… Continue reading A muse in a bottle
We’re picking stitches out of the floor
We're picking stitches out of the floor... Are normal people ever this bored? To the point of self-destruction In order to feel some direction? News flash: We're catching comas to Feel alive; Taking pills when we're Already addicted. Of course we feel the sting of promises Beneath our skin, We're suns just waiting to happen;… Continue reading We’re picking stitches out of the floor
Moonlight and Despair
I'm brooding over a mug Of black coffee at 4am, Trying to warm my cold bones And broken heart... Oh please, I drink green tea After my morning yoga; I'm about as happy as it gets. Unfortunately mountains poses And sunrise Don't sell quite as well As moonlight and despair.
She’s Cursed Me
She's cursed me, This mind of mine, And now we're creeping through nightmares Once again. I used to dream of gold in my bed at night, But now I just follow her down.
Bury the Hatchet
Bury the hatchet, Or better yet burn it And scatter the ashes so far across the sea We stand no chance of digging it up. 'Cause I know you, You'll get bored and start looking. At least this way We can only stand on the beach And reminisce in what It used to be.
I know you fancy yourself to be quite the artist
I know you fancy yourself to be quite the artist, But the rest of us just see it as graffiti; Walls and walls of words Hell-bent on ruining everything You spent your life building. Go Ahead. Burn it to the ground, Something or other will rise in its place. Bend Hell into whatever shape you… Continue reading I know you fancy yourself to be quite the artist