began alone inside the rhythem of a desparate heart beat


one long trek looking for the single sheet of music that resides somewhere in this savage garden



the black ink soaked book page marker helps me distinguish where one thought ends






and and begins to end in another






a shakey hand scratches indescriminate words upon a not so empty page





the words were already set down

i merely colored in the a blankness around them




cracked diamonds show me the death of a beautiful thing

beautiful to some maybe




the thing beautiful to me is the imperfection born of this dead thing





the flaw that can never be recreated
copied
duplicated

or any other redundant descripptions




i've already decapitated most of the flowers and now



i stand here






simply fascinated by the death of it all




but the death of a rose is such a joyous thing because it is best for the rest of the plant



it thrives if the death of it's bud is cut away from it







i wonder sometimes




if the human race could undergo such a culling





i've tossed that rusty halo by the way
and i've sawn off those A-typical horns




i no longer






....well....








those labels don't really apply aymore




i keep spares i've ripped from others so that i can still play the part if needs be


but as for me





myself






i can't say i belong to either of those




so i just wrap myself in a blanket of shadows to sleep the day away and get up occasionally to purge the bullshit
the nothings
and the alcohol



from myself through my acid raped, whisper worn throught



the coffin nails don't help at all either




i get to come into your homes now




invited



paid even




to intrude upon your safe haven





i get to feed






and you are gratefull




the world keeps turning







and things are looking up