It burns.
It burns.
Love burns.

Test me. "What is wrong with me?"
Sit back down, we'll keep taking turns. More to come when she returns. Put the blinders on and don't look back. You have nothing to fear but yourself. It aches when I let myself think. Give me a little bit of what you bring.

Congratulations. You have won.

Don't invite me. I know that you don't want me.

Dirty death.

I am purging you from my mind.

I am not electric. I am a rainbow of pain. Don't know what to think, what to feel. All I hear is them fighting. Crushed.

Tell me what to think. Can't trust you anymore. Traitor.

Crisis.

The river falls short of his expectation. He is a tyrant of emotions.

Lost his way. Crippled thoughts for a crippled heart. Shakes hands with his pain, hoping it will make him numb. Does not need morphine. Will not be appearing live. Rejecting misinformation. Tears. Crooked emotions are killing me. Look around at the wasteland. Look around at your legacy. Working up the will to kill the song that keeps running through his head. Spin the wheel, maybe you will win a prize.

So she says to me, "I don't see what harm can come from it." Well stated, I think. What harm can come from it? No one is losing an appendage. There are not casualties. Children in third world countries are not starving because of it. It's not as if it is murder and so I think to myself, "What harm can come from it?"

You're shitting on my heart, that's all. It kind of smells and I'm generally not very comfortable with feces dangling from the place where I store all of my emotions. Perhaps I'm just being silly as my reflection upon the subject has brought me to the conclusion that it's really only a matter of hygeine when I drop all pretences and think of it with a level mind. I guess it's nothing I'm not used to. You're probably right. I'm taking things too seriously. My heart has been getting shit on as far back as I can remember. Why should things change now? I should be used to people not caring what I feel. It happens on a daily basis. It's great! This is what I've always dreamed of!

So I think I think too much. Sadly, this is the happiest I've ever been. I guess that's why I'm so emotionally volatile as of late. "What goes up must come down," and I've always been one to brace myself for how hard I fall. My falls have been minor and I really shouldn't complain, but I wouldn't be me if didn't. I'm hoping to hold on until I die this time. You know? Make it a really good fall.

It's really sad thinking you had one thing and then realizing you don't know what you have. I got too comfortable. The only way to live life is with one eye open while you sleep, clutching a knife and just waiting for the bastard to come into the room so you can slit his throat and call it self-defense. I don't know what I was thinking letting go of my paranoia--it's my only real friend. The only one that stays up with me and tells me I'm not crazy and that it is all really happening.

Where to go from this point? Alone again.

Let's build an armor of your flesh and bury you so deep in it that no one can ever find the real you again.

I think she reads enough of you so that she can feel like she knows you. She skims you like an uninteresting magazine, then lines the bird cage with your pages.

I don't want to want you. It only makes me sad.

I don't want to want anything. It only makes me sad.

Give me strength.

So I let you into my head and now I want you out. You can't stay here, it's not healthy.

Confide in no one. They only want your trust so that they can turn around and give someone else theirs.

Make me the criminal when all I want to do is love you.

You were dangerously close to something you will never talk to me about, but it's o.k. You have so many people that can pat your hand and tell you it's o.k. You don't need me. You have no responsibility to me. At least that's what I hear when I close my eyes and listen really closely.

She.
Makes me burn with sickness.

Green.

The prison imploded. Abstract decisions made in the dark. We love. When the wind hollers.

Picket your mind. Your heart is on strike. I hope we don't exploit.
Broken thoughts.

When will I get better? I need a cure.

I am lonely, with no one to confide in but the voices in my head.

The flashing red and blue lights were a strong indicator that perhaps I should get up and run instead of letting Mary drag me through the parking lot, but I couldn't find the will. I woke up to her weeping silhoette at the edge of the bed and thought it strange how beautiful she looked. When she saw that my eyes were open and that I was cognizant of where I was, she slapped me. My cheek burned and the slap echoed in my head several times before passing out again. She wasn't crying when I opened my eyes the next time, so we just layed there saying nothing as daylight filled the room.

Nothing is ever fixed--only mended until the next time it breaks.

I'm glad you still know how to lie--it would be a shame to see that disappear.

I want to be done with my addiction--it does not let me think clearly.

Syllogisms are taking over my mind. I am a logical nightmare. When I wind you I want it to be permanent.

He can see where her broken heart ends and his apathy begins. The hole in his being where there should be a heart causes him much distress.

Hope the cops won't come and find me here. Shattered man.

Help me help you kill me.

What I need.

"Why don't you like me?" -- Dinosaur Jr.

Well, I think you finally got back at me. This means I must have killed you when I left you alone in that room and never came back. I didn't think it mattered. I couldn't give you what you gave me, so I figured why bother? I'm sorry that I killed you. I think I was trying to get back at someone else and used you. You were a scapegoat, not a person and I feel rotten about it. You didn't do anything wrong except have faith in me and that's not really your fault either. You can't be responsible for my shortcomings. I do miss you, even if you scared the living shit out of me, but I think that may be one of the things I liked best about you. It kept me honest.

Different parts of myself are at war with one another. There are really two, but the little selves in between are just as passionate and it becomes difficult to ignore them. It can more clearly be defined as a riot.

I feel like I'm on a microphone only I can hear, but oh--if you could hear me . . . I guess it's why I keep talking. This is my message in a bottle. I have lots bottles of course and I'll confess--that yes, I did drink them all. So they're messages and none of them will probably ever be read but I guess you can't help but try and make your mark so that maybe one day someone will realize that you are alive. And maybe they'll realize that they are alive and that you are having a conversation and you don't really know one another but that's alright.

I am in pain. I can see the future, but I cannot see it clearly. I thought that I could see the present, but apparently I don't know shit.

What do I want. I know things that I want, but those things are not the whole. I want to be balanced, but I am not. I am imbalanced. Everyone is imbalanced but I think it then becomes a matter of being conscious of your imbalance.

The baseline burns because she put hot sauce in it.

The law is going to win. Bribing people with six guns and a bad attitude. Imagine my surprise when it actually works and I walk out of the saloon alive.

I have no fantasy world. I thought I had her, but I don't so now, I think I need one. Problem is . . . I've forgotten how to dream. How do I dream? How do I dream without her? Maybe I don't want to dream that way. Maybe it's better that I don't.

So I was milling over the metaphorical "her." How she's some deranged, creative fantasy created by men who are cursed with the gift of expression. She is something akin Dante's Beatrice. She's everywhere creation is. She helped you make the world you are building, but she doesn't exist. She is an impossible composite of what you want in a woman. She has the sad, brown eyes that pierce through your heart and make you wish you could peer into forever because they make you feel like you're not alone--like that's your burden in her eyes she's sharing, but then when I think about the rest of her, she has no body really . . . .she's more like a glow. And when you're tired, beat up, dejected and you want to give up--she lets you collapse in her arms and lets you know it's going to be alright and it feels like heaven to be comforted so . . . and maybe all of this misery makes you feel like fucking . . . and that's alright with her. She doesn't hold it against you--she doesn't make you feel guilty for being a man because she knows that's not all you want. She knows that you want to lay there afterward and just talk. . .and listen. . . maybe learn a few things . . . maybe just reflect on what you just did and make you glad you're on this earth to experience it . . . She knows that its purifying for you and that you hope it is for her--that it makes you feel reborn until the next time you go back into the world and get your ass kicked just for being you. That its a consummation of your love . . . .that your tyring to thank her for not letting you be alone. But maybe you have it all wrong . . . maybe she hates you . . . .for projecting all of your problems on her. For having faith in her the way Mary had faith in you. Maybe it's payback for breaking that poor girls heart when all she wanted to do was love you. The metaphorical her is a complicated woman. She has her good and her bad days, but when the light is looking dim and you don't know where you are--she's there to pull you out of the hole you've put yourself into. She is an imaginary figure inside of you and you have to start realizing that. It's alright to dream with her--it's what you do best, but you have to realize that your true strength comes from you . . . no one else. No one else will treat you better than you . . . and no one in reality will ever treat you the way she does--so start being nice to yourself and stop making me miserable because it's killing me . . .

Do you remember when I told you I loved you and forgot to breathe?

Here we go again I thought and braced myself for the ride hoping it would be the last one . . . and I still hope it's the last one because I don't ever want to do this again if this isn't.

I'm sorry that I thought I could validate my existence through you. It was my flaw. I'm sorry that I wanted you to make me feel beautiful. I can't make you feel beautiful with as much as I love you--what made me think you could do it for me?

I'm sorry I peeked into your life, looking for you and only found me staring back a broken man. I'm sorry that I've depended on you for strength for so long--when the strength is in my self. I'm sorry I don't love myself. If I loved myself, I wouldn't have hurt you. I shouldn't try to make you love me the way I want you to. I should accept your love as it is because it's beautiful and it lights up parts of my world. The other parts are my responsibility because no one can ever light those up but me. I accept this now.

Losing sensibility.

I wish you would hold onto me the way you hold onto him.

Deplete your emotions.

Putting prices on discomfort.

I don't know what I can say to make you tell the truth, so I won't say anything. We'll just sit here and rot.

Deface agony.

Keep hiding, it's better for all involved. Except me, but I'm not the important one. Memories and fantasies are more important. Not reality. Not my physical presence. Physicality can be done away with. It is not a problem.

Higher education is problematic in that it reduces one to an angry imp, shouting out curses with clenched teeth and angry expressions.

If I could.

Did you dream of me the way I dreamt of you?

Fascist.

I hear sirens when I sleep. They are telling me to run.

Communion of sorrow.

He still hasn't died. He is a cancer. Much like she once was. He won't die because she does not want him to.

When I kill you I want it to be pure. It's a shame you don't just get up and leave.

If I bleed you.

He feels his heart shrivel.

When you look at me.

The earth crumbles?

Exaggerated likeness?

Fit your pain into a glove compartment and then get defensive when people ask you what is inside.

She lies to you because she thinks it will help you cope with your fraudulent life.

When I hear voices, sometimes I hear the future.

It is very bad to hear the future.

Deflate.

Immigrate into the mind.

I hate.

It is what drives me.

I'm sorry about the sky.

I did not mean to coat it in blood.

He took his machete and took two good swings at the plant. Inside the plant he found his former life, recreating itself in bacteria. He could see his errors and all of the opportunities that he passed up. His eyes turned to lava and all of the sudden he was a volcano determined to destroy the pueblo. The pueblo needed the white man to come save it. The pueblo is poor. I love the pueblo. I want to play in the pueblo. In the mud. The white man will clean me up and then I can say things like--"Thank you Meester! You are so kind!" Then my life will be a movie and I can go on talk shows and tell everyone about life in the pueblo. I'll be everyone's favorite minority. Life will be beautiful.

We are given the freedom to dream and all we can do is think about fucking. A waste is what we are as a nation. A gargantuan wet dream.

I can see the future and all I see is pain. I can see the point where I am crippled by my own tears.

I never met one of my grandfathers, but I imagine he died dreaming as will everyone. The other died alone as he was hauled away by the firemen asking when I was coming to see him.

There is a fire in my heart and I'm afraid that it might upset the bomb.

Confine me to the prison I built inside my mind. I can't help but hate you. I can't help but be divided inside. Tears burn my soul. Confusion. The voices in my head are no help. No remedy for the abrasions in my heart--I'll have to let them heal on their own and leave scars.

Keep searching but you'll never find me. Not in this place where I've buried my soul and everything that I am. Is your life fiction? Is your life a lie? Do you lie to get to the next day? Hoping no one notices?

Your secrets are decaying me. I can go forward with a limp and maybe I won't fall, but know that you're killing me. I don't want you to know to make you feel guilty--I just want you to stop. I want to stop bleeding internally.

Better teach him to run before he gets gunned down.

Which one are you? I hate the sun. Burn me and shove me inside your decrepit lies.

Dying out of spite. Cripple the violent ones and leave nothing but pacifists. Love is what you make of it. Your mind is empty because you took everything out and put it in a safe.

You looked so lovely sitting on that counter--drunk girl, sad eyes and an angry soul. What did you see in me that night that made you runaway? What made you afraid?

One thousand parodies to counter your pain. You left me bleeding on the stage.