Number Fourteen

Question your leaders; who did they screw?
Answer your subordinates; who screwed them?

Question your identity; are you even real?
Answer your ego; are you real even?

Question the pain; who deserves it?
Answer the love--you deserve it.

Question who gave you meaning; bite the hands.
Answer those you created, they're your monsters.

Question sleep; revel in schizophrenic fantasies.
Answer the day, and tell me how you survived.

We may be children of sin,
But let's also be parents of mercy, for once...

Number Thirteen

I love you.
You give me everything to look forward to.
You decimate the threat and kill the night.
You make me know I am safe for now.

I loved you.
You were there for real for a time.
You pulled away and took your empathy.
You made me wonder why.

I don't feel you.
You are gone, and I am staring at the wall.
You used to sing tunes of tender understanding.
You are a whisper of memories, fading.

I hate you.
You twist the knife in decency.
You take away the meaning of life.
You substitute substances for substance.

I hated you.
You lied to yourself and forgot the dosage.
You bared your teeth when cornered.
You struck your friend down like an enemy.

I am lost.
Break the mirror and rearrange the pieces.
Feel at home in a stomach flutter.
Please, don't leave me here in the dark.

Number Twelve

I hate when it’s hard to roll out of bed. It sucks when I philosophically believe in the silver lining of life. So, why aren’t I more positive? My thoughts start to annoy me, so I begin doing substances before I even eat. I’m hurting myself in the long run, but I hurt for other reasons. I’m not better than this life, I suppose.

It’s not a sin to be selfish.

If you say I deserve better, you miss the point. I don’t even believe in good or evil anymore. There is no such thing as better–it’s the biggest lie of society. We’re burning our planet to the ground, we can’t afford innocence. I can feel the corruption coursing through my intent. I will burn it all to the ground too, then. If only to feel something.

It’s not a sin to be selfish.

It’s fun to disarm people with the truth. As children of sin, we’re expected to deceive. We’re expected to do everything in our power to gain more power. It’s the magic of the mundane. In the end, it really is easier to face the music. Rejection for being true stings, but it doesn’t ache like longing to belong. Even a sad tune is pulchritudinous in its purity.

It’s not a sin to be selfish.

People often use religion to give their life meaning when they’re alone. I’m using it to strip my life of any meaning, because I am tired of limiting myself for honour. There are bigger fish to fry than my insecurity. Art is the key to immortality if we ever had one. Live by the pen if only to die by the pen.

It’s not a sin to be selfish.

Number Eleven

I think it’s funny when people ask me why I like them. The dark reality is that people are afraid of the mundane to the point that they won’t take a chance. It’s easier to assume you’re a piece of shit, no?

The fact is, I have my fears, and they are alleviated when I’m not alone. Materialism is dead in my soul; I don’t care about the physical. Classism is slavery; I don’t care about status.

In constant search for the spiritual answers, I think I’m still lost. I trust will-o-wisps when my own lantern runs dry, and they lead me astray.

Don’t be a hypocrite; you will never be able to have your cake and eat it. And why would you want to? People are starving on every level in our world.

Number Ten

I light a cigarette. I look at the blood moon and see a laughing skull. Have your joke, devil, for I am the bastard son of a princess, and lo! I have king’s blood.

I walk the streets to admire the cold if only to be a splash of colour. I’m the one they warned you about in the night. I light another cigarette and nod.

A trick of the eye in a poorly lit mirror, and all you see is the echos. Your mind whispers what it thinks your reflection means. The movement is a lie:

Light is meaningless without definition. Enlightenment is meaningless in our own minds. We seek to shed light on our darkness, but are we just shedding our darkness on the light? I light the last cigarette.

When I look into eyes of lovers, I see the deadness of the soul, surrounded by the flesh of intent. Do we really exist to just to lust for the same obsession of mind we give others?

It’s okay to bleed on me, for what’s another stain? I don’t mind setting hearts ablaze, if only to savour the moment in a photograph. So laugh at me if you must, mister moon. But I need another cigarette.

And so I keep walking.

Number Nine

Words from the silver tongue, a silky trap for ears and unwary travelers in the night. I know you’re up to something.

Take a stick and beat away the net. The leaves fall, and we wonder what specter waits in the nippy cold.

You sip your cigarette; I sip my pride. You want acceptance; I want answers. Is this really the disconnect?

To wonder what unconditional love is. I took bolt cutters and callously broke the chains. Chasing the rush, I continue to break my body.

Every time I grab the light, it vanishes on me. Damn you, will-o-wisp! Are you ever tangible? Am I just a cat hunting the red dot on the wall?

If anything was ever real, it’s the connection. I’m not alone in this room. The moon bathes me in serene solitude tonight, but I don’t think I’m alone.

Number Eight

I prick my fingers on the thorns
To ride the devil’s own luck.
I will destroy beauty with horns.

Revel in your own time’s values.
Everything’s ablaze, in quiet solitude.
It’s crashing down now, what a ruse.

A year late and short a grand.
Mirrors are erected to remind us:
Oh, how we burn Fairyland.

I’ll take you for a spin in incense,
But better be ready to dive.
They say I’m a bad influence.