neo-maverick

I cannot sleep, for darkness will not silence. My body is my hearse, Carrying my deadened soul to it's burial. I cannot sleep, but for the images. The endless shadows Dance across my vision, playing 'gainst my fragile sanity. I cannot sleep, for I know not when I'll die. Fear is like a blanket, indiscriminately smothering, yet comforting, for better to die awake. I cannot sleep, Rest is now unknown. So now I ceaseless am awake, Refusing to look away from life Like some necromantic monsrtosity.

Hello, my name is secret. I'm that mistake you made last night, last week, last year. I'm the shit you snorted your savings away on I'm the bones piling high in your closet, threatening to suffocate you in a sea of accidents and drunken smiles. You whisper me away, or pay me off, or run, but i'll be back. And I'll bring friends. more laughter. more yesterdays. more "i didn't know"s until you surrender, and scream me out in a swarm of buzzing confessions. Each flying to sting another innocent. Why do I play the Sadist? The porno villian who was the best you ever had? Because my name is secret. And your my mommy, my daddy

your hands. they're cold as a coma not quite death, but close enough. small. busy. like a pair of tiny ideas, they create unconciuosly. so sweet. weaving lies like thread, but what art is a lie! deep, rich. but cold. let me warm them. but wait. mine are colder, and are still. perhaps i should lop them off? maybe not. niether of us are that cold. just still. just bored. what useless hands i have. what perfect falsities yors weave.

Dancing. But no Tango. No ballet. Stillness in the flow. His spirit, his beauty, dances on a sea breeze. it smells of incense and sorrow. of tea and tears. silence befits him, whose whispers make me shiver like the last leaf of autunm. always dancing, but nestled to it's last branch, alone. he is the weight, pressed on my chest. he is the whispers i hear in quiet. he is the eyes, staring back from my closed eyelids. such is the power, of a man i've never met, but in the endless moon of summer, and in the falling ash of the  blaze. Him. Oh, how I wish he'd cry my tears. Him, oh, how I wish he'd soothe my fears.  

Little child, born into a world of roseles thorns. Flawless innocence, love weaves it's way between your silken fingers. The world ages. War rages. Your mother roars about your fathers whores. Whirling like a dervish, you spin yourself a world of dreams and rosebuds. This is your shield, as large as reality, as subtle as heartbreak. And when mother cries, you comfort her there. And when Granddaddy dies, you play with him there. But they keep forcing you down, drowning your world in tears and coca-cola. Jealousy, they force you down. But the harder they try to bury you, the more easily you drift off into your "foreverla

Gray feathers floating in the wind/ a small boy sees them/ his innocence intact, he paints a perfect picture on his reality canvas/ those feathers are a brush/ he must catch them, draw with them, fly with them/ he gives chase/ they fly ever higher/ ever deeper into his canvas/ until the boy seems lost/ their dancing is the art/ he his own brush, seeks to caress the unmade portrait/ he chases them into oblivion/ falling, falling, he cries, not for his mommy but for that still unpainted portrait/ he cares not for drawing truths now/ nor for skies, nor unmade canvases/ but at the sight of a feather, he weeps with pain/ shou