corporeal punishment.

the best beginning is a wonderful end. as resilience explodes, exhaling an infinite amount of burning pedals, and we find beauty crawling beneath the flesh in the ultimatum.
a turn for the melodramatic, I twist around for you. several assume this broken nature is their cause and mess, but won't realize it's not, nor could they possibly understand why.
so blinded, only the track stretches before them. and their track consists of me chasing after them.
reality is a bitter thing. I'm a lesser man, completely taken with the concept and practice of humanity. I fill myself full of memory's bitter negativity, and I leak spite and hatred unto everyone I ever cared for.
lungs collapse. fingers bleed.
you're naive, stupid, and annoying.
ignorant, arrogant, and demoralizing.
I hate you,
I hate you,
yet I have you.

and your soul isn't fit to be litter.

the return.

watching you through broken glass,
you're just standing there, not a care in the world,
meanwhile every bone of mine is fractured and broken.
you strut a campaign of chaos and discord,
my lungs collapse and my back is punctured,
I'm watching you through broken glass, red.

your kerosene coated lips whisper, whisper, whisper fire
my toes erupt in flame, fury devouring me one desperate inch at a time
black parts, ruby teeth stare me down as I finally have your attention.
I swallow my tongue, and aneurysm until it hits my heart
my heart that fountains blood.

angel of death, trumpets blaring, body blazing.
you explode in devil smoke,
sweat tears me from sleep.

wonderment.

I wonder what kind of man it takes to write an episode of Zack & Cody, Hannah Montana, Wizards of Waverly Place, etc etc, and actually feel accomplished? Making Miley Cyrus shout in overacted gibberish about how wickedly awesomely sweet something is, isn't my idea of talent at all.

That's all.

unrelated title, generically labeled #4.

drain pipe love storm,
gutter romance,
manhole man whore.

flushing our emotions down the drain
letting them bubble in waste.
punch drunk, coughing up blood
leaking red onto the pavement.

bleeding, branching colour into a black and white nothing
it twists and turns, congealing into an urban art form.
ignorance floats along a river of sin,
it's called the new york city effect,
washing a generation of hell down a street.

the sewers carry more of our past than history books,
the streets are littered with more art than the louvre.
and we're slaves to this high contrast kind of love,
the streetlights fake a caring glow over the city,
the broken bottles punctuate an existence of pity.

and the drain pipes shake,
during a love storm.