a sentence should never end in a period
like some black mark that speaks of finality;
it should flow on and on in denial…
it should dream of an eternity past the point
a sentence should move on like it has faith
in a written place where words fall as rain

some men
younger than i
lie rotten in their graves
while i…
i lie rotten in my bed

i am the angel
perched on my shoulder
whispering wise in my ear
to ward away shadows

i am the devil
perched on my shoulder
licking a darker shade
across my cleansed skin

i am the God
set deep within my self
playing crazy like Hamlet
long lost on purpose

never write lonely at midnight
when your sharp sadness
can cut through you
and the ones you love

never write in the darker nights
when your words become
fiery shaft shot high into the air
for you never know where they land

save your art for wild sunny days
that your scars might be gilt in gold
and your tears might be from the bright
while the wind hides your wails

I.
there is no I,
only want…
only cold maybe
and perhaps…
normal is a myth
wrought to keep us sane
like a dream to distract
til’ the eyes dim
and one forgets
that there was ever promise

turn off…turn grey
to forget the colours of the world;
keep marching dull and downcast
knowing tomorrow is the lie told
to get you through today