Me, My Broken Words & Sceleton in the Closet

Look at the sceleton in my closet,
singing while it swings
on a trenchcoat and a pair of ties
with scissors spinning on its fingers.

From its bony mouth Rihanna whispers Disturbia,
rotten words to explain my rotten heart.
"Bum bum be-dum bum bum be-dum bum
What's wrong with me?"

Imaginary questionare,
grab a pen and take a minute
to solve the crossword puzzle of my soul.
Here we go...

Extract the poison,
remove the teeth from the bite
and what do you get... a hollow grave,
where once the pain used to be.

SOS, my mini-me on my shoulder signals
into the distance,
while the fire rages undetected.
Why is my mind crippled?

What happens,
when you've suffocated all your tears?
When you've vacuumed your anguish to the point,
you stab yourself with every breath?

What happens next?
I cannot wait...
for continuation,
when the TV lies with no reception.

I stare in my own reflection,
waiting for words to trickle,
hoping to spot signs to my ache,
all in vain.

It's hard to talk with myself,
when both sides are silent
and words won't come,
so we are left with mirrored charades.

My confessions are papermaches from lyrics
"Wonder, if I will wonder.
I test my test my thether to see
if I am still free from you."



My sceleton scrapes with the scissors on the frame,
sprinkling "bliss of another kind",
fairy tale dust
and faded rainbow kisses.

"Am I scaring you tonight?
Your mind is in disturbia.
Ain't used to what you like.
Disturbia..."

So here I am, the living negative space,
bathing under leaking terpentine,
just me,
        my broken words &
                          the sceleton in my closet.