Strike match- conflicting friction.

Ode eternal, ever internal-
Even with nothing but placidity these fucking battlefields
rage warring in my skull, each thought strike-force against another.
Resonate of sounds of a thousand swords slashing, a thousand
whips lashing at the back of innocence.

We're living a lie, wearing dead suits vying time digging up roots.
Freedom slips from the corners, hollow howls howling how low,
as the thick taste of red wine rolls while bringing you to the gallows.
Never thought the taste of fun was bitter with remorse for it's standing-

Remaining slick and sickening in my lungs,
bitter, lying to my senses, bitter, shredding my insides.
Turning the tides to evanescent ash, gray and black as the earth after fire.
The neon lights were painful with desire as our eyes adjusted,
desperately trying to outshine the brilliance of the sun!

A night time eclipse under which we bowed godlessly
to carnal motivation, singing endlessly this twisted inspiration.
Gargoyles watching the endless post-party,
black eyes gazing over abandon, guarding a lovers dead body.

Miles stretch out and yawn beneath amber skies at dawn,
Pavement kissing the tears in the seams
letting these weary shoes rest and dream.

Winter nips at my flesh like a lover once took my breath,
made me tremble and shake, made me quiver and make,
such a shuddering sound- pleasure quick to rebound
over this filthy body.
So secretly content, that someone so clean
would touch me!

Re-fabricating the seams, that were torn long ago.
Intellectual screams kiss the monsters below.
Freedom bleeding out but haunting, no hesitation,
to come walking right out of my mind,
drenching me in elation, churning my flawed design.

Back to reality it escapes more and more.
Slowly surely seeping from every sore.
Like the tide leaves the shore, naked.

A bird ruthlessly caged, wings left starving for air, hungry for aerial dares.
Caged so long it's soul can never be saved, only it's dreams remain.

An artist with no muse, his thoughts drenched in abuse,
leaving canvas to starve, a blank page without use.
Can you see it begging for paint strokes of color to call it's lover?

Anchro punks and sweet smokes, shrill and harsh,
begging feed me! I'm dying, watch me choke,
seeing all from the depths beneath a thousand shards of meth,
Water clouding my vision- such decisive indecision!

Begging harsh and shrill, I'm dying, please feed me!
Couldn't get my fill the first time around,
just a speculator with no specks,
a puma out on the kill, prayless.