Paint it, black

You stained me with gorgeous little lies.
Did I choose to ignore your selfishness?
Did I choose to be blinded by your hungry eyes?
I pick up the shards of my heart.
I dip each piece into a inkjet dye.
It cannot be broken again if it is painted, black.

No sympathy for the devil.

Encroach me, drink in hand.
The fallacy drips from your eyes.
You repent your drunken misconducts.
Confess your lies, little do I care.
You hold the darkest corner of my heart.
She was exactly what you wanted.
I know everything about you.
Your selfish libido prevailed.
The vodka swilling your veins.
Your betrayal cannot fathom any apologies.
Your actions howl deafeningly louder than words.
With her, especially; how could I have been so naive.
It had happened before.
I allowed myself to believe you had learnt from your mistakes.
You lean before me.
Your intoxicated heart on your sleeve.
You stare into the bed of my soul with your remorseless grin.
Yet I feel nothing but sorrow for you.

The Universe, and him.

It scares me to death.
That I let someone in that close.
That someone knows me so well, better than I know myself.
He's wild and untamed and he knows every last crevasse hidden in my veins.
It truly is frightening, to have someone love you like that.

Exodus 22:18

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

For the doomed and the damned

Under the blood moon, he's fed by shadows in the night.
Flames dancing in a fervent fire circle, 
athame as your guide,
the witch's hour approaches.
All will be clear as the haunts of your past 
take flight.

Awaiting your master, your blood weeps, 
a sacrifice,
in ceremonial offering upon the altar.
He's coming. 
You can feel your life force being drained,
delicately.

A virgin, All Hallow's Eve, 
surrendering yourself to his divinity,
allow him to cradle your body,
to place his ardent lips 
upon your neck.
Your life force slowly dissipating, 
you become wholly entranced in 
his ritual. 
The site of the stars in his vermilion
eyes becomes your last

This is all I think of

To Boddah

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, the ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins, it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seem to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd, which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know! I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become. I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along and have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody, baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out then to fade away.

Peace, Love, Empathy. Kurt Cobain.

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar. Please keep going Courtney, for Frances. for her life will be so much happier without me. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU

A bag of old bones

They're watching me.
From my closet, I can feel their eyes,
Piercing into my rib-cage with red hot irons.
They're waiting for me;
Waiting for me to lose the composure I've slowly rebuilt, but I resist their calls, mostly.
I prevail over their midnight screeches and taunting entices.
But sometimes, at the devil's hour, I am weary from fighting and defending my temple.
Wholly consumed by their deafening shrills, I choose my weapon.

To satisfy their needs is to satisfy my own; to satisfy the gorges caused by your love.
Maybe I am the cause of this loathsome web of lies.
With tear-stained hands, I rip out my skin; flay myself alive to feel the pain I have selfishly inflicted upon others.
I am addicted to acquiescing my malignant spirits, and there is no rehab.
The bag of old bones in my closet never stop whispering my name.