Newman...

Love is a tapestry of textures and moments

My Chest Is Heavy And Its Tears That Are Left

I am a heartbroken one,

Sawed apart 

~

Remembering you is like sweet cancer,

Smiling likeness of all these mistakes I found

~

Lower me into the abyss,

Every blessing is a curse in disguise

~

Simplicity; illusions; bleeding out,

When will there be enough for either of us?

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Fucking raw,

A beast to greet the beasts 

~

Happiness was a game before it ended,

Contentment our burden

Love my bitter tail to bite it off
Rip my fragile hide to wear me out

So many names flutter into the wind
As a sacrifice to personality and blind sight
Needles pointed and hooked
Into my tiny writhing heart

Fire and Ice and broken and healed
All taste like bleach under my retreat
With your back to the sea then a glance away

Sealed lips part to speak further
And my ears have started to bleed

Out There

You live and breath, your heart still beats;
with skin pulled taught, red blood doth heats
the flesh of angels pulled to Earth
in demon's time. Forgotten worth
bewilders me infinitely,
I'm lost at land, you're lost at sea.

No Names Left to Call (You)

Puts Me Together (when I read your words)

The poem screams that you have run
Away to find a patch of Sun.
My barrel's loaded like you said
But it is pointed at my head.

I'll ask of you no future task,
No loaded words, no plastic mask.
No force upon you to change fates;
I wont be here to frustrate.

It feels like nails inside my skin,
My eyes are sliced by rusted tin.
If fate conspired to give peace
You'd be right here right now with me.

So if you go without a word
Into this world, beautiful girl;
I'll take the path back through the sand,
Recant my place, empty my hand.

I'm sorry for myself and you
We got fucked up, we both got screwed.
My burden's gone, so feel relief
The game of Hearts continues free
Of my impact upon your head,
Unless I'm wrong, let it be said.

The shouting stopped inside my skull;
Maybe silence is just a one-way street.
No stage lights, yet we still perform and posture
For the lonely crowd that cant clean themselves up.

If it can get better, oh dear god it can get worse.

These class broken shrapnel drunks
Are so tied up with cold lamentations
That my tireless gaze cannot dissect their hopes.
How else could a true amateur learn to sing?

This amplified rectification is a stillbirth before us.