Burn it down

Someone once cried into the dying night.

For candles and wet witches to light
or wait for the wildfires to catch
and save their life

or kill them first.
They would burn in a white fire,
like that of a broken girl’s eyes
waiting for her heart
to be lit up like a cigarette.

Wishes and dreams betrayed them,
the fire took over

but somewhere out in the lost forest
someone else cried out,
over her stolen innocence
and forgotten life,

so, the dying night
became day instead.

To us dreamers

We’re stuck in the moments
between today and yesterday,
like moths we are
drawn to the ultraviolet lights
that will burn our wings
stopping us from flying away;
letting us be free,
we’re dying in a false dream
filled with hope.

We sit in our surreal sadness
with diamonds for tears
falling so often
they’ve become worthless.
Is this happiness?
Children imitating our idols
lost at sea
praying they’ll come home soon
and write us lullabies.

What are we even for anymore?
To cry and muse on behalf of
The perfect past.
I promise you darling
we’re all very lovely
writing soliloquies to die for,
of our disastrously dangerous desires
that want to scar us
marking our unclean bodies forevermore.

We’re the scared dreamers,
little kids who grew up jaggedly
like flowers raised by an eclipse
that lasted a thousand years.
We can write words that make men cry
but our lives will fall apart,
the romantic symphonies
hiding our broken hearts
will burn us dead.

Black and White Roses

You spend all your days
writing your stolen stoic siliques
on your throne made from white roses;

which should be mine.

Dream you dreams of a better world,
where the fire in the core
of your broken world,
dies out, yet we’re still alive.

The earth is at your feet,
following your stupid rules
of hope and good.
Where altruism follows through
and evil was lost and gone.

I forgot a long time ago,
I was the Grimm antagonist.

The master deceiver,
the treacherous villain.
I’m the evil witch,
who breaks the worlds hearts
with her whore magic,
concocted from dead flowers
and broken desires.

Don’t Lose

The cynics who sit and smile
were once the dreamers who loved too high,
they got their hearts broken,
fell apart and decided there’s no use trying anymore.

The lost girls who run and dream
want to be in with the cool kids.
They want to kiss the boys who smoke
fairy dust and then take them home,
steal away their pretty innocence,
play with thier hearts and dreaming things.

I sit upon the moors,
waiting for some grandeur cause,
I drink wine till I can’t see,
believing in a fantasy.

Cynical boys and little lost girls.
Let me tell you all I know;
that what’s in your head
those stories playing out,
are the best thing in this broken world.

The drugs taste like broken hearts
and blacking out kills you soul,

and those boys dressed
like James Dean,
will cause
your doe eyes
to bleed.

Bleeding Through

Bury me in ash
while you cut my throat,
water the roses with my blood
and fertilise the sunflowers with my bones.

Dry me out until the skin is gone
and my heart has turned to stone.
The rip it out and eat it
while I lie down on my own.

Go far away
swim into the sea.
With my heart in your hand
and my blood in your mouth.

Come back one day
and raise me from hell.
I shall sit up from my shallow grave
a shadow of a girl.

Lost in state on dead.

Have you been radicalised yet?

Have you read Catcher yet?
The words inscribed say kill John Lennon;
take a gun and shoot the
phony hypocrite
in the back 4 times.

Have you got to the Genesis yet?
Read the stories which tell
us to murder our friends;
liberate them from the sin
of living under the same God
with a different name.

Have you heard Marx’s words yet?
Don’t you know they’re meant to
be dipped in red paint;
made from the blood of capitalists
and smeared on the walls to spell out,
‘all are equal
but some are more equal than others.’

Have you listened to Helter Skelter yet?
The lyrics have hidden messages,
whispers you must follow;
they say to go kill
a beautiful movie star
and leave her body bleeding.

Have you seen the constellations in the sky yet?
Some say you can read the words
of hate like a soliloquy;
telling us what destructive
deed to do next.