Dubkip

You know when you're writing a poem and you don't like what you typed you can hit the backspace key and back goes the space until you are satisfied with the outcome but what is satisfaction when just a moment ago you had something to say and now that one key has taken it away? But then suddenly you have something better to type maybe worded in a better way and you're so happy as your fingers hit the keys your thoughts spilling out onto the page like liquid until you read your new, revised version and the outcome is not what you expected when the mood is not set correctly and the expected impact of your words becomes rejected Not only a

Wilted roses creep in the garden, I cannot see through this fog- the silence becomes my yearning friend. You are the crystallized cyanide in my veins, and the antifreeze that fills my lungs. How does one compete with the ghastly cemetery, where you laid your heart out at last? Words cannot form when I'm being choked by my past, and strangled by your future. Blue skies drain of all their colour, and forgotten prisms seep through my skin. I still hear your voice in the evening chime, but then I remember it's just your empty thoughts and broken promises. Whenever you cannot find your flower, remember you left her to rot in your garden of s

Just another loose thread on your sweater, a lone string on your sleeve, torn and ripped between broken twigs and broken hearts. I was last winter, and that's where you left me, cut off and disconnected But I'm just another loose thread on your sweater, a lone string on your sleeve, I don't need you anymore, but frankly you never needed me.

We're just sad and lonely-        porcelain dolls on their shelves,      broken hopes of tomorrow,   shattered dreams of yesterday.              We're falling now,      and it feels too great. Damaged to the core,        but we like the pain anyway,      so they'll continue their assault   on our porcelain veins.              We're dying now,      and it feels too great.

Transmissions, emissions,   drawn into galaxies- and pondered into dawn.   Hues of crystal, inflated fate-   a silent masquerade, sentenced to death  upon poisoned supernovas- and that's when we                       dance.

I become the atmosphere, horizons of multicolour solitude- divided by crippling architecture, defined by misguided eyes. You dance like pollution, along my vast oceans- between my mountains, I am the earth, the sun. Your ghastly fumes consume me, and time becomes deadly- for oxygen becomes scarce, and I'm burning slowly. The tidewaters come and go to wash away the wasteland you created; I created- we created.  

When our demons collide it's a spectral kaleidoscope, a transgression of inner body- and there ahead we see Venus; those stars explode and simplify into mass bodies of dreams thoughts future- but out towards bleak horizons, further into the comatose atmosphere prisms of hope await- the transparent, cubic realms await us.

We dug a hole, in which I fell into- high on ignorance, lost in bliss I forgot the sunlight, and even though it hovered I kept my eyes closed. The dirt grew cold, as I became acquainted with my own shadow- and everything began to sink- slowly, and like our memories I was washed away- taken by the storm.

My secret friend, oh how we pretend- we sit in silence when they're around, but once they leave we're right back on our feet- and we dance, just like tiny feathers in the wind- floating; flying- and they still don't know- they don't know a thing about us.

Make me perfect, make me worth it- teach me how;   pull me down.      I sin,   I am weak- make me perfect, I'm not worth it.