I spin out fast, bright like torture,
and I fade away with each concern
you fake my way.
I am bent eternal on the notion
that God is laughing, loud
shapes the size of silence.
Forever fits shine sacred status
far beyond the call of beauty,
and I've lined my scars
with sugar bandages, safety nets
for the hopelessly-in-love.
In all fairness, I've given enough
blood at the desk, and the floor
becomes a fault line,
but, alas, I am always the one
who gets blamed.
My mask remains unabridged
I am the bad guy, now and always.
I am a joke worth repeating, etc.
through perfect shards of static.
Sad Princess Drama,
sharp thorns adorn the lines
around your broken shadow;
we speak madly of you, in whispers
too distinct to write off,
despite your best wishes.
I bow down with both knees bruised,
content in the knowledge that I alone
am worthy to be a new victim,
completely numb from the core outward,
the pathetic remains of my heart scattered
like ashes around your throne, stability and sanity
for the faithful, hopeless and in love.
In all fairness, I think forever fits properly
into your glove compartment, or, maybe,
I'm just being overly optimistic.
Alas, I am hopeful and in love
with the notion that someday stars
will shape me into something
much more cohesive than now,
much more stabile than fate,
arguably much safer than poetry
fragments, God-fearing promises,
broken internally, like fragments.
I am bent eternal on the notion
that God is laughing, because he too
is in on the joke.
