I dream of tornadoes

I dream of tornadoes.

Tornadoes outside of my house
Tornadoes outside of my bedroom.
I'm always running.

I dream of destroying everything.

The fear crawls on my skin
prickles on my neck and in my chest.
Panic. Alarm.

It catches you.
It always catches you.

I dream I am the tornado.

The power scares me.
I don't know how to destroy everything.
It feels like burning a book you wrote,
or a masterpiece you painted.
You can't get it back.
It's absolute.
Ashes.

It will all be gone.

I will be gone.

I don't know how to die yet.

It's not enough
to ask me
and expect
I'll know what to say
to make you feel like someone special.

What do I know of your insides?
Your dark spaces? Your hidden closets
of self-pity and conceit?
Who am I to stroke your narcissism?

I'm better off stroking myself.
At least I'll respect myself in the morning.

Writing isn't for happy people
is it?

Joy doesn't change people
the way pain does

Broken people
cut me
so I feel it
deeper

Am I an emotional masochist?
Or is that a sadist?
How can joy compare?
It's not as sharp
You can't cut meat
with spoons
You need the knifes edge
You need to bleed

Feeling something
is better
than feeling nothing

I gotta work tomorrow
it's getting too late for self pity.

It's nothing.

Another space
another time
this moment
would have been delicate
intimate.

we are now
two strangers
in a bed
beside each other
for nothing more
than convenience,
logistics.
the nonsense of it
makes sense to us

to a stranger
we'd look like lovers

but real lovers would know
we're strangers.

Somewhere in Bangkok

Your music touches me in naughty ways
Did you mean to blow me
with your lyrics
Yeah, I'm trying to impress you
by scrawling on a receipt in a bar
How terrible of me
to delight in being a stereotype
How terrible of you
to fall for it
The cigarette.
Was that a part of the rouse?
Who did I convince?
Do I look more interesting now
than I did when you walked in?
Fuck you.
I don't even know you
what the fuck do I care if you think I'm deep?
You like lyrics that sound like cotton candy.
Cotton candy makes my teeth hurt.

Listen.

Feel the stare
bore into you
don't look away
hold your eyes...

close.
open.

hear the sound of my voice
echo
in the tombs of your mind
the catacombs
of your heart
and your cries for help,
for love,
reverberate through
dead, empty skulls
in what was once
a life
worth living.

Time Machines

If I was awake
when I started
I will be sleeping
when it's over
And you'll take me down
to the river
and hurt me
with your armour
I cast aside
the wayward love
in order to find
a new one
but the more I try
to say goodbye
to a life
I might have wanted
I cling to the residue
of a faded memory
and the hope of
resurrection

It's too late for me,
they haven't invented
time machines
but not too late to be
more than you might have been
with me.