doll's hair.

this isolation is freezing me,
my frigid heart refuses to beat.
chased again by that sinking feeling;
like an iceberg to my haul.
seventeen and beyond invincible,
witness the sinking of the unsinkable.
countless night spent in cigarettes,
another self-confessed insomniac.
a cynical satire of a demeanor,
ever so eager to meet his defeater.

optimism is the most helpless feeling,
troubles a pessimist would never deal with.
another cold night spent alone,
i'm done with fake hope and even faker love.
i'm dead yet synthetically, still breathing.
my frigid heart is barely beating.
another night spent frostbitten and hapless,
another night spent destroyed and anxious.
barely conscious but far from asleep,
i will constantly refuse defeat.

whiskey dreams.

another poem for no one to hear,
another cigarette to draw disease near -
and for every time i lose my breath;
the shock will be less than the last time i saw you.
maybe the problems in the drugs i take,
that cause me to spend so many nights awake.
unfinished poems and unread books,
pages not worth a second look.
smoky rooms and whiskey dreams,
i'm busting at my fucking seams.
so far from home, i'm lost up stream
so far away from whiskey dreams.

delay the pain with cigarettes, let my lungs decay.
smoky rooms and whiskey dreams, wash this cancer away.
save me from this so-called town, a place no one ever gave a shit about.
save me from this so-called town, i need nothing but a way out.

sailor's grave.

seventeen years of synthetic love, slipping through my fingers,
a daunting trek to the break of dawn, overhead clouds linger.
an inverted cross, with meanings misconstrued
i hear the sounds from underneath, the scream of truth subdued.
i can hear the torture in the break of every wave,
i see the oceans floor and every poorly-made sailor's grave.
dumped into the sea for the waters to decompose,
encased in rock and sediment, body and soul both disposed.
through their veins, like waters; flows blood.
yet their mind and bodies cannot resist the flood.
place your hand on my neck, can you feel my pulse any more?
no current to guide our ships, we're floating further without oars
drifting steadily out to sea, a crew lost offshore.
lost forever to the ones that loved them and the ones they adore.
father, son and the holy ghost. these figures we now abhor.
not one of these omnipotent figures guided us back to shore.