My eyes do not vision
madness and destruction...

She lurks along corridors,
mimics shadows of fire...

Death has become a design of informal thoughts
notions of peace are dressed within tainted tears...

My shoulders can not carry another load
this body was not designed for such burden...

A multitude of fragmented words
filter in a cesspool of ink...

I spoke to my father for the last time,
His voice has passed on but he beats...

Melodic whispers sing his name
Sixteen rings shine for Timothy...

At the age of seventeen, I justified
my thoughts as opium...

Scattered crayons
radiate feelings of wishing...

I broke at a tender age,
when life was honeysuckle...

I drink coffee, slow
savoring positive words...

It was half passed something-
the night I fell deeply for his naked silhouette...