Date Me/Rape Me.

Born into the arms of mother,
caged away - a laying hen.
Train me to indulge the master,
as he pleases, where and when.

Help me count all of my freedoms
from inside my gilded cell.
Hide my bruises under cashmere,
mask my fears with fake Chanel.

Don't I always look inviting?
Keep on going when I say stop.
What a funny word - "feminism".
Is that the one where I'm on top?

Wrap me up and dress me tightly
in a semen coloured dress.
Bind my hands in gold and silver,
tell me how I should feel blessed.

Born a slave you will know nothing
about the pleasures you deserve.
Riots are too time consuming -
I have to keep my looks preserved.

Chemical im/balance (woe is free).

Is it hard to understand
I like to be misunderstood?
Do you not see I feel uneasy
at times when things are "going good"?

I pricked my fingers on the thorns
last time I tried to touch a rose.
Perhaps it's time to see the doctor
and ask to, please, increase the dose.

I really wish I couldn't feel
if there's only shame and guilt.
Leave me to rot under the covers,
cursing the way that I was built.

Is it hard to understand
the way that life left me fatigued?
And when I think about tomorrow
I couldn't be much less intrigued.

I spend too long on writing words to
the songs no one will want to hear.
The kiss of chemicals has made me
a slave to happiness and fear.

Every Day

I wish I stayed at home tonight
writing my obituary,
dreaming of a former muse
like a hero literary.

Sweat condensing in your bell jar -
break the glass or suffocate.
Does it ever bore you playing
Russian roulette with tired fate?

Take a walk with Jack and Johnny,
they are the only friends that stayed.
And if you could rewrite the prequel
would you still have disobeyed?

Call upon your guardian angel
but she can't heed your twisted bark.
Can't you see that she is busy
counting crows in the dark?

And every day is flickering
like a burnt out movie reel.
You've got the devil in the backseat
and he's reaching for the wheel.

I hope I stay at home tomorrow
and think of better words to write.
Kissed and blessed by Madame Darkness
I'll rage against the dying night

Carousel

Already seen this view,
everlasting deja vu.
Still hope that it'll change,
call me naive or deranged.

I bought the ticket, took the ride,
it seemed a decent place to hide.
Enticing with the gold and lights
but now I'm really not so sure.

I see something round the bend
perhaps a way that'll bring an end?
I'd love to stay but I am spent,
I beg you to let me down.

Always up and down, 
never side to side.
Going round and round, 
I wish we'd collide.
Dream of a world that's parallel
on this infernal carousel.

Ode To Self.

Self-destructive and self-involved.
Self-deceiving? That's partly true.
Self-indulged and self-obsessed;
self-deprecating, self-medicating, too.

Self-abased and self-abused,
self-adorned with tarnished gold.
To self-betray with self-defeat
is self-defence for self-controlled.

Self-preserved with self-disgust,
self-perfect your self-esteem.
Self-aware you're your own god
self-hypnotised into a dream.

With self-love you'll self-destroy,
self-evolve into a shell.
Self-pollute, self-saturate,
self-validate your own hell.

The Artist

Big dreams of a lighted stage,

a songbird in a rusted cage:

the blessed artist is turning the page

for the ink to spell out all of his rage.

The artist: a poet, a beggar, a whore,

perverted virgin who cuts it raw.

Clenching a cigarette sits on the floor,

dying to die a part of folklore.

Simple pleasures are far too complex,

the artist enjoys to live to perplex.

Carries his head to turn all the necks,

he finds sheer beauty in what others reject.

Offering truth is a job for the brave.

The artist awaits the cold calm of his grave.

Once a petulant child that refused to behave,

now - just another one passivist slave.

The artist paints a sordid picture,

berates and hates the rotten structure.

His fragile mind - a compound fracture -

is longing for a long due rapture.

The artist says he's biding time,

swiftly slipping from his prime.

But who will spare him a dime

when day will come when he can't rhyme?

Symphony In Gray Minor

I sit and paint a picture grim:
an ashtray filled up to the brim
of joys that came and stayed and passed.
Why did they go away so fast?

Why can't I read a stranger's glare
as they walk past but walk and stare?
Is there something they can see,
a something that's unknown to me?

Why can't I store the sunshine's kiss?
In winter's frost a thing I'll miss,
along with innocence of rain.
When will it speak to me again?

Why can't I write the future's lines
to promise dialogue divine?
To write myself into a dream
without the same old minor theme.

I sit and paint but colours fade
until they all resemble gray.
I know the canvas won't forgive
the brush, for spilling all its grief.