Your enmity enshrouds the corners
of darkest emotions, and blackest hearts.
You could be an amateur,
or maybe a Wicked Willow pro.

Nothing saves the world now, baby.
It’s doomed to live for an eternity
in your evermore hellish trains of thought.

Caught.

Now nothing can ever be the same,
and no wild thoughts of yours will tame
the lightning bolts and harbingers
lingering in your continuous curtain drop.

Measly scraps of fiber and cotton
float as hurricanes across your blistered vision,
and help the disconnected patron
knock down the mighty oak doors to your soul.

Whole.

But will you always stand the fire up? To sing,
to bring forth merriment?
What about those star-lit eyes,
when Irish ones aren’t smiling?
Do you feel them slice deep? Or is it purely a mental state?

Don't you cry, there’s nothing you can do,
to stop my lightning bolts from frying your
chipmunks in their rabbit holes and owls nests.
Scavengers that pray on the weak,
and we, the strong ones, are never in harm’s way.

Okay,

so why do we run, Rapunzel? Why do we flee?
It’s not like the love is real. It’s a figment,
an imaginary friend, and the book you never
finished writing.

Not to be a hypocrite,
but you’re beautiful no matter what Satan says.
And with ribbon piercings up your spine,
and a deluge of hate mail perched upon
your strangled ways,
your oceanic subdivision of cartoons
is making the invincible sick with a fever
that will fester inside, and break away the sanity.

Vanity

ensures that our heroes can last,
but Sweetness, no song you sing is going to paint my eyes
a brighter shade of thunderstorm.
There is an essence, and when you subsist, the thoughts
will halt in reasonings beyond your immortality.

Practicality

doesn’t matter anymore.
Because life is just something
that everyone plays with.