Image by Festlip2011 via Flickr

Fire breeds through my veins like poison

That builds up and devours the canvas of my soul.

The demons paint my spirit with dark reds, purples greens

Oranges and yellows, and sting my entire body

That must be ravaged by this foul exemption.

The inside of my throat is like lace that clings

To the phlegm that pulls my sanity apart

When trembling voices elude me with their sanctioned

Ploy for sympathetic tones.

My tempest overflows with lava that functions

As an adapter for crematory delusions

That overpower the negative thinkers

Who drown their victims in depression.

The inner walls of my flesh are crimson,

And the flamboyant chest can hold no more

Thoughts of distress and cowardice feelings,

Because the texture has changed from marshmallow

To stoic rocks that bleed into my weeping cistern.

This is the foul that calls out to me in the night

To come and embrace tinder waters that seduce the mind

With folly and bitterness towards a world that created

No means of doing the things she used to be able to do.

The tantara creates havoc behind closed doors

With rampant tunes that mimic the cries

Of a spoiled child that must fester into the unknown

In order to find the golden apple that is the world order.

However, instead of finding the light, she finds her own darkness

That she has created for herself to waddle in.