Shreds of Paper Hold More

Skyscrapers thrown from heaven into the mantle, upside down figures traipsing around legs thrust through the clouds walking on the surface of heaven to plow the earth with their heads.

Understand why I write. It's not like I enjoy it, but I would use my skin to express and put my pen to work, be it that pen made of sharded glass and thorns, and the only paper available the skin on my back.

Maybe I write to this paper as an equal.

Maybe I abuse it worse then anything else.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

Write your answers upon a page, eat your words and sew your mouth shut.

Pull my bones out of my flesh, grind them up, let my spirit be progressed so far white flowers grow where I bleed.

When I die and everything falls, when dirt is shoved through our bodies in order for us to live, maybe we will finally be forced to try in earnest. Commit to this dream of death and live like your life depends on it

Ha. As if my walking could ever cease.

Sleeping behind the least shiny rocks, looking to steal your dreams for their luster, looking to be higher and finding nothing.

Tottering, fliting foot to foot, red wire lavishly wrapped amongst pillars of cold stone, colorful, mirrored enough to portray your own reflection, lovely enough to kiss.

This head pointed to the sky. It is not easy to go to hell, but to hell, I will go.

For there is no one in heaven that requires my help.