Dig You

I dig you like a little kid with a bright red plastic shovel digs for treasure in the sandbox. Except I don't need to dig any more: I already found my treasure, and it was totally worth all the broken nails and long hours digging.

Worrytrain

I'm listening to sheets of rain and wind hammer on my french doors. I don't want to listen to music. Or maybe I should to drown out the world. Drown out the thoughts and the rain.

Worrytrain drills screws of agony into my mind. My stomach turns, bile rises, burning me from the inside out, drenching my soul in acid.

My ears want to bleed, my head throbs like a festering wound, but the dissonance is somehow soothing. The torment is pleasure.

Last time I applied Worrytrain to my pain, I was ripped apart. I seem to have hardened, toughened, learned to manage the music. I need this.

I need the pain. I need it to feel alive, to burn and scream with every cell of my being. I need the ecstatic agony to lift me up out of myself, to see things clearer.

I want to surround myself in it, to feel it course through me, making my heart pulse with its beat.

I want it to play me, make me vibrate with emotion like a violin string pulled tight and plucked until it unravels and eventually breaks.

I let the music's frenzied climax explode in me. Breathless. Fulfilled, yet empty. Closer to god through sacrilege and sin. I feel wrong. And good.















Like murder in a church or the rape of a nun, I draw a euphoric joy from it. The music feels wrong, and would probable make me hemorrhage if played loudly enough.

But the pain brings release and quiet with it. Mind-numbing pain, a paralyzing poison - the final escape for those desperate enough to seek it.

The wave has broken over me and retreats. My stomach settles, the hair on my arms lowers, and the electric current pulling my body taunt fades away.

As the dust settles and the music ends, I am left alone, breathing hard, sweat-drenched, and oddly satiated.

Comic book

I want to be the Betty Ross to your Hulk.
Make you really happy so you wouldn't have to sulk.
I wouldn't even bother me if you got mean,
Fell into a rage and turned really green.

All I want is you, be your comic book love,
I bet I'd fit you better than your favorite glove.
All I want is you, will you be my dude?
I can be your mood ring and read your mood.

If you'd be Iron Man, I'd be Pepper Potts,
I would be the secretary and you'd call the shots.
You'd save the world a whole bunch of times,
And I'd sit in my office, writing rhymes.

All I want is you, be your comic book love,
I bet I'd fit you better than your favorite glove.
All I want is you, will you be my dude?
I can be your mood ring and read your mood.

Sometimes I could imagine you as Spider-Man,
Swinging from building the way no one else can.
And I'd live next door, be your Mary Jane,
Just be your best friend and never complain.

All I want is you, be your comic book love,
I bet I'd fit you better than your favorite glove.
All I want is you, will you be my dude?
I can be your mood ring and read your mood.

Weather Patterns

When clouds roll in, you can't do anything.
You can jump around and wave your umbrella and yell at the skies,
But in the end you'll just get wet and the clouds will still be there.

Contrast

The stubborn inevitability of the morning looms in front of my closed eyelids,
A ridiculous notion in the dark of my bedroom.

A low growling noise makes its way up from my stomach.

Getting more comfortable, I'm nestled into the soft blanket embrace of my bed.
I flip my pillow over to the cool side.
The cold linen feels like a sweet surprise against my flushed skin.