hi ppl, im a tower junkie, the storys of SK are one the things that inspired me 2 start writing poetry though i am not so crass as to do fan-fic, I hope to get published someday, ur feedback is GREATLY appreciated, heres one of my most recent, enjoy


Dirge for birds and other things that fly


I can’t seem to find a wall big enough to bash my fat head against
And I wish I was a Picasso painting so I could blame all my deformities on my maker
The wallpaper in my head is peeling blue
I was never a heavenly body
I was never a phoenix
My feet are made of lead
(give me fire chants the meditating wannabe)
The only type of idealized self destruction I ever needed
Was to burn out like a neon raven fighter pilot roaring over the crash of sparrow engines
Never being among the clouds I never had a chance to fall
My swan dive would land in a bed of feathers when I’m expecting nails
I’ll begin to listen to the halo of flies whisper-circling my head
But before that fateful acceptance of smothering responsibility
I’m going to continue spilling wine on white carpets to give them crimson meaning
(GIVE me fire chants the meditating wannabe)
There’s cardboard death closing in on all sides and I have forgotten how to fly
If it means I don’t have to sit in a wheelchair named desire with snot running down my nose
Then by all means shove me in a nice quiet coffin
It’s not like I have anyone to talk to when I’m above-ground
And I’m sick of hearing the clinking of martini glasses under quiet well groomed conversation between liars
I have forgotten what breath on my neck while I slept felt like since I have almost forgotten how to breathe
All I hear is snorting from martyred sociopaths on a podium on the tv-altar telling me to buy their words
Well I don’t want THIS
I say THIS spreading my arms wide enough to encompass the entire barren raped valley of tumbleweeds
I toss lit cigarettes out the window of a fast car since they have nothing to burn beyond my flesh and lungs
Nothing to burn in the desert beyond your own bloated ego fat and angry
Who am I talking to again?
Oh yes its you
You and you and me and you and me and you are me and I chant it like a song for kids playing jump rope
I just need to smash in stained glass windows to steal pieces for a private rainbow that’s what I need to do
And when everything has busted the way I want it
I might find my feathers and my face in the reflection of a shard
I might remember how to fly again
In the false hope moonshine baseball bat after glow of smashed hope
(GIVE ME FIRE chants the meditating wannabe)
If it were before me on a plate killed and cooked I could not eat the fire
After all that’s we’d like to think was promised
All that’s left is the fluttering screen door and a ring shaped stain on a coffee table
Wide eyed and sick he looks up at the sky, his eyes shocked bright after being in the dark for so long
And there in the endless blue was the unreachable fire he had lusted for all through the self imposed night

This is the last song for birds who have forgotten how to fly
And I will sing until my teeth bleed and I remember