Hey,

 

I guess it's been a little while. 

 

This house of ours has gotten a little bit messy. I understand. It's partly 

my fault, 

 

but don't make the mistake of mishearing me, I'll only say it once. I'm sorry for it. 

 

This isn't a letter. It's a bullet. 

 

This isn't an apology. It's a eulogy.

 

The blood that drips from these wounds, isn't blood. 

 

It's You.

 

The paint on these wall is our life. 

 

The foundation is our legacy, no. 

My legacy. 

 

I think the Devil is lying in bed tonight with a headache. His thoughts are frantic, 

he's trying to put words to it, but his throat is dry. He's dying of thirst and he's floating 

in an ocean of stolen rum. 

 

Dive. 

 

Pray it heals. 

 

I think that God is smoking out on the balcony. 

She takes long drags off the camel in between her fingers as she eyes the revolver 

that sit on the counter. 

 

she reaches for the countertop. 

 

She picks up the pen next to the stray bullets and scribbles her scattered,

overwhelming thoughts. Her thoughts bleed through her clothes and drip on the tile

floor. She's bleeding out through every pore, but she's in a desert of bandages 

mistaken for thorns. 

 

The Devil dives from the roof into the basement to satisfy his thirst. 

 

God bleeds through their censored, advertiser friendly, second hand clothes. 

She swims through the attic choking in fear. 

 

We're all sipping bourbon in the living room, with the skeletons in the armchairs, 

the demons bartending, and the con-men in server outfits taking tips. 

 

I stand on the 6 inch stage with my puppet strings "guiding" my performance. 

 

I'm singing. 

 

These demons. 

 

These Fucking Thieves, these monsters have stolen our time. 

 

My time. 

 

So why am I singing? 

 

They're glancing at me and crying from winced eyes behind closed doors like I'm

already gone. 

 

I'M STILL HERE.

 

They're dressing me up for the funeral, but my breath turns to steam in this cold room.

 

So here we are. 

 

We're in the backyard now.

 

There's a grave.

 

I can't look in. I WON'T LOOK IN.

 

The angels are singing. 

 

I'm Not Ready.

 

My hands lift. 

 

The pill bottle touches my lips. 

 

NO.

 

God is hiding behind her hands.

The Devil holds his glass high in a toast.

 

The chord holds. 

 

The whole world freezes.

 

I glance at the "17" tattooed on my wrist.

 

This is what I wanted, so when I stand over the final means to the final end,

 

Why am I shaking?

 

I woke up again.

 

I open the blinds, 

 

The storm cleared, but a hurricane brews on the horizon. 

 

- Rise

 

TheLoverFool - 

Search for words in places, most days, you would glance over, both literally

and figuratively. The world is an abstract, twisted, beautiful, ugly place. 

There will never be a lack of words when searched for in the right places.