HitmanShe made love a hit listMore Like This
Checking off each line as each shot is fired.
That would be my falling, not hers.
Then there's entrapping, heartache, pain, doubt, betrayal, anger, more pain.
What she doesn't realize is that she's not my first. She won't be my last.
I've been hit before and know how to pick up (most of) the pieces.
Sure I'll leave some behind but I've got scars to fill in the blanks.
I just hope someone finds those fragments so that they'll learn.
So that they'll not be next on her already bloodied hit list.
Ignorance is Bliss?More Like This
She squeezed her eyes shut
Tighter and tighter
Not one drop of weakness could escape
From her worn puzzled eyes
Her thoughts scrambled
Twisted and turned
They attacked her mind
And demolished her heart
Leaving her body broken on the floor
Cuddled into a tiny heap
Constraining the pain
Maybe... just maybe
She could hold it captive long enough
That it will disappear.
Maybe just maybe
She could squeeze it out of her pores
And watch it evaporate into the air.
Maybe... just maybe
Talking hadnt helped.
Uttered words were just lies from a manipulative heart.
Nothing was pure
Slander from the devil
To protect the evils that were
Maybe... she thought, just maybe
It was for protection.
But if ignorance was bliss
Why were there maybes?
LiarI wrote you a letter.More Like This
I wrote you a letter on the same day I could no longer suppress my screams.
"Here I am. This is me. I've been lying to you all these years."
My fingers glided over the curved letters of your name.
One lonely tear slid from my cheek and smudged the ink.
"You're still not ready. That's ok. I can lie a little longer."
I plugged my tears, to fool you into thinking I'm truly happy.
I bit my tongue, and let the blood dilute the words I cannot bring myself to say to you.
"What's a little more pain. I'm fine. You'll never know the difference."
Compulsive Liar (spinning stories)The fox won't let me tell you the truth, not even a fragment. He is glintingMore Like This
at me from orange eyes again. 'Don't tell them anything. pretend. Imagine,
like you did when you were younger and spun stories from paper. It's all a big
game.' The dog has his ears pricked forward and is chasing his tail next to my
I don't think he doubts me.
The fox wants me to open up a conveyor belt leading straight from the back of
my mouth into peoples' waiting ears. He has made his own production line for
me: a thousand identities like shedded skins, two eye-colours, alternate beauty
marks, three accents and a past straight out of Shakespeare's quill. He wants
me to flick my tongue and weave an odyssey, spin on the spot and become a boy,
then a girl, then a woman, then a Hollywood star with sunken cheeks.
The hound is sat by my feet, panting. He wants me to smile widely, say that no,
I am one girl with one accent, green eyes, no frills on my clothes or gemstones
on my toes. The fox gla