Now I Am Silent, Hate Up To

Look At That Ugly Dead Mask Here And Do Not Forget It. It Is A Chalk Mask With Dead Dry Poison Behind It, Like The Death Angel. It Is What I Was This Fall, And What I Never Want To Be Again. The Pouting Disconsolate Mouth, The Flat, Bored, Numb, Expressionless Eyes: Symptoms Of The Foul Decay Within.

A Ring Of Gold With The Sun In It? Lies. Lies And A Grief.

Perhaps Some Day I'll Crawl Back Home, Beaten, Defeated. But Not As Long As I Can Make Stories Out Of My Heartbreak, Beauty Out Of Sorrow.

I Love My Rejection Slips. They Show Me I Try.

Why Can’t I Try On Different Lives, Like Dresses, To See Which Fits Best And Is More Becoming?