Images emblazoned on a ticking-time-bomb mind.

Thoughts are only passersby- the poking, prodding kind.

(4.48 Psychosis, when desperation visits, and God, it's only 12:08)

Cranberry juice from concentrate, the syrup looks like blood.

It crawls beneath my fingernails to mix with flesh and mud.

(Don't worry, don't worry, I only take a moment to shed this insanity, less if you'll mock me.)

Back when names had power, people knew where they were flawed,

So what can I do with "Lasting" and the fatal "Judged By God?"

(I miss the tangerine glow of a night-light.  Watch me... watch me... vanish.)

All I do is play with words, in style soaked with rum.

It's all my inner worry about who I may become.

(4:48, when desperation visits.  I shall hang myself to the sound of my lover's breathing.  Body and soul can never be married.)