Fragments.

Porcelain.

My poetry is a rash on your porcelain skin,

The start's the ending. I didn't know how to begin.

Turn the page, burn the page, tear it and weep.

My slow and solemn words will guard you while you sleep.

My mind has no buttons, no levers, no strings.

My mind's no contraption full of cogs and springs.

I'm a bleeding diamond,
A ruby at heart

My brain is an outcast,
It's own work of art.

I hear the tick of the time bomb
The click of the clock

I feel the metal of the ocean
And the sudden electric shock.

The one caused by trouble
The one caused by you
The one caused by the musings that I hold onto.

My head knows no logic
My tongue knows no rhyme

I'm a fucked up writer
On the edge of the line.

The line that marks your skin
The line that marks your eyes
The line that draws the boundaries

The one that I despise.