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Ockham was a Scar Collector

[*Ockham was a Scar Collector

by Wesley Miller

Copyright 2017 Wesley Miller*]

of poppies:

.mother mary i’m not much a lover .but if burning bridges was a sport i’d go pro .you know those emo girls they murder so easy .quick and to the point .can you smell what i’m breathing .can you taste what i’m bleeding .born with a silver spoon .and the hand of Cain .it’s hard not to feel guilty .screaming .Christ never had it this easy


.giving in into falling through halos one by one .i haven’t felt a thing since you left .never felt so alive .lesson one in the undertakings of a failed martyr .faithless vampires and their ilk .paint the town crimson red with you .color me blood .waiting in line .meant to be pink .but still waiting for the punch line .traded all my prayers .for a wreath of garlic and a smile from you .wake up .time to evolve


.it’s not the first promise i’ve broken .and now those deep eyes will never find me .in case you’re wondering this isn’t about you .this isn’t. this isn’t about purple sunsets .this isn’t about forgotten nights .this is a lost cause .go away .go far far away .staring down these walls .to wake up from this dream i’m living .now .would be a bitter pill worth swallowing .i think of you .everytime i cut myself shaving .something about the crimson swirls .running down the drain .reminds me of your name

is the new violence:

.death is a getaway car .for you and me love .speeding from the scene of the crime .i woke up with bruises shaped like lips .i guess i bit off more than i could chew .with you .inside out .it doesn’t take a saint to see we’re not martyrs .we aren’t blessed with privilege .of dying for a lost cause .we are damned .with love .from venom to vultures .with love

up i’m taking you home:

.paint your lips with innuendo thick .and my hexagram smile .there’s no one crying to take you .us .away .from me (just get away from me) .midnight .a parking lot .you and me .and a thousand bad intentions .steamed window roadmaps to a better bitter hell .away from you .we could leave tomorrow .before the beginning of the middle of the unavoidable end .we could leave tomorrow .before your father finds us .or maybe it’s better off this way


.now i lay me down to lie .this is my red-handed confession .i loved you too much not to twist the knife .i choose the thorn over the rose .i stole every line i gave you .and you swallowed it all .like kisses wrapped in satin .like milk from the source .in the land of hate and honey .i’ll be your guide .they’re just memories after all .5 minutes ago i had it all figured out .then i remembered you existed .and it all fell apart .now’s the time to be brave son .this is my red-handed confession .mercurial whispers .background kisses .and feelings fleeting on black wings .reminders .anyone who could end this now .they play our song my love .serenade of broken wings .play it on the black keys .and think of me

disguised as wishes:

.my beloved .lay your head back in the water .let the memories flow .let them echo and ache .you’re going to die here .i’m glad you’ve come back around .glad you found your way home .fighting to let an original thought into your head .baby let the panic rain .if the stars bleed the night .through it’s last light .we just may make it out of here alive .baby let the panic rain .blisters on your pulse .glycerin heartbeats .i’m glad you’ve come back around .i’m glad you found your way home .if the stars fall out of the sky .and pin you to the ground tonight .we just may make it out of here alive

become thorns:

.willing dissolution of disbelief .peeling skin with painted fingers .we won’t always go down so quietly .this stormy night .this story’s getting old .we won’t always go out so violently .who was to know the regret that was waiting for us .masquerading in our childish innocence .we never learn .the story’s getting old .this is a call .to all who see romance is taking a swan dive .into the grave .every single day .long live the silence .after the unheard i love you lost in the wind

meets fist:

.reality makes me incredibly ugly .but in my head i’m so fucking cool .i think that i could be just like you .obscene, serene, and strictly old-school .real life weeded me out waiting in line for the schoolbus .“the last person that thinks you’re cool is dead” .that’s what the answering machine said .going under never felt this good .black-acid jungle-gym day-dream .in my crayola fantasy world .where i am yours, and you are mine .forever and ever ‘till the end of crime


.she slit her own throat because she wanted gills .more asleep after i’m awake .my chariot waits between clenched fingertips .for the record, no one will ever understand you .and heaven’s for sale .no one gives a damn .burning inside .bleeds blood black .like bugs .cold like grass .empty .like the “o” in “love” .they promised me the love of a perfect god .so i’m sold like the pope .but still breathing these Judas prayers .washing my hands like Pilate .wondering .where’s my saviour now? .sleep sweet tonight my love .sleeping with the fish

in you i crash cars:

.funny bunny .sleeping pig .only in my dreams .in her hair .in her eyes .in her hair hanging in her eyes. something besides these sticky needles pricking skin .to save me from my sins .it is the love of him that is law .for her .but you are my only love .my only law .and in you i crash cars

bullets were as cheap as you are:

.psychotic buzzing overtones .a massacre in octave intervals .you never cease to amaze me .with a tuba hidden in your skirt .symphony of lies .meet the main conductor .i hate you .knowledge changes everything .you’d buy time .with broken needles and strips of your summer dress .but that’s not enough .to make a difference in the time we have left

is a four-letter word:

.i understand .when life crashes headlong into death .it’s like the color in her hair .and the splinters that fall slice us and make us bleed .and her blood tastes like the memories spread out along the dashboard .in deep shades of crimson and grey .”we don’t belong here” .she said .and i .still half asleep .dressed in her clothes .couldn’t argue with logic as obvious as the weather .so she strapped me in .and kissed my cheek .and we said goodbye to the fireflies .that we caught that sweet-smelling spring evening .that died before dawn .the same way we all do .every morning .in one way or another

you already:

.i could almost taste your heartbeat .slipping through your soft skin .if i could crawl inside your ribs .and maybe feel alive again .this touch is death .to everything i left behind .daisies in your hand .my lips on your eyelids .we never wake from this .i’d wrap my world up in your hair .to save it from the storm .but when you wear that blue dress .i lose myself in a whisper .and find myself in your name

stop on the black metal train:

.drinking blood through my halo again .kissing sunset after sunset away .little girl .you don’t want to know where i’ve been .you don’t want to know .if intentions were bullets i’d have a militia’s worth of missed opportunities .your photographic nightmare .my fatal dream come true .say goodbye to the sunset girl .you don’t want to know where i’ve been .you don’t want to know what i’ve been doing


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Ockham was a Scar Collector

  • Author: Wesley Miller
  • Published: 2017-02-24 15:05:12
  • Words: 6160
Ockham was a Scar Collector Ockham was a Scar Collector