on the roof again
i smell gasoline that can't be seen.
the chilling night, the silence screams
i'm on my back
soon this house will be a passing dream
a nightmare come to life
smothered in gasoline
the innocent dreams born in this place
will give way to a lasting scene
of ash and soot and smoldering wood
broken bottles... nothing good.
shattered dreams will only gleam
in a cleansing fire and gasoline.
the pills may dull my senses
but i still smell gasoline.
i can barely move a muscle
except with twitch and spastic squeeze.
there's no comfort left in this place
there's a hole in my heart, an empty space
i've got no hope left, my soul is bereft
and the tears i cry, no matter how fast they stream
will be no match for this gasoline.
i smell the smell of gasoline
the smell of abuse and dash-ed dreams
i taste coppery blood and twentysome Xanax
i choke on the fear of what
the next step of my plan is.
i roll over in a childish way
in the childhood house i've grown to hate
sprawled in a puddle of gasoline
i struggle to move; i writhe. i teem.
i smell sickly sweet blood. i smell gasoline.
my shaking hands holding a match's sheen.
not one more child will suffer in this house.
not one more child, not one more spouse.
the matches fall, and the last i'll see
are the fiery tears of gasoline.
The soul is oftentimes a battlefield where reason and judgement wage war on passion and appetite.