Burning

You may call it wrong, but it brings me glee
The fire kindled inside of me
Wisps and flames engulf my heart
In my eye’s vision, it’s a work of art

The doubt and fear ran out long ago
With the way streaks of light seem to twist and flow
Watching things burn and fall to pieces
Is the only way my urge releases

Some may claim that I’m psychotic
True or not, this is my narcotic
I struggle not to light up this town
Dress it in an aureate, crimson, tangerine gown

The gown will flow in all directions
Abolish every imperfection
Releasing a troubled prisoner of war
Shattering each and every window and door

But some this gown will never touch
For they are my only support, my crutch
It may be burnt, but I have a heart
As of yet, anyway— I have yet to take part

The desire is greater when the sun’s gone down
To escape my mind and unveil the gown
To set this deadbeat town ablaze
This is the only thing I crave

Beneath the flames is where I will lay
Attempting escape would be child’s play
I know what I’ll do, I know what I want
I will let myself burn, let my strings pull taut


It would hardly be fair for the others to burn
And not join them in the pleasure I’ve earned
To burn and cripple is the perfect demise
Feeling veins burn and boil as you ride the high

I can’t count the times they have tried to guess
Who will demolish our world, our mess
But in truth, this world will begin to spark
At the hands of the same that plunged it into the dark

Many think I can’t burn down this town on my own
But who says my partners are not yet known?
We inhabit the same body, the same blood in our veins
But we differ in matters of heart and brain

I like to think that there’s three of me
a student, a killer, and an amputee
The first is named a girl with passion-hued hair
She suppresses the others; afraid that they’ll scare

The second has no name, but he does have a home
He keeps close by the girl, eyes a shining chrome
He murders and burns in the name of us all
But he knows all her secrets and prevents her fall

Some call him psychotic, others prefer strange
Either way, to him it’s all the same
He couldn’t care less what the outsiders say
As long as they play nice and keep out of his way

Questionable is our third with his chunk of coal eyes
He sits atop his throne made of bleached bones and lies
He lost his left arm when he fought against number Two
His grin sets us all ablaze; release was much overdue.

-M.P