Dance with me.Bring my demonsto their knees.

They say she is too much to handle, but when the moon pulls the tide and the wolves howl her name, blessed are the ones who have been taken by her wild.

The tide has pulled the storm from my soul, again.

And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.

It's ironic, isn't it? How hope keeps us breathing just to kill us in the end.

If I could claw the words out of the back of my throat and give them, dripping of me, to you, we would talk of sticky hands, and the messes they make.

I promised to touch your soul. I never said it would be painless.