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Rhymey words and stuff

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Asterus:
Should I be concerned about what's written here?
Or take it as an expression of self?
Do these words simply show what someone might know
Or are they the state of your health?

In any case my response is "just live as you choose"
"Cast all of your worries aside"
"Choose to act whimsical and be who you are,
And you'll find your own meaning inside"

I chose to be me after uncertainty
I'm doing things now as I wish
I live for today and go my own way
So I don't have time to reminisce.

Zingoleb:
i cannot help but resent
the way a single light intrudes
on the perfection of darkness
like a promise
destroying silence.

leave me be.
you have nothing to offer me
that my nights cannot give.

Zingoleb:
pyrophile

he
stands before the fire
with every song he's ever heard
running through his head
 
it hurts him
but he doesn't mind
 
he wants to be hurt
 
he wants to reach into the flame and watch it catch his sleeve
like a lover
dancing over his body
 
every stovetop he's ever passed
beckons to him
every oven
small and cramped
(you could curl up in it
and it would burn you away)
he wants to lay his hands on the burner
but another voice tells him
no
and he listens well
he does as he's told
 
but he wonders
 
what is it like
 
to be in there.
 
in a small oven
curled up
on the wires - they heat up
faster than anything else
you'd feel it fast
imprints in your skin
lines
crossing
lines
a story in flesh
and sick/sweet burning
 
but in a larger room
you'd hardly feel it at all
he figures
it would get warm so slow
you'd sweat
and be uncomfortable
but the heat would be so gradual
your nerves would burn out
before you felt the real pain
you'd pass out
before you were tortured
(and then
well
you had no chance;
you may as well be roasted
and served:
waste not: want not)
 
but now
he just stands there
in the heat
with the hardest cock
he's ever had
he says he can feel his skin baking
drying out
flaking away in the wind
until he's nothing but ash
purified
at last

Zingoleb:
insomnia

sometimes
the nights stretch out so long
that you swear that you'll break apart
before they ever end
that you've fallen into some kind of black hole
that it's not time stretching
but you
so long and fragile thin
that they'll see right through you
just like the ghost
you've always suspected you are
 
you never do, though
morning arrives
resentful
and accusing
 
and you're always as relieved
as you are disappointed

Zingoleb:
(some ideas fade
between fits of mania
others
find themselves only ever glowing
in deptures
and darkness;
nyctophilia
is only a welcoming
of the monsters
that sleep in the dusking recesses
of our childroom hearts

be kind to them.)

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