Forcible compulsion. Words leading words to end without age, in song, in flame, in ash: waxing immortal. Framing explosions in the mind. Nothing remains or matters beyond the line. Sitting here lost in the words. Breaking the neck of the bull. Breaking the horns to dust. Changing death into life.

To watch who they become at night. To see what kind of battles they fight when there is no light. To see what they think about when lying in bed. To see the dreams that play in their head.

To hear the music they play when no one else listens. To read the words they wish they left unwritten. To hear their silent tears finally slip away. To read the pain slapped across their face.

I stuck my hand out,

and it came back triumphant;

I wrote down

all the places you're

ticklish

and covered them

with my shirt-sleeve.

If I'd had a flag,

I'd have planted it

between your

shoulder blades,

the only person to touch you

in any

non-assuming

way, the first who came

and saw

and conquered

that stark and untamed

territory.

Your dark circles tell stories,

like the rings of trees,

of late nights and

bad ideas and awake-dreams,

so preoccupied with death but

never

able

to rest

in peace.

Want to know the true merit of a person? What they're like on their highs, the depths of depravity they'll steep to in their lows? Their most intimate, embarassing secrets, hidden desires, closet traits that would floor their contemporaries? Study their music collection.

Mr Machismo suddenly seems less plastic listening to Chopin's Nocturne. That frumpy doormouse who slouches when she walks, hoping no one will notice her, emerges the confident rock goddess, when she's Raging Against the Machine. Your boss. That dick who's always standing over you in his Armani suit. Watching, waiting to pounce on your most minute mistake. Throw on his BeeGees album and you'd SWEAR he taught John Travolta every move he knows. The uptight, sheltered pentecostal girl who would 'die before losing my virtue' draws the shades. But then you see her shadow, bucking and gyrating like a two bit whore as she whips her hair back, growling "I want to fuck you like an animal."

It's shocking what you can unearth about a person from their music collection...

To see someone for who they truly are one must dive deep into there safe zone. Where they sleep and breed. Where they go to hide from you and me. Where they can be them selves no matter what is going on out side. To see someone for who they truly are one one most go inside there room.

In side you may find an old photograph from there past that they keep close when times are tough. A movie collection that inspired them to do the things that they do. A shelf of music albums that moved them throw the daily grind of another day.

In your room is where your lost privet thoughts are formed and brought to life. In your room is where you can be who you are and not fear any one telling you your wrong.