Alone standing in canvas
Painted, and painted over;
they have made me their
simpatico play toys.

My flesh tender from
their eraser burn embers.
Heart diluted from
their white washed tears.

I shouldn't spill my ink
across the pages,
knowing that these masterpieces
are just temporary stages.

They'll toss me limply
into my disorganized pen collection,
after they have robbed me of my
poetic affections.

No one should spill
their tempestuous monologues
to people without the same sincerity,
because it can **** them.
At least, it's been killing me.

Sadistic Lovers

I'm not so sure that I can see your point
when your dagger is buried deep in the spine
that's wrapped around your finger;
A silver will bent across your golden trigger.

It won't be long 'til you find another guy,
that's willing to waste your time.
When it's all said and done
and your mouth's around the gun
you'll see that Sadistic love is blind.

And so I drank her.
A high ball glass of seduction
Shaken with whiskey lips
Wide hips
Sugar rim
Sin and forgiveness.
I drank her blind
And ordered another.

I find myself
traveling
to the same dogeared-pages,
that I've traveled
a hundred times before.
Trying to recreate situations,
to fulfill the imagination
of happiness.
The immense distances,
can't be leapt
can't be bounded over
in the daydreams of Forever.
Fate plays puppeteer
as I dangle across that stage,
in the theatre of the absurd.
It's time for the fourth act,
and I'm torn.
(The show must go on!)
So here I am,
in all of my battered glory,
thinking that I should have read the script,
so I know if this is a romance
or a tragedy.
It's got me wondering what kind of man I am;
Other, Next, or Last.
And if the curtains fall,
again ...
leave enough of me,
please,
for the finale.

No one knows better than me
that the sleeve, where I wear my heart,
it dirtied with the ashes
of the bridges I've burned.
And it's clear from the construction signs
that I need to board up
these drafty revolving doors.
I can see the rain
is my lady luck
doing her damnedest to keep me
out of the confessional booth.
I was never good with mesh screens
and pulpits, altering the way God's voice sounds,
even when my own has forgotten to pray for
what seems like forever, now.
It seems there is no accounting for taste
when faith leaves this taste in my mouth.
I guess someone forgot to tell me
that you're supposed to hold your breath
when they baptize you.
I search now for the warning signs,
with my eyes looking to the skies for answers.
I swear I heard the clouds whisper, "I Love You Son,
and change is coming, just check your pockets
for loose disdain; we'll exchange it for the rain,
so that you can confess again.

Forgive me if
I flinch,
or am accustom
to being left
in the dumpster
where my last relationship
promptly stood it's ground
and stained the walls with
the most beautiful sounds
of suicidal intent.
I've become very good
with battlefield amputation,
but I'm afraid that I've run short
of limbs.
Forgive me if
you find that
I limp away when
people drag out the
skeletons from yesteryear
to flaunt.
It's not personal
I just have a hard time choking
on their memories.
The echoes forget
to call my name,
and really,
who can blame them?
They've forgotten,
what I probably should have,
how to take this
***** off my sleeve.
Real men play piano,
and resonate in the
hollow spaces where the
notes travel, hand to hand.
They all have little
secrets in their lines,
their lives,
with so much buzz,
though I can't locate their hives.
They learned the art of disguise
from mommy's secret guys,
and realized that
history doesn't lie,
doesn't repeat itself,
though it probably should
with a stutter like that.
History doesn't repeat itself,
but I'll be ****** if it doesn't rhyme.

I refuse faith in any deity that can’t be proven.
My time praying at your temples while you slept should have made that clear. Your pulpits and mesh screens have made me hate the way your voice was distorted. And though I bathed in your waters to baptize myself in your love,
I can’t forget how many others you allowed in your congregation of you and me.

Yesterday you were my goddess, but today you sound like the soapbox begging for loose change.
You’re a heartbeat evangelist...
and you talked to anyone who would listen...
But I was a true believer.
And you were only a faith healer.