I am a sinner.
I have sinned throughout my entire life.
I have prayed for forgiveness.
I am a sinner.
I have sinned.
I have prayed.
Sinner.
Prayer.
Forgiveness.
Sin.
Pray.
Forgive.
Forgive.
Forgive me.
Forgive them.
Forgive us.
For we are sinners.
Sinning on the fruit of life.
Wasting, needing, wasting, needing, wasting, needing.
You buy, buy, buy.
Waste, waste, waste.
Destroy, destroy, destroy.
**** **** ****
**** my future,
Yours,
Theirs,
Ours.
My heart, soul, mind bleed.
Bleed with hurt.
Bleed for change.
Yet I am a sinner,
For I don't preach for change.
I sit here,
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
For someone else to do, what I could never.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...
For you to preach for change.
Waiting....
Waiting...
Waiting...
For change.
Mother is ill.
Mother is dying.
Mother's soul is crying.
Mother's all around looking at her children.
She hopes they see.
See her dying.
See that change must come.
"Mother I'm sorry, for I am nothing but a sinner."
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 4:29 PM UTC
I want love.
Not yours.
Nor his.
Not from my mother.
Nor from a miss.
I want a love only I can find,
One that truly is one of a kind.
A love that comes from within,
One that dosen't need to hide.
Not a love built from friendship,
Or one with hopeless yearning.
I need a love that keeps my heart turning,
One that makes me love the dip within my hip,
My slightly overgrown brow,
The split in my teeth,
And let's me breathe now.
I need a love that let's me embrace the woman in the mirror,
One that lets me see her clearer.
A love where she dosen't need to feel fright,
A love that leaves my soul bright.
Once I embrace the love,
The love of myself, for myself,
Then the love I need has found me --
Not waiting in another's hands
And no longer something I must chase,
Rather something that comes from quiet, patience, and self-embrace.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 8:54 AM UTC
I write and write and fear the day my words will finally run out.
When my last sentence is spoken,
When I breathe my last shout,
When I laugh at my last joke.
The last time I strum a tune,
Or hum about solace and the moon.
When the last note leaves my guitar,
And the last time someone recognizes me from afar.
Was I loved?
Was I adored?
Did I enjoy it?
Or was I bored?
If I don't take risks will anything become of me?
I expect thing to happen,
For me to suddenly gain fame.
I expect life to give me what I want
Without me doing anything.
Nothing ever does happen.
I sit at home;
I write and write and fear the day my words will finally run out.
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 3:20 PM UTC