i am a beautiful bout of starts and sky
compiled into a confounded heart, left
reasonless in the dark so many times
hold me gently, like you promise now, when
we finally form a union, beautiful motion
scrubbing off the dirt and rinsing off my feet
hear me, my tired soul
hear me
forgiving the unkind parts of me
and respecting my needs,
recognizing the demon’s sins
seeing my ardent potential
chaining up my loose lead mind
promising a golden future for no one else
but me
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 2:52 AM UTC
if i sustain this pain
one more night and day
i can manage being the martyr
in our picture-book plot.
if it costs all
of my heart's savings
for you to lick your thumb
and tab our page, i'll sign it away,
like that,
gone
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 4:45 PM UTC
please hurt me in
the ways you'd hurt
yourself. i am no
friend to your ground,
no faction to your
brotherly causes. stay
a while, listen. soothe
me with the burn marks
you give me. i cannot bear
the idea that you love me. i
cannot fathom any real
feeling you would have for
me as being worth more than
a strand of your broken hair
falling, surmounting distance,
or electric brazen fences.
listen.
you, of all things,
tested my immanence. you
cannot think, after all
these lives, i'd live to
tell my own story?
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
you relinquished your chains.
i didn't realize the alloy
turned your wrists green
and soured the feeling.
i didn't realize you viewed them
as shackles, and not the comfort
endowed to you when i vowed
to protect you just two months ago.
i don't blame you.
no, i can't. delicate birds
don't like the clanking of cages,
no matter how intricate
the bars are constructed, and
how beautiful
the permanence
of a lock is
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
this feeling is not
symbiotic: you reduce
my core to nothing
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
i worship an empty god
who answers no prayers.
a mono-disciple tapered
to heavenly threads without
ever bearing wings of my own,
i have no convictions except
the idle ones he tethers me with:
our shrine is gold and red.
(sometimes i think it is pretty.)
i will follow him with blind eyes,
for there is nothing more sweet
than to be loved for merely existing
and reciting his gospel to the ground.
i grow under his sunlight.
he waters me as he pleases,
but my petals will never be
the colors of the church flowers
from his childhood,
(he doesn't realize they are fable.)
my mind will never be his steeple.
Nazareth needs repairing, but
scripture ordains i cannot bear
the burden of fixing something so bloodied and broken.
i will bleed red wine for him,
i have no doubt he will finish
the glass.
it stains the page. i smile,
yellowed crumpling page.
i write the next verse, in pencil,
heeding my perpetual mistake:
i am immeasurably incorrect,
and no one needs repentance but
the sinner, who is I tonight,
and all nights.
i close the
book. i lay down.
Nazareth
is dark.
so i pray my
bedtime prayer,
that i wish
my god wakes up
with a clearer mind
and a learned heart
tomorrow.
(a fool is a follower,
a fool is the man who
absolves the snake for the sin
and punishes Himself
for not seeing clearer.)
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC
you’re ugly
under the
harsh light.
you are not
mystical, nor
fantastical, like
in my dreams:
you are a child
with the hands of
a God,
an uncontrollable
force with the power to
hurt me
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 1:15 AM UTC
write an anthology for which
broken part of me?
the one that weeps for
innocuous souls too early departed,
or the one that split
their necks open, looking
for gold?
i’ll tell you, there’s
no treasure in the eyes
of the hated, and no
hope in the minds of
those who burn cities
to the ground just to
smell charred dreams --
staying alive
is a risk that permeates
the groundwater everyone
in my life drinks from. i could
be angelic or heretic,
new found or lost
to the ideas of men i once
was, before led astray,
before the radio chirped,
& my intruder’s openness
closed the hearts of souls
uncold
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
the resistant does clatter
its ends against the machinery,
it does so clunk and rattle
against the current which runs through
to the chosen one, the
Brother of Entropy, his unwavering
foot-heel in the doorway
between Insanity, and Stability.
He does, however,
take some time away from
his breathing, amounting
to a few moment’s silence.
In this cold night, he
holds no name or title. Not yet.
The world is not ready for
his being, and his being
remains underdeveloped enough
that its energy is just shy of a sunlight’s beam
and so he sings
to the empty halls,
the resistant current,
the rusted gears,
“Where do the old souls go?
Here? There? Or inbetween?
Do we matter to matter? Are
we warm and foreboding enough
to bear resistance to the dark?”
The dark dances
between candlelight. Brother, father, creator:
it means nothing to that which
cannot see goodness, or light.
And so he breathes again,
and shoves his boot further through
the door
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 12:07 AM UTC
a soliloquy of sad,
blackened softness.
you want more
blows to the head: you
crave it, beg for it
"more, more,
more", until
you can't see
how abysmal
everything is:
you want your vision
to go black.
but when the shadows creep
up from behind your eyes and
start covering your hair and skin
in their cold blackness,
you complain of the sting
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 7:23 PM UTC