They say that God lives very high;
  But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines,
  You never see Him in the gold,
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold
  Of heaven and earth across His face,
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace
  Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid
  On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night, and said,
  “Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”

its not a good sign when
you stop writing your words
for those that may be willing to lend an ear;
its not a good sign when
your computer doesn't recognize the hello poetry url
that used to be so deeply embedded into its system;
its not a good sign when
you feel your poems no longer have meaning
it is pointless to write anonymously to no one
its not a good sign when
you have to fluff your scripture
to make it more believable to readers,
or maybe yourself.

i begged you to stay,
but you walked away,
sapphire skies turn ash grey,
now everything’s in disarray.

I was scared
And
I was scared straight

I was torn
And
I was a tornado

I was the pain
And
I was the painter

I was ******
And
I was ****** right

I was just
And
I was just enough

I was dependent
And
I was dependent on nothing

I was true*
And
I was truly ashamed

I was used
And
I was used to it

lately i don’t feel okay,
my feelings by my smile betrayed.
inside i am crumpling,
lonliness overbearing.

i feel like im trapped inside,
i need something to free my mind,
craving the bottle cyanide,
i need help.

i am restricted to this box,
terrified of what people may think.
my throat, my stomach, everything's in knots,
and i am heaving on the brink.

Lost
Empty
Apathetic
Varying degrees of self hatred
Effortlessly breaking me down

Making me doubt
Everything we ever were

Asking politely
Let me be
Or learn to grow
Not digress
Existing in solitude is what I do best

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.