Streetlights passing by reflected
In her storm of mixed
Emotions render her tears
Falling stars.

Makes a wish with every salty  
Drop on her lips.
Lips one man would touch briefly
With the tip of an adoring thumb, and

By that satisfaction alone
Die fulfilled,
While others see her as a tool, tossed
Back into the box when dull and

Exhausted.
Fit for a throne, yet only every odd evening
Finds her way to bed from the sofa
Before sleep finds her fading with fatigue.

Shoulders, neck, back, wrists, all
Aching in unison; a choir of
Discontentment, yet still driven by the
Love for her teenage

Kings.
I always hope she's laughing. I
Always hope she sleeps.
In my mind I rest a hand upon her

Belly when she dreams; the
Only way she'll accept a touch
Without shying away
With a faint, forced smile.

Beams of full moon finding their
Ways through bedroom curtains to her
Nearly closed eyes. She yawns a tear or
Three and turns towards the pale

Warmth; moonlight again rendering
Them falling stars.
No wishes for now.
Rest is her only lover.

I always hope she sleeps.

They stain the walls.
Three black spots relentless
against the white backdrop.
I follow just one. Another dwells,
lingers - as its allie drops from view.
It weaves an invisible labrynth: purposeless.

At face, a simple enough fix.
A swift, unflinching hand
to brush away the blemish.
Yet, legs abstain. Want no part
of what is sure to come.
After all, They might well crawl away.

i look down to a knife plunged in my chest
my heart lays elsewhere
wrung out and lifeless.
how, can i be expected to breathe
when there were never lungs to support me.
how, can i be expected to breathe
when i'm burning on the inside out.

- a.g.

It’s a time payment concept
With compounding interest
That gets harder every year
And puts faith to the test.
It’s brokered by agents with
PhDs in fancy double-talk
That everything is God's will
And you’re not allowed to balk.

It’s sort of like the tax people
Only the rules are not so fixed;
No good calling attorneys up
That’s action’s definitely nixed.
The deal is that you can’t win
And must suffer with piety;
Give your money and thanks
To a fat cat you cannot see!

In exchange you get to go to
Play dress-up every Sunday
And pray for the senselessness
God is supposed to take away,
Or maybe remove diseases
That **** the good and innocent.
But you’re allowed to pray that
Your Lotto ticket wins you a mint!

Either way, you’re blameless
When it gets to be holiday time
And nothing changes as politics
Becomes the scene of the crime.
So drop another couple of coins in
Some sd homeless person’s hat,
Because God will take care of them,
And that’s where religion is at.