I think I'm going mad.
This past Sunday
my papa preached
and looked me in the eye
as if my morals had
sprinted in a flee.
He yelled,
"'Surely oppression
maketh a wise man mad.'"

I may possibly be mad.
Cuckoo in the ways
the world has gone
and questioning
****** revolution
as if they have a point.
I think,
"I desire the touch of a man
yet divinity holds my heart."

I'm somewhat mad.
Like psychiatry is useless
and just a way to express questions
I trial myself
between sanity
and lively doubts.
Just remember,
"The darkness doesn't have me;
it has my thoughts."

She spat in language
saying "go away, my love"
her tears sorrowful.

Abandoned he screamed,
performance cracking his speech
alienated.

They both felt hollow,
the show a play yet heartfelt
acting beautiful.

He said my cocoa butter chapstick lingered
in his taste buds.
We shared only a kiss,
mouth to mouth
lips on lips
tongue with tongue.
As if two strangers,
we had no draw until
we kissed
like a universal pull
of gemstone energy.
He told me he craved
my cocoa butter chapstick
for it had a hint of peppermint
that made his head spin.

Inches of sparkling snow
that glisten you used to know
is now shining like a star
and childhood adventures seem far.

It is buried past your knees
like ice and frozen peppermint coffee
spending seconds just to numb your toes
and frost a silly old foe.

Snowman weather was like a cup of Artic tea
chilling your bones until you felt non-free
the mountains and storms a cough in the throat
yet now your heart is melted and sailing like a boat.

My love had black wings.
At first,
eye connection was a scar.
He had blonde hair and dark eyes
while my Italian heredity drew him near.

My arms were marked with cuts.
First kiss,
and our lips met like magnets.
My cigarettes burned in daylight
and he didn't disapprove of my bad habit.

I began to lie for him.
Virginity lost,
we were married in nature.
We had a spiritual atmosphere
and breaking this game would be destructive.

We were darkness and light colliding.
His denial,
of psychopath tendencies drive me to suicide.
As if he murdered mercy
I had to let him go:
him a ghost
and now so was I,
the ultimate divorce.

My heart is electric.
Whenever you're near,
it explodes with electricity
somewhat radioactivity
and you perish
as if you stick your head
in the oven
and my toxins
are too much
for your ****** functions
to handle a girl named Ariel.

Bad blood stains my hands
as you chant bad news.
Your eyes are hazel--
or blue--
and they write a hymn
that is a metaphorical
sleepsong that
haunts skulls
that remain fossilized
in the earth
like a personalized genre--
either mythological or Biblical--
and no one sleeps
in fear of immortality
as if religiosity
is an axe to the ribs
mixed with psychology.