I loaned you my heart
but you tore it apart and now
I can't give it away

No one wants to try
nevermind buy
this solidified lump of clay

My name is Martha and I'm very tired
my patience as such has long expired
so you don't want my brown skin next to your white
well madam I'm tired so I'm sitting tight
it's hot and I waited my turn in the queue
and I paid, just like him, just like her, just like you
you can carp, you can moan, you can cause all kinds of fuss
but lady I'm keeping my seat on this bus
because I'm tired

A wolf has come to eat the sun
the Gods supplied us only one
with jaws that tear and teeth that bite
he stops to drink our fading light
eclipse the world, pour out the soul
you nibble, can't you eat it whole?

I’m drenched
in the flood
which has yet to come

I’m *******
in the prison
which has yet to exist



Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate



Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk



Not having entered
the battlefield

I’m already wounded and slain



I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality



Like the shadow
I am

And

I am not

I grew up in my church. There are countless broken, sinful people who go to church. They are all the same. Rich people getting richer and poor people inheriting the kingdom of God.
I have heard all of the true stories of countless people from my family's perspectives.
Twisted People with twisted ideas go to church too. They bring good people's reputations down to dirt and lift themselves up as if it's their purpose. I don't envy rich, spoiled people because they live empty lives in comfort of their own fantasies.
Twisted People wrought within their own hells.

In a chef's shop was a dish towel
It beckoned me twice and finally picked it up
It read stressed spelled backwards is dessert
She was taken to a register and became a souvenir
I had her framed and mounted and she is hanging in my kitchen
Savannah Georgia reminds me daily
Stressed spelled backwards is dessert
Eat it, Create it, digest it and believe it.

C@rainbowchaser2021

Why must I always think in verse?
Is it a talent?
More like a curse
All day long songs pour through my head
But before they hit paper, they're usually dead
A few survive, most get archived and others quickly deleteted
It doesn't take more than a couple of lines to know you've been defeated

My heart is no ashtray
It's more like an urn
It holds onto what matters
Long after it burns