my faith is but a humble paper holder
-folding his promises, kept in my heart
as a place to keep safe. and in the stillness of prayer;
he finds me empty, an unguided river, drawing into
the void- so close to near death, listening to the life he speaks

he sees me as a pearlescent sunflower seed,
hiding in the darkness of earth, parched from living water,
his word overflowing; only to those willing to partake, to
receive a promise unseen- as like the physical appearance of faith

still, it roams in the air; shapeless, always
staying the same- always there, until forever
as the weather is a teacher to seasonally help me
master weathering through one’s many, many
situations; I know my faith will be with me come time or tides

Maybe if we kiss with every touch, breathe,
and sense — we could fall in love
Maybe if we hold hands with those tips
of fingers aglow — we could fall in love
Maybe if we made eye contact, feeling safe
by every saved memoir in an eye’s glance of
view — we could… finish each other’s sentences

Maybe if we bought a dog, to give an excuse
for all our questionable pet names — we could
say it’s a way to disrupt people’s curiosities
Maybe if we bought a house, to imagine the
very future we’d move into — we could rent
out our hopes to afford it all

Maybe if we slipped a coy glance in each’s
direction — we wouldn’t have to be quietly
imagining it all

Washed in the image of noon; hoping to meet by five-
waiting patiently in a bus; so empty that different spaces
exist, not to be used. Can’t be late; seated in a dead silent
bus ride, as all manners of conversation are late

My own scent betrays me; foretelling the amount
of a day’s work; as the weekend is a fondest dream,
There’s still yesterday’s coffee stuck on my shirt,
stained in the privacy of four walls; where I get to see
touch, and embrace you once again

…the only true reason I look forward to
the end of the day- my woman, my lady.

[Hermit]
/ˈhɝmɪt /
A recluse; someone who lives alone and shuns human companionship.

One last promise of a kiss; but who hears the words of
someone’s misplaced lips— Memories are all archived, those
experiences, a treasure to bury deep in the chambers of a heart
And any extra time: an excuse for me to procrastinate…how I
choose to express my reasoning, is an explanation for another day

for the all the memories we had, will all remain locked away
our experiences a treasure I’ll never get the pleasure to
saviour in their worth. and any reason to chase after them
all in a day, becomes the procrastination of tomorrow…
our story ends here

In a thin book of divination; the conclusion of a love
that had the fill of a loaf of bread- here we are- with the
crumbs, holding onto what’s left. There is no grasping it.
All climaxes eventually fall into the obscurity of being
an old familiar harmony; the laughs of many, soon becomes
the quit chuckles of one who sits later alone. And all joyous
songs must play their very last chord

anticlimactic will be the story of us, painfully laughing ourselves
to sleep— those fortunate enough to sing our once beautiful song-
the words, chords, keys, and harmonies are all gone…
our story ends here

I am something inadequate; a follower to the gun,
the bullet that led me astray in its cold lead. Still don’t
lend me your sorrow; shunning the idea of love
For the gun that killed a benevolent concern, was
a gun I had pointed at myself.

                                          …Bang!

[Sociopath] a Skit
/ˈsoʊ.si.əˌpæθ /
A person with an antisocial personality disorder.

In his mind there’s a doctor operating- and I hope it doesn’t
prove a sum of complicating; to be someone overly too patient
He prefers to write with the lights off; coming up with some
dark thoughts, he couldn’t really afford to keep up
with his bright ideas- missed a couple payments

His words are made of heavy breath, so hard to speak
with his hard smoke- smoking on ******
He feels like a loner and a private freak,
his personality quite unique, for a meek
with so many words, to plant sparks of arousal
The one to spit in a *** of dirt, and grow out
a beautiful flower

But he wears a mask of many faces, out masquerading for real
talking to himself; listening to the sound of his bones
a bone to pick, to see how fragile they feel
His heart ready to snap; with a bite of eroding teeth
fake confidence, a beautiful derelict,
with the taste of immortality;
the immorality to converse his words-
but he lacks the necessary speech…

[Kiss of death]
/ /
A kiss on the cheek that signifies the death of the receiver.
.

Thoughts that partially come; I’m feasting on someone’s time,
second by second- killing their time; as one not wanting
to be dead late on finding out the ecstasy/lust of new experiences
These are my many bad dreams: overseeing life, aboard the
devil’s huge cranes- crossing the edge of a horizon, all
driven by a decision, without a moral choice

I chose to betray your trust…

I am so hollow; yet to be comprehensive, in a spiralling ballet
of our dreams – all the better versions of our love
As I gaze at sunsets over the ocean; a perfect place for us to
make love, I’m sure. But as the shore births another call to
winter- our summer love quickly flies south. You are the
summertime to fill my heart, but my wings have slowly
fallen apart

My love mate, I’m trailing behind, lost in the clouds
I can’t see you anymore; we should have sealed our love
with a kiss right from the start. But how could you kiss someone
with a cheeky smile. Now the black clouds of death are rising,
and with that, the promising kiss of death

[***]
/ həʊ/
An agricultural tool consisting of a long handle with a flat
blade fixed perpendicular to it at the end, used for digging rows.

I am a ***;- a tool used by others, the opposite of
firmament and freedom; all feelings that are flat
I am a ***;- a tool to dig out one’s successes, an
instinct in the land, where you’ll bury a seed of your dreams
I am a ***;- a tool that sits and waits on the side-lines in my
own filth; as none are willing to check on my wellbeing
I am a ***;- a tool with a once promising purpose, but my
sharpness has gone dull; unable to hold on, my handle made short
I am a ***;- a tool with the job of working for others; hours after
hour, with no end- but I cannot work on my own, I cannot carry
my own weight- I need people’s constant support

I am a ***;- a tool of your convenience- how convenient is
that; to be something that cuts, digs, scrapes, turns, arranges
and cleans… as you cut out my heart, scrape at every beat,
turning me over to get pleasure from both sides; arranging
the pieces of my soul, all that you had cleaned out…

I am a ***;- a tool for you all, ha- a piece of wood; a fixed
perpendicular appearance, and the assurance of you not
giving a ****, [Excuse my French] to care for a ***** old ***