The sunburnt skin aches the most in that first new night,
*so, fear not, my love, the cleansing fire of the sun.

I used to hate men, I used to want them dead
for all the crimes they imposed upon women
for all the hurting, all the shame
that they created.

I used to hate love, I used to want it destroyed
because it never amounted to anything but
painful lies, missed phone calls, and a sorrow
deeper than the heart.

Back then, under the dull glow of a monitor
an ache hit my chest. I need something, someone
to blame for all the pain I felt. I needed anything
to keep me from falling into disarray.

The burden of growing up never gave my shoulders
any time to relax from the weight of the world
resting atop them. Instead I collapsed into
the earth, unaware of it all.

Like a phoenix, I've revived from the ashes of
old, dead hatred, alive and fully aware of past
mistakes. The old me did not die, but was
transformed anew.

I used to hate men, but now I've become one.
I used to hate love, but now my love's outnumber the stars.
I used to hate, but now... I hate no more.

I am not my own
rather a piece of me.

I am not alone
for your voices beseech me.

Lead not to the past
for the present is now.

I would burn hot and fast
but I know not how.

This is my cowardice
to be hopeless and alone.

But you can take my wretchedness
and turn it into home.

**** the sinners, love the saints.
Love the children, they'll be great
one day, until they're sinners too.
Then you'll slaughter 'em, right?

Love the sinner, hate the sin?
Ridiculous, right? You'll ******
them one day, in the name of faith.
******* and your righteousness.

Let me cry in peace, rather than pieces.

And I would walk a thousands miles,
   o
       n
            e
At a time, until my feet bleed out memories,
                  y
                       e
                            s
If that meant that a light up, a bright smile,
                                 y
                                    o
                                       u
And I, you and I, nose to nose, blood and sweat and
                                          e
                                              y
                                                  e
                                                      s
On the dying moon, oozing crimson memories from the
                                                           s
                                                               u
                                                                    n
's bright after glow. That's my journey I live by.

The man creates with his singular hands
the grandeur of his heart crashing upon the Earth.
That lonely structure will eventually rot away to the
center of it all if no one takes its meaning.

Bridges will collapse into the sea, pretty little
castles corrode one by one. Their kings never came to
inhabit them, their princes never ruled accepting towers.
No one came to know them, no one respected craftsmanship.

What's the point of having a beautiful set more glorious
than the acting, if no one bothers to speak of that paint? The
crowd gathers for the show, the actors consume easily-distracted
minds. Foolish personas trample the work of one.

Move on, creator of souls. Relinquish your command of the pieces of
art that makes the show. Find that place where, if not appreciated,
that wayward audience finds painted scenes and plastered dreams
of lovely quality.

You're worth the hype, you know. Don't be an idiot and continue
to place the burdens on yourself because you don't think you're worth
more than pieces of wood and layers of paint. If that craftsman doesn't
find his home soon enough, the only thing I'll remember...

Is your absence.

Create what you love. Build what your heart tells you to build.
Become what you love.

I believe in you.