Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.

The idea seems silly
Getting over you
Considering the fact
that I've never been under you
or you under me
for that matter

Sunday Mass, I'll take a pass
and **** it up amongst the leaves.
I'll ask a fellow parishioner,
all he knows before he leaves.
Find out, "who read the gospel?"
The readings, telling right from wrong.
I'll find a worthy tale to tell,
and all the hymns and all the songs.
Those songs about salvation,
(salivating for the public house),
I'll burn a candle in my mind
then dampen it, with all my doubt.
Then I'll seek out knowledge,
someone with something real to say.
I'll wonder bout those Gospels,
and everything they fail to say.


.

a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night

when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream

down eager avenues of lifelessness

consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought

is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—

on such a night the sea through her blind miles

of crumbling silence seriously smiles

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

I want to thank you.
Thank you for all the bruises
and the black eyes,
and the ****** noses.
If they wouldn't have happened, I would not be where I am today.
I'm not going to sit here and tell you that it was me that got me where I am today.
Because that would be a lie.
It was all you.
You were the person who made me who I am.
You molded me.
You shaped me.
You damaged me.
You broke me.
You ruined my life.
Rot in hell you *******.

I am not the curves of my body.
I am not the clothes that I put on to hide those curves.
I am not the person you think I am when those clothes do not do an adequate enough job for your liking.
I am not what you think about me.
I am not what you say about me.

I am not this outer shell that you see.
I am not my sexuality.
I am not any of those things you use to label me.

I am smart, sometimes capable.
I am thoughtful, sometimes brilliant.
I am sarcastic, sometimes caustic.
I am phenomenally woman.
But what I am is not any of those things.

I am not my thoughts.
I am not my jokes.
I am not my words or even my actions.
I am not any of the things I use to label myself.

What I am runs so much deeper.
If you get to know me,
Draw me out of my core,
You might be able to see it.
You'll know when you've caught a glimpse.
The indestructible, indescribable..
The exquisite, the beautiful...
The part of me that has always been and will always be.
The part of me that lends everything to itself.

So don't try to describe who I am.
Don't try to label me.
I am not a convenient definition for you understand.
I am so much more.