what little light that’s left, we need to keep it sacred
i know that you’re afraid to let all the dark escape you
but we can let the light illuminate these hopeless places.

if I says I hot for you and you shout go away, hee
at least I won't stay in a dream wondering, that
is the good thing about brash
no false hopes hanging dangling down
to impede me or you as I go to next
in line make her slap me , haha,
red cheeked not by being shy her *******
hand hurts but not as much as pretending

archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.

this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.

my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.

november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.

for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.

the picture frames will not let me back in.

i / am / absent / here

i slowly cave in on myself
and the sky smells of falling stars—
i can taste it, leaking in through
the cracks. i ascend, like a hot
air balloon, my body filled
with moonlight, the dust
falling off the trail of a comet.
the night is dripping paint,
navy blue and black, the ravens
are cutting holes in the air and
neptune shines through, a minty
frost, ice and starlight. my feet
are far above the clouds—an
icarus floating in the dark,
dark sky, and i reach for cygnus
—no more light pollution here.
lyra plucks its golden strings
and the moon sings a lullaby,
sweet and slow like drops
of mercury. and there, as
stardust glows through my skin,
replaces sore organs with light
and swallows each aching bit,
i sleep.

to sing one love song
before eternal silence.

Almost. Almost there, but never quite reaching the destination. Almost alive, but never truly existing. Almost here, but an inch too far.

Too much. Too alive that he missed the part that says- part of living is dying, half of happiness is misery.

There is no such thing as "top" without a dip to dive in somewhere around it.

And searching for that pleasant intersection between "almost" and "too much" is how one clothes the entire sky with missing the point of this life.

It's like shooting stars in your eyes,
I could make a wish on you all day.
Your pupils have a comfort only found in my dreams
and the space behind is a galaxy of time
           I'd gladly get lost in.
In essence, your eyes are my infinity.
An endless pool of peace and love that I was so graciously born into,
     have happily lived through
          and will peacefully die in.

Our God is not dead, but is Rejoicing in our Victories.
Our God lives because he is the Christ the Living God
He is no fantasy, but the reality the Saving Savior God.
All of our Pain, Suffering, and Sorrow that we go through.
Shall be a work within us to reveal Christ within us.
For Christ wants to use us to bless those whom knows him not.
He wants to heal all whom comes unto him , everyone.
For by Healing, he is being reveal through everyone who is healed.
Thus then the world shall have no excuse because he did reveal himself.

Must we only dream
   of wise kings who know
that rivers must flow
   peacefully
so a woman can sing
   her children to sleep
and fathers not weep
   holding them
in grief too heartbroken
   to rage
at the violence men bring
    in this age
that should be long left
   behind us?