The final piece was set into place,
And I dream no longer of that face,
The puzzle is done and I get it now,
What was done, and why, and how.

Back in the box, the puzzle goes,
And what it was, well no-one knows,
It took me years but I found the piece,
That finally let me be at peace.

I stare into the mirror,
At the monster staring back,
And I polish up my horns,
And adjust my suit of black.

For such a long time I pretended,
That I was young, and wild, and free,
But I'm accepting who I am now,
There can be no you with me.

I was a poet writing poems,
For a girl I truly missed,
But now I'm just a demon,
With a purpose I can't resist.

But as I stare into the mirror,
For just a moment I can see,
The much lovelier kind of devil,
That you once saw in me.

******* it Atlas, let it go,
you don't have to hold it, don't you know?
******* it Icarus, calm down,
if you fly too high you'll only drown.
******* it Sisyphus, you'll never win
when will you learn not begin?
These were lessons learned so long ago,
there were things I was supposed to know,
but I didn't pay them any heed,
and so I lost the one thing I need.

'Password too weak'.
I smirk and strike my keyboard,
Add a couple of fives, a question mark
At the end. Who's weak now?
My password has been
Hitting the gym. Stronger than yours.
A small victory.

No special scent
Nor frilly flair
No graceful length
From earth still bare
No hint of pride
Or zingy zoom
No bees hover
Cool days gloom.
Yet every year
It wins the race
First sign of spring,
An honored place.

Whispers fill the air
They fall on straining ears
Who want to hear the reds and blues
Of those who are not there

Smirking with delight
They draw close and near
Looking at the figure lone
Their snickers left in night

Crafting yet smiling
They turn and greet their (friend)
Loner, who is statue still
Is warmed by their lying

but unknown to the figure lone
His friend had drawn his blade
And left it in his back
For everyone to see.

I saw him again,
Melancholy and polite
Like a brand new funeral director
Attending his own
He used to be so **** funny
Now he's quiet and mopey
I hope he gets the **** over it
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal
Like planting a tree for arbor day
It's a thing that you do
You plant it,
And say,
What a nice thing we made today
And you let it be
And walk away
You don't stand there and watch it grow
And complain because it's slow

Laugh you ******* clown
Laugh and don't think of me
Just say something nice
And go live your life

Silent and sweet,
Quiet and cute.
Feelings all hid,
In a jar with a lid.

Today marks 133,920 minutes and
the answer still isn’t clear.
Unfortunately, it never will be
because poetry doesn’t have one.

No rhyme or structure
nor 14 stanza song
can make it easier to
solve this meddling art.

Only 336 hours to go
maybe you’ve got an idea for
what all the math in this poem
actually signifies or -

The message it might have
and the meaning rooted in
this 23-year-old brain
who is struggling as well.

Still, after 106 days
when the final day is here
we’ll all scratch our heads with a shrug,
and say, poetry is never clear.

Repent therefore and be converted,
that your sins may be blotted out,
so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord,
and that He may send Jesus Christ,
who was preached to you before,
whom heaven must receive
until the times of restoration of all things,
which God has spoken by the mouth of all His holy prophets
since the world began.
                                                        Acts 3:19,20,21

That one thing we deserve, I dare to name:
Death, and then deathless torment in the flame.

But first, let go of bad theology
(all well-meaning misanthropology)

then send yourself a gentle gift, like this:
click: narcissistic selfie mirror-kiss.

The brightest song a body’s ever held?
The one that broke your waters where they swelled.

You summon joy; that ***** stayed out too long.
Ashamed, she hastens, staggering along . . .

I’d be content to have (besides some wings),
just this: the Restoration of All Things

And then to you, if it were mine to give,
I’d give forgiveness. Seek the Lord—and live.

Rise to the top
cream of the crop
lied all the way
to get higher pay
little greased palm
exterior of calm
smile and a wink
champagne clink
smooth sailing
girls railing
******* up the nose
you know how it goes
smarter than the rest
gotta be the best
control is the key

but now let me tell you what he doesn't see
he doesn't see that his lies are a trap
smart people can see right through all his crap
he backstabs and ******* and always complains
he's happy sometimes but not when it rains
when the storms of life come he has no strength
to get that fleeting happy he'll chase any length
he pushes away and ignores those who love him
he's covered in sins and horrors so grim
he hurts people, uses them, with never a care
he won't think of the future, no he doesn't dare
if ever a slight to his precious ego comes
then he gets so upset that he's nearly undone
he's the weakest of the weak but thinks he is strong
he never admits at all when he's wrong
he brings out the worst in all those around
and his voice is always his favorite sound
makes you feel like you're worth nothing at all
takes a hard worker who's kind and makes them feel small

But God sees a heart
one so torn apart
a lost battle field
that needs His shield
this poor broken man
who thinks himself grand
is a shattered soul
without a good goal
so immersed in this earth
forgetting new birth
he wants to be free
and this he can see
he just doesn't know how
thinks he's chasing that now
only One that can save
this poor foolish slave