A chilling nothing.
Turn to where you used to be-
Empty bed and heart.

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.

Draped in robes
the same color
as the blood
that covered
the Cross.
It granted forgiveness-
a postmortem paradise.

You claim the authority,
given by the symbol 'round your neck,
to banish those who oppose,
and I oppose,
to the fires below
for eternity.

You take the symbol
of sacrifice and everlasting love
and you bend it at the ends;
accepting oppression,
perverting Purity.

"He's a ******!
                         She's a *****!"
Grab a mirror and remember:
the Devil was the
most Beautiful of all.

You've replaced the Father with
The Judge,
The Son with
The Priest,
and the Holy Spirit with
the Wicked Soul.

You pay your bills with my sin,
my prayers,
my Holy Salvation.

You speak in tongues-
the words like vultures,
they circle above me
and wait until I give in-
I've been consumed.

So condemn me to Hell,
Your Heaven is no paradise
for me.