There is no wisdom
If there is no one a fool
Somebody has to

Heart shaped tears
Fall from pain filled eyes.
This pain I feel is way too real,
A sharp throbbing in my chest
The pit of emptiness never seems to rest.
Your back again and it's confusing.
Your one sick twist of my delusion.
You came for the night,
Then once again your out of sight.

My blood boils as you lie,
Through your teeth like a snake.
My friend you say?
******* today!
I've given you trust and support,
And in return
Bad energy and a malice temper,
Couldn't mend it if I tried.
Your stubborn and mean
And I disagree.
If you needed space
You just had to ask
Now were both sitting here behind our masks.

I am given to an unfamiliar direction, disturbed into one in need of sympathetic sorrow and affection, left to fall to ruin in a mode, a condition of the dejection -by the one whose tenderness once was, but by no thoughts is considered to be anymore. A shadowy ghost that was long ago and once before a primary source to my hearts little store, but to its succor she could not have been made to allot anymore; and by her own admission she never will put in again -for I have received well not a thing. Now, for this, my heart's made harder, that ***** of mine which I had to barter; that part of me that at a time had been an inviolable origin of gentle utterance, reflecting bright moving points of light divine and made of true substance: but in every sense, I am one who has become most poor. Without a home, without a cent; alive in Him, yet dead to her.

I am fire, burning, burning for another chance at love.

By the aging stately oaks, with their crowns of hirsute branches, we stand. We stand beside these towering canopies, raking and burning the dry leaves which have fallen to the ground, covering the landscape like a bister afghan. The charred debris being borne away into the smoky air, aloof until the sprightly embers pursue. Searing **** swirling round and round before cooling rapidly, then dying without a sound.

In the distance, I see the local church bells swinging from their axles -the clappers striking the sound rims-then tolling in full tones for the listeners within a one-mile range. The ripe fruits in our garden tree weigh down the boughs like diadems, and  within inches of our outstretched arms, they hang.

And the children play tag, romping in the yard yelling, "You're it!" and, "Not it!", all thru the evening hours. A smile across your lovely face lets me know you are enjoying the remaining day, and I take more pleasure in that than I can aptly say. Then we take a break from our toil and sit in the hale shade of the gallant trees, you drinking sweet tea with me, as we agree, we should avail days to these rare autumn liberties.

I’m not
Addicted
To your addictions
(I think to myself with the smell of cigarette smoke and *** lingering in the air)
Two days later
My thighs still ache to the touch
Somehow, it always hurts after we
****.
And you
Smeared into my sheets
And you
Blue between my thighs
Not from your banging
But from my heavy slamming
And that’s when I think
“I’m not addicted to his addictions”
(as I press rewind)
“I don’t smoke”