i am a
machine
not in appearance;
i am not
a jumble of wires and cogs,
but, in spirit
for i measure everything out
to the soft, rhythmic ticks
of my unfeeling
heart

i find beauty in the
most simplistic
things
like the way we lie
exposed
and listen to our hearts
beat

loneliness
was not walking around
my empty neighborhood in the dark
and having to leave you before light
because you wouldn’t come inside
loneliness
was walking beside you
and holding a hand, so brief
that wasn’t mine

insanity
is doing the same thing
the same way
and expecting a different
result
i didn’t believe this
‘til i found myself passing you by
everyday
waiting for you to
speak

don’t take me to a
garden
i like my flowers
dead
for, the most
beautiful things
have
the most bitterest
end

those who say He
has horns
have never known His face
and, those that claim He
has hooves
have never sighed His name
for He, has eyes
that rival the morning sky,
a voice as soft as the
timid pulse,
and hands that’ll make you
quiver
yet He does ****
the wicked
because
He still haunts me

i like to think that when we lay
under covers,
buried deep
that our lungs sigh
the other’s name
and our hearts whisper the same