I tire of being God. Deafening droves demand the universe after declaring I do not exist. Hypocrites destroy themselves, only caring that they hurt those different, forgetting, or ignoring, that they are one. They put such little value on their lives, it should be obvious that I would not intervene. Let them die in my man made disgust. Extending their existence would be too cruel.

Take sickly scheme and rusted rhyme,
and put them back in their own time.
Archaic systems all lose sight,
we don't need structure when we write!

****...

Conditions are perfect for a mid-morning
flurry, but the clouds wait. Words should
be falling two feet deep, but florid we wait
in the frigid air for the sky to fall on the
page and sort itself out into something
coherent. Sometimes writing isn’t as simple
as waiting for snow to fall. We have to dig,
poke, and ****. Pick out a word, then another,
and pray the next comes along quietly instead
of kicking and screaming all the way to the
car, not wanting to take the long trip to prose.

I would sooner stand forsaking the sun,
than for a moment lose your purest light.
To be near to you, the things I have done.
For your presence nothing I would not fight.
I have held the cross high in foreign lands,
smiting the evil, young and old alike.
Delivering man from the devil's hands,
rending nonbelievers with holy strike.
Each night before I lay my head to sleep,
I kneel and look to you for guiding voice.
Though I hear no words, your fight I will keep,
the pope has made heaven an easy choice.
But suddenly heat replaces all grace.
I do not understand why hell I face.

I once had a hand-basket filled with red
roses, and gave it as a springtime gift
to my love. She called them beautiful, but
an unvoiced disappointment seemed to reach
out more clearly. I did not understand
what more the basket should have contained, so
I asked her if she liked better yellow
or pink roses. She told me that color
was not the source of discomfort, rather
that I had called her my love when she had
yet to know who I was. I began to
stammer, shocked by her sudden ignorance,
but I didn't have a chance to explain
before a store clerk ran up to us. He
grabbed the roses and called an officer
over because they were not payed for. The
officer grabbed my arm and asked how I
had gotten out again. I inquired
as to what I had gotten out of, but
we were already inside the car. He
mumbled numbers into his radio
and we came to a wide white building that
I seemed to remember from a dream, but
the large blue words over the doorway were
both foreign to me. PSYCHIATRIC WARD.

In the night when
the full moon lights
your bed clearly,
you call to me.
Your eyes guide me
close to your ***.
I smell your need
matching my own.
I taste your pulse
as it quickens,
drawing me in
deeper. Deeper
into your soul
and your body.
Convulsing, tight
and uncontrolled.
Primal embrace
fulfills as we
demand pleasure.
Desires sated,
as I take you.

now exposed to you

no secrets left to explore

will you still love me?

vibrato fading

tired face looking back to yours

will you still love me?

fine colors dimming

simple blacks and grays remain

will you still love me?

plain as man can be

outside of scattered triumphs

will you still love me?

inside your pale eyes

is only my silhouette

you see nothing else