I want to tell you how I feel but don't know what to say
The cheesey lines that come to me say "colours fade to grey"
A gentle blandness hangs around but I can't work out why
I carry out the same routines that now seem dull and dry
For some reason  excitement's gone and I'm just feeling down
For a little while I'll fake a smile, paint it like a clown
I know that it will lift in time, but here the hope seems thin
Melancholy dreariness, no passion in the hymn
I trust that you will lift the fog as you have done before
Break into my apathy, and rock me to the core
For now I'll plod along the road, make sense of what is mine
And as I go, I'll sing along - A "Perfect Day For Sunshine"

Luxuria (Lust)

Asmodeus demon of lust
carnal manipulator
****** captor

Castitas (Chastity)

Embracing virtue
honorable wholesomeness
not through one’s weakness

Gula (Gluttony)

The egocentricity
with which the Lord of the flies
upon us relies

Temperantia (Temperance)

practicing restraint
prudence to judge with regard
remaining on guard

Avaritia (Greed)

The Mammon demon
controlling the warmonger
with vows of power.

Caritas (Charity)

Crave unselfishness
give unreserved empathy
love and sympathy

Acedia (Sloth)

Deny grace and God
so evil shall become fact  
when we fail to act

Industria (Diligence)

Fortitude is a must
persistence in conviction
zealous for passion

Ira (Wrath)

In its purest form
presents violence and hate
Satan’s fate

Patientia (Patience)

mercy to haters
receiving the grace to forgive
rewards are massive

Superbia (Pride)

Lucifer’s downfall
for excessive vanity
destroys humility

Humanitas (Kindness)

Sympathy without bias
belief without bitterness
inspire kindness

Invidia (Envy)

resentful passion
an insatiable desire
potent cause of dire

Humilitas (Humility)

think of yourself less
and not think less of yourself
don’t exalt oneself

Oh how I tire of the games that are played.
The useless lies veiling truth.
In shrouds of weakness.
How the fear overcomes reason.
Foolish as they can be.
We allow their fantasy to remain.
Standing our ground.
Holding strong to what we know.
Waiting with patience and persistence.
As we always have since the beginning.
Maybe once they open the blind eyes.
To the reality presented before them.
They'll see how to mature and evolve.
Into a superior being.
Only then will they learn true happiness.

In the worst hour of the worst season
    of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
    He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
    There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
    Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

You wish you could fly away
On the wings of a dragon
To a happier land
Escaping the pain of adolescence

But broken people
Receive no respite
From the damage suffered
Every moment

Once a **** is given, one can not get it back.

I heard somewhere recently
that people are the most creative
at the times they think
that they are utterly useless:
like in the morning before getting coffee
or while surrounded by ******* co-workers who won't shut up about their stupid gun collection
       (cause seriously, no one cares about how big your **** isn't, Phil.)

The amount of ***** anyone can give in a day varies based of many factors - the amount of sleep someone has the night before or if they ate breakfast that morning, for example, can determine how many ***** a person has to spare.

It is in that spirit - despite my better judgement -
I am writing to you at four AM.
Sitting in my underwear,
Forcing my eyes to stay open, licking my dust-dry lips.
and realizing that I forgot to brush my teeth -
I'm writing that tid-bit that down
in hopes it will embarrass me into making a proper oral hygiene choice
sometime in between when I finish writing this and before I pass out from exhaustion.

If someone deems a person or a situation not worth their emotional effort, they can choose to not give a ****, despite having ***** they can give.

Today at work:
Everyone kept asking me if I was alright
I told them that I think so -
because, that's the truth.
But also because it's easier to say than
"I don't want to be here, and your face annoys me"

A **** is approximately two damns. A **** is two *****, and a **** is two rat's *****.

I don't have much to say in this piece
So I'm hoping that self-deprecation
and artsy-fartsy stream of consciousness
still passes for decent poetry these days.

Taking a **** is morally objectionable.

I left you
scrambled on the wall
naked for all to see.

I called it art
poetry
even, honesty.

but it was only brutality
only ill-informed and unformed mess of ideology
only the reaction of little boy
to a trainwreck.

I won't say the word regret,
because I don't
I won't say the word sorry
because I'm not.

I will say that with age comes perspective  
and with perspective
comes introspection and --

well, we've all had too much of that today.