I hardly speak of what I know, instead of what you need to hear,
A silent whisper, a furtive word, I utter into your ear.
I stole the bough of happiness.
I won the chance to change your fate.
And from this trough of scrappiness,
Springs forth the seed of hate.

You hath not strength of mind to speak of love you so desire,
So I’ll make haste and burn the bush, then pluck you from the fire.
I’ve lost that want of happiness.
But the power rests in me,
To send his favour back to you,
And content the heart of thee.

This love you need seems absent now but I’ll take it from the shelf,
I grant this gift of such treasured hoards, I save none for myself.

And thy heart begins to melt.

I dream of the places you'll go
As I sit in my desolate room
Where my imagination is unleashed
I think of a million different things you are doing
While I do just one
Think about you
Your expansive life crushes me,
but I see you again
And you tell me you missed me
You ask what I've been doing
With such true interest
And I know you've felt the same

What would happen if when you came home.
I was sprawled on the floor.
With a bottle of pills in my stomach.
or
With a rope tightened around my throat.
or perhaps
Wrists cut deep,
Thick red all over your nice clean floor.
Because that would be your biggest concern.
Your freshly cleaned floor

**I hope it stains.

Do you love him more than me?
Is there something beautiful and indistinct
In him?

Can you bow like never  before,
A prayer of spine?

Do you kiss him like an angel,
And dole out your lips to the stupid others?

Does ignorance call your name,
And hope drive the nail?

When I see her again,
She hugs me casually,
And the smell of her hair
Is an ink,
On my wife-beater.
It soils, and oils
And stains.

Beneath the darkness of her car,
The shadows become loam,
And in the cabin she squeezes out a waving hand,
By the time she pulls away
I am working hard
not to pound her hood,
And demand a return trip
To the factory of my heart,
Where she could be a foreman
And wish things of me all day,
Working a hot sheet of my skin
Into a pliable mass,
And the body of my sins
Into the image of God,
So much so,
That the mere dream of that forge would make her stop
Her car
In the middle of the street,
Hop out,
And walk up to me, repeating a sentence in this gist:
She doesn’t know anything anymore,
Not even how she feels about him.

Make me that God of your
Life
Once more,
Deliver me from evil
And the hands of wickedness that render my soul.

I must be a God in your midst,
a love of the mist.

I know my sins,
I only call you when I'm drunk,
hollering your name
in hurtful epithets.

The stabbing pain jerks my stomach.
As my eyes close, you appear.
So beautiful, joyful, emanating life.
Are you really the one who made me this way?
It can't be. She's far too precious, too innocent.
As I force my eyes open the reality sets in.
You can have her, but you wouldn't dare.
You know what will happen.
This always happens to you.
You're better off alone.
I just tell myself,
I'm better off alone.