Holy pages ripped from a sacred spine,
****** out your blood and spilled your wine.
Mopped it up with sanctified script,
Leaving divine lexis left to encrypt.

Hypocritical followers with justified wrongs,
Unjustified sinners to worship reverence songs,
An attempt to make it through without harm,
A set of prolongs left to disarm.

What about the advocates who push unworthy guilt,
Yet redefine corruption in the place their faith built?
What about those who are prosecuted for living their lives,
Put on trial for wine spilt, and other wine-like deprives?

So, you need space.
Does space equal distance?
There’s a microscopic line between smothering and abandoning,
And I’m always rocking back and forth,
Even worse is when I’m balanced between the two,
Like a sitting duck,
Waiting,
Waiting for action.
Does space equal distance?
Because I want you right next to me,
But I know you need space,
to figure out your life.
It’s all just a macabre haze.
Deep and dark,
My hopes rest anxiously in a hidden catacomb,
Waiting for you to revive them,
Waiting.
Does space equal distance?
I don’t want to lose you.
I’m not ready to close the coffin on hope.
These tombs are too dark to see your expression.
And,
Where should I stand,
As to not smother or abandon
As to not be a duck
As to be just a girl,
As to be me?
Where do I stand to be me?
Me without theses troubles,
Me with you,
Where do I stand to be yours?

Taking a stroll down Monopoly Boulevard.
I think I’ll pick up some “meat.”
I say hello to my local butcher ,
Mr. McDonald!
For a discounted receipt.

I’m so claustrophobic wearing 9 layers,
Of a grimy coat called hypocrisy.
Sweating out grease, it’s good for the skin,
As well as a Christian Democracy.

I pass a line of white picket fences, with crucifixes,
And my old friend Mary,
With eyes that judge piercing through the window,
At anyone willing to vary.

I pass the old couple rocking,
Sipping their synthetic tea,
And I see kids soaked in acid rain,
And society’s debris.

I get home, lock all my windows,
Deadbolt on the door.
Lay my gun under my pillow,
And get ready for another war.

With someone who never once listened, but wanted to be heard,
My feelings were hurt.
I set myself up for it the way I wore my heart on my sleeve,
And bled on your shirt.
You’ve always been squeamish,
And that didn’t make things better.
So, when not fighting for me came to be,
You got the varsity letter.
And I know you do things just to spite me,
How selfish could I be, right?
To think everything you do and say is in direct correlation of me,
But I’ve felt the sting of your bite.
What did I ever really do wrong,
To make you so underlying and bitter?
Just because I stuck my neck out for you,
And sprinkled my love with glitter?
And to pretend you don’t care for me,
To say you’re on a different track,
And to say I’m so in love with you,
Is just calling the kettle black.

Heaven* is a scorching volcano somewhere,
Where everyone lives in fireproof bubbles,
Watching and laughing at those who burn,
And not doing a thing to stop it.
But holy are they, who pop their bubbles,
And smolder for what they know is right,
Because honor is not given out of obligation or fright,
But to those who are destroyed by the might their fight.

The glossy water was a crystal ball,
Covered in vegetating film called age.
It mesmerized the lonely man so much,
He called out: Camille! this became a stage.

Light blurred like an ink blot on soft paper,
Then only to blind his cataract eyes.
A case of passion through Mother Nature,
Expressed by the tears of the old man’s cries.

A reflective life shown upon water,
On a screen glittered with young, pink flowers,
And the admission was free for this show,
Who wants to watch tragedy for hours?

But the sun lit the water, swamp to lush,
And there he saw fresh sparkling eyes and knew,
Lily pads are for both frogs and flowers,
And the choice of hue isn’t always blue.