Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
  Mar 2016 M
rained-on parade
You become a handsome ruin
in the hands of the glass God; an imprint
of your presence on the coffee table
makes more hurt than the sound of you
almost putting your key in the door-
the dangling of keys, the pins shifting
like sands; I'm burning so bright now,
I think I'll turn these sands of time to glass.
You kissed me with such shards of love,
the blood in the mouth is the only memory of you left.
Culaccino: The mark left on a table by a moist glass.

I want to be loved.
  Mar 2016 M
Spinning around my room at 2 AM
Empty wine bottle in hand
Huge smile on my face
Cool breeze passing through the drapes
This is what it's like to be alive
This is what it's like to feel brand new
  Mar 2016 M
Spacious galaxies  
Intense heat  
A flash of light in the dark corner of a distant world...
Dark matter
Glowing nebulae
Debris of time making something new and full of promise...

...Does it hurt when a new star is born?
  Mar 2016 M
Your smell lingers on my skin, your taste on my tongue
Your image is burned into my mind
Let me not hold your body close
When I am not worthy to even hold your hand
  Mar 2016 M
Lord, fill my heart with Your love
Allow me to see You with open eyes
Forgive me for my transgressions
Take my hand and lead me home
  Mar 2016 M
A man died for his God today
took some others with him
decided their fate
and made the world
just a little more broken

A man stood before God today
His life is over
or just beginning
depending on what God says
He says I can't leave it like this

you caused pain
increased suffering
there's a world down there screaming for justice

He says I can't leave it like this

I see your heart
it's dark
but also broken
I know your pain
and how it came to this

A man died for his God today
he left a world behind
screaming for justice

but a God died for men some day
He died for this man
He died for this mess
He died for justice
but mostly for love
  Mar 2016 M
FS Antemesaris
The theologian's heart sits heavy in his chest.
He has searched, sought, and out-thought the best.
Yet, he has nothing to show for his quest but gray hairs and a book nest.

Scoffers scoff as scoffers do.
Such is expected, for the Way is few.

The theologian needs not a pat on the back.
Nor gold, for he has no lack.

He knows that of making books there is no end,
He has no credit by which to lend.

Still he writes, and still he reads
Still he taps, and still he kneads

Until his heavy heart stops beating.
Now he'll see if his theology was fleeting.
Such it was if not God he's meeting and if not Christ he's greeting.
Next page