My mother taught me
Music,
Poetry,
Words,
Love,
The day is not done
Until you find all the beauty
It has to give.

My father taught me
Work,
Persistence,
Integrity,
Love,
The day is not done
Until all those under your care
Have all they need.

My Father taught me
Love.
Everlasting
Submissive
Love.
The day is not done
Until you have shed yourself
Of guilt that was never yours.

Guilt nearly destroyed me.
Gracious love restored me.

That's the thing about insatiability
It can't be compartmentalized
It doesn't have an appointment
Or even a purpose, really
It is a persistent, unwelcome fog
That creeps into your skull
Until it smooths over every surface
And dampens every thought beneath it
And though some days
The fog may dissipate
Nothing is ever good enough
Not for long, anyway

Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin