God forgives all trespasses,
but can I?
What do I have to forgive?

I'll not forgive you because you have nothing to apologize for.
You've been absent, but you have your reasons. You have your struggle and I have my love.
For you, for her, for my little sister, for everything around me.
I'll be there for you always, I'll spare my bitterness that has so often been flowing out of my pores. You don't deserve it and it won't help.
Help?
If you need some, just ask,
I'll not pass judgment for I wish none to be passed unto me, God knows one could judge me, least of all you, for the way I've treated you.

I'll be there for you,
although it's hard for me to look you in the eye.

For he's a jolly good fellow,

adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.

Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.

I am not a concept.
I am not an idea.
I am a woman,
with eyes that see yours wandering up and down my body.
And ears that hear the calls from across the street.
I am not a prize,
to be won by the strongest competitor.
I am a woman,
with ******* not for your entertainment.
And legs longer than your desire.
I have feelings,
even when I'm not on my period.
One day I hope to find someone that can respect my body as it's meant to be,
and not as a blow doll that's kept in the closet until he's ***** and needs something to ****.
I am a woman.

I told you a
while ago that I listen to sad music
when I'm happy
and happy music when I'm sad,
but my friend,
that simply is not true.

at the time I believed it,
because, to put it simply,
I was in a numbing state of sadness,
emptiness and drug use.
But oh God how happy you make me
and how happy I've been.

Now, with a sober mind
and I happy heart I realize
that I wasn't happy,
but I listened to sad music so I could be sad.
Let me explain;
I went to school (high)
and needed to appear happy
so nobody would question my heart.
It's something I learned when I was alone
and had nobody to question my heart.
and then when people started coming back into my life
I wasn't able to stop.
I put on a mask,
smiling,
constantly smiling,
joking, smoking,
loving.
and i only took it off when I was alone,
listening to my music
about love's lost
and hope's crushed.

The truth is that you make me happy,
I'm not wearing a mask,
and I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in weeks.

It's a laser light show!
Fit for all ages!
Just don't look too hard at people's faces,
you'll see how strung out they are.
Pick your poison, smack, speed or stress,
we got it all.

Bring your daughter!
Bring your grandma!
Just don't look down the back alleys,
you'll see kids shooting dope,
and mother's selling their bodies.

Inbreds!
Racists!
We got them all,
come and see them before the city locks them up.
But wait!
For a limited time only,
get a free half gram of baking powder with any order of ******* (you must purchase at least one gram for the offer to apply).

He is far away now.

Since I first wrote about him,
we've grown quite a bit closer.
Reading poetry in his smoked out van using hushed tones.
******* can be a verb but to him it's an adjective,
he'd use it often;
"I ******* love that girl, Nolan"
"That's the ******* ****, man"

We crouched under an awning,
cigarettes in hand, trying to escape the rain.
We needed to read no poetry then,
we were poetry, him and I.

He'd put his arm around me
while I vomited.
He understood I was sick because of seeing her with him, it had nothing to do with *******,
but he was more than willing to pretend.

I miss that man,
Bertran the Man,
who stands with cigarette in hand,
atop his white van,
hearing the cheers of those not fans.

I love that man,
for he is good and whole and poetry

I don't want
to keep running from my problems.
I want
to stop getting high every time I feel any form of
guilt
remorse
sadness
anger.

I want to stop whining
and I want to start doing.

I want to think about flowers
and French music
and I want to think about you
but I can't and I hate myself for that.

I hate that I created all my problems
and here you are,
the most lovely human being I've ever met
and you didn't do anything to deserve your problems
and I can't ******* help you with them.
I can't help you with them
because I get high anytime a negative doubt lingers
and I get drunk if I can't sleep
and I cry if I'm out of ***** or dope
and I really really like you and I only want whats best for you
and I want to do everything I can to make you happy.
I want to pick you ten thousand flowers,
all of which will pale in comparison to you,
and I want to write you ten thousand poems,
none of which will be as grand as yours,
and I want to give you ten thousand kisses,
because you deserve them
and ******* it,
I like kissing you.

Above I said that I can't, but I lied.
I can, I will, I am.
I'm getting better

I wrote a poem about you in my mind.
It was short and snappy and sure to hurt.

Why?

I still love you
and nothing can change that.