Half a life
Half a love
Undivided submission;

Half-hearted
I am utterly devoted
To lesser moments.

Between the sheets
The mind drifts
In search of atonement;

Part-time wrong
Entirely yours
An inevitable outcome.

It is living half a life
Accepting half love
Full-time;

My light,
Take me out of the dark

The courage within to say goodbye.

If I had a word to express how sorry I am.
I don't mean apologies because to filth like me that's an area of apathy.
I am no man, to be so, I'd have to give my self-esteem;
so better yet, here, take me hands,
Because all they do is take and suffocate the ones who give me life through mistake after mistake.
I'd dig a grave so deep, not even the **** in the pit could see me.
Believe me I look at myself and say wow how ******.
I don't even deserve to walk the ground beneath that’s me.
You gave a roof and I tore every shingle,
while you looked at me with weeping eyes as if it were inconceivable.
You gave food to nourish me and I throw in trash where I should be.
You gave me money and I burned it to crisp,
And blew the ashes in your face and lashed you with a whip.
I am not human I am lower than that.
I'm more useless than anything, what is anyone going to do with that?!
I need saving from this damnation!
The same one that's destroying and crippling hundreds of nations.
Someone give me the key and I'll fight the dragon even if I lose I'd be used at least a fraction.
It’s about time to transition and make a life worth living,
instead of just walking flesh of useless breathing.
Take up from my bedside and walk a journey of a thousand miles!
I'll walk to no end over mountains conquering every obstacle!
And when I'm done I'll look back to at your face and tell you all about the amazing race!
But I'll still be just as useless as a broken vintage tape.
There's nothing in this world that will ever be good enough,
And I'll just have to accept the fact that I am nothing more than a thief who's all used up.

Why is it harder
to write in a mind-set
NOT befuddled by the bad things?

Why does my tongue
struggle to find the words
whenever the violent phrases and curses
are NOT escaping my throat?

Why does my pen
fail to slice open the paper and bleed,
whenever it is NOT under threat
of snapping between my fore-finger and thumb?

Why is it always harder
to say what i want too
without inexplicably
NOT BECOMING YOU.

I bleed as a grinding stone
Although I shed skin, the stronger I grow
Until I am sharp enough to vanquish foe
I will bleed as a grinding stone
To press against and press on
The wheel acts against me
Something pushes me forward
Even if I do not shape correctly
Until I've lost too much to recall my woe
Until I can't bear to press against anymore
I am bleeding
As a grinding stone.

God has a purpose and plan,
behind every difficulty
and life experience we face;

we’re never blindly promised
a lifetime of ease or pleasure,
but a flow of mercy and grace

to soothe heartaches and pain.
We’ve the strength to overcome
by His Word and we’re blessed

as children… of the Living God!
We’re to go forth believing,
knowing that we’re sustained,

imparted with His divine rest.
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Jer 29:11; Lam 3:22-23; Rom 8:37-39;
2 Cor 6:18; Psa 18:32, 37:7; Eccl 2:24-25

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

Hi my names Lauren and I love things that can't speak.

Hi my names Lauren and I love things that break their own bones and choke on their teeth.

Hi my names Lauren and I see kids with bruises, kids with no excuses, kids with cuts, kids howling at the moon like mutts. They're begging to get out of their skin and into a more feral suit, they want their bite to be worse than their bark, hang themselves in the park, finally be noticed, glowing smiles like that of an alley cat, spat out blood last week, "must've been the pills, that **** kills."

Hi my names Lauren and I forget my name a lot. I write it in the hearts of heartfelt hoodlums, not so brave victims, mothers' worst nightmares, mothers who don't care, boys who dare set themselves on fire, light it up ******, you aren't getting any brighter.

Hi my names God and I ****** up.

Hi my names Lauren and I talk to the dead. They tell me about the papers they keep under the bed, poems no one reads and suicide notes with things unsaid.

Hi I'm Lauren and the dead can't dance when they speak. They're not too steady on their feet, dangling from rafters with chairs beneath.

Hi I'm Lauren and I ****** up, you ****** me up. You won't talk to me, and he won't look at me, and dad can't stand me and mom tries her best to understand me and I once hit my head so ******* the wall I fainted. Yes mom, it was on purpose. I thought we painted that pretty picture in my blood months ago.

Hi I'm Lauren and I write poems that don't lie about the truth, I write poems about depressives, lost boys, starving boys, ****** boys, and my boys. Those all go hand in hand. I write poems about heartache, bone break, undertake, and personality fake. These are all the same. I write poems about things I've seen, things I've done, things I've ******, and threads that were spun into ropes tied into nooses and put behind the pile of ***** laundry on the floor. I write about pills in dressers and knives in scabby skin and how much I hate god but love his children and how my brain is broken and I'm still stuck hoping I'll be left with something to write about next time I forget my name but can remember yours.

“Orange doesn’t rhyme.”
Well, that’s what we were taught.
So, what it really needs is
Some careful new thought.

So, just for a moment
Let’s get a bit strange;
Let’s take the word ‘orange’
And let us deftly rearrange.
It can become something
Like ‘no rage’ instead.
Doesn’t that fit much more
Comfortably inside the head
And inside your rhyme scheme
As you gleefully poeticize
And smoothly abandon
The conundrum of other guys?

For instance, change orange:
On gear a transmission,
In discussion, ‘go near’?
Maybe some kind of Russian?
“An gore?’, on of Vidal’s children?
Or maybe like ‘Ego ran’,
A stuck-up jogging chicken?
‘Graneo’, something to call
Mother’s mom, if you’re hip?
“Groane’, an archaic manner
To let a moan escape your lips.
‘No gare’, a French gate
Too far away to easily use.
‘Neo gar’, a species of fish
That is sometimes in the news.

That doesn’t not signal
The orange issue surrender.
It just means I am willing
To consider almost any other
Way to look at this word
Another entire way instead
For this rather comfortable color
Halfway between yellow and red.

Closer to my soul the sword of man does sharpen
I cannot fight though my eyes by hate will darken
They dilate because my heart won’t let the light in
If only the tide washed up on the right side

There’s no place for a man with no power to live
What he must take is harder than what he can’t give
The time to repent is the moment you can’t forgive
If only the tide would choose instead of divide

It’s difficult to convey one’s thoughts
on a plain white canvas
when your head is as blank as the page.
The scribble is a scribble and
my words become dribble
but as long as you get your point across, right?
Please tick the box.
If the answer is yes, explain why.
Well what if I don’t want to?
What if I’d rather keep that one to myself,
after all, my grandad did fight for my free speech.
All I want is to be me yet
the ridicule evades me.
I need not sprout profanity without meaning,
even if I’m entitled to that free speech.
So stop asking these questions,
and bother somebody else.
There are enough people in this place let alone on the planet
That maybe one will listen to what you have to say.
The power of words.
Close the ******* door on the way out.