“Paul’s dilemma”
A headline of my life
Hidden passions of doing
The things I ought not
While the things I should
Exacerbate a shyness of action
I drain the precious resource
Like a religion I’ve committed
Lord knows my vices
And time as always
A fox beneath the vine

She diligent
and indigenous
here palladium
sought rally
call nigh
defiant shore
and untested
water with  
her only
real rationale
foreseen with
motive and
her intransigent
caper that
her heart
beholden belligerent
with peace.

For what it worth.
Every inch of me.
Aches.
In pain.
And agony...
Yet.
Not in the way you.
Percieve.
I anger.
At all the moments that remain.
Tucked away.
Solemn.
The quiet.
Deafens me.
Torment in the likes of hidden emotions.
Behind pleasant smiles.
I come crawling.
Beaten.
Starving.
I hunt the ever elusive affection.
Most nights it remains just out of reach.
I cannot deny.
This desire.
Regardless of what i have sustained.
Each wound evaporates by morning.
And with each new moon.
Do i become.
A more perfect hunter.

Brings truth and life to my enemy.

God is Love.
Jesus showed us this Love.
  Forgiving.
For I was His enemy.

Delivered me
a package of His one Living True Word satisfying and made whole
Through Jesus Christ alone shall
"Enlightenment" be obtained
Retained and maintained as the
Constant that holds all things together

The spark of passion ignites the heart, until it is engulfed in a conflagration of notions, as curiosity triumphs over caution.

The seed of wisdom, planted in fields of knowledge, is cultivated and refined in kingdoms of intellect to innovate speeches of freedom.

Blisters in sweaty palms, rubbing against the pen, as it drifts between the paths of future and past, where hope is met and joy is felt.

Consumed by epiphanies, the heart-beat is felt by trembling hands, squeezing the pen for inspiration, to bewilder imaginations, giving birth to new perceptions.

Your mind is an abyss sated with emptiness,spore of an ink-jet,
the heart is erupting with repugnant repulsiveness.
Your conscience ravage by your impulsive act.
You indulge in savagery shackled by misery creativity is a mystery .

You diverged from an honest life and now you're perjuring in art you dark-prowlers.
Converged with parasites marauding, Proud-Writers.

Cursed with uncertainty you're embracing lies, in the realm of thieves there's a decaying crown.