Oh LORD most high who gave me life,
I sinned and I apologize.

Pretty women are my weakness,
For I find their bodies wondrous.

Forgive me for what I have done,
Have mercy on your sinful Son.

When we see what some people are dishing out,
we know what Bertrand Russell was talking about:
"The stupid are cocksure, the intelligent full of doubt."

When you meet someone who thinks he's clever,
but seems much too confident in his endeavour,
and talks to you non stop and forever and ever.

When he acts like a prophet defying convention,
never admitting a lack of comprehension,
promptly has a cure for everything you mention.

When he hands out his advice on a silver platter
convincing you that his opinions matter,
you can be certain, he's as mad as a hatter.

"Why do you believe in me?"
"Because sometimes, I don't believe in myself. That I'm really helping.
But we all need something to believe in.
And I know that you believe in me.
So I believe in you."

Don't tell.
Don't discuss.
Don't share.
Don't make a fuss.
Let your pain in a sus,
deep inside like a pus.
Squeeze it, tweeze it,
pull it out.
Till there is
no left a doubt.
Now show your bandage
like a mettle badge
and write your story
from the scratch.

last night, for what may have been the first time in what felt like centuries of me loving you,
i felt, in the base of my brain, barely perceptible but there nonetheless,
doubt.

it's presence alone would not have been as alarming if it had not been for you.
doubt, fear, rage have no place in the home we may never build
but love to dream about when we feel the most alone.

and yet there it was now.
and i sat there feeling doubt slowly spreading like cancer along my brainstem, and i wondered
how long it had been there but dormant.
how long it had been there waiting for the correct catalyst.

i wondered if i still knew every layer of you.
i wondered if i still had you memorized or if all i have learned is a lie.

would you ever lie to me again?
how would i know if you had?
why am i even asking myself these things?

in my mind's eye i crawled into your mouth,
searching inside of you for any trace of deception,
forcing myself to look,
and hating myself for looking.

when i awoke this morning, my hands were empty, and i do not know whether that was good news.
frankly, i am afraid to ask.

I walk aimless, but alert, down moon washed streets
In the twilight, I strain to tell patron from vagrant
A coalescing of something at once ageless, but fading
Like the stone of this courthouse; pillars of justice
Cracked quietly by the steady chiseling of time
On forgotten foundations

In the air rests a stench of contempt, or neglect
Like an oil stain, thickening turquoise waves
To a sickening ooze, of endless, crashing degradation
A nation of people, betrothed to suitors unknown
The power of a dollar hedged against the weight of your soul
Where pockets are plump, and virtue is sold

You deserve love, I know you
you deserve it, look for it
with someone else, play for high stakes
#partyeveryday

And stay, stay with me
Come lie with me
on the couch and watch
a movie with me

That's what it's about
our daily happiness
not about you, not about me
separately, but touched

It's good and allowed
Come, you are the most beautiful
maybe
because I love you

Whatever I say
on nodays, those words
are doubt talk, they cry out
that I want a YesDay

The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.

It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.

And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.

Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.

There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.