I am a glutton for your LOVE
Not the pink pedals from a rose.
But to engulf in chills of
Feelings - risen from YOU.

I yearn to be wrapped in YOUR
affection - that is enough.
To indulge in your passion poured -
From gashes but fearlessly entrust.

I yearn for you to give me all of YOU
The you that "you" keep encaged
Is the YOU that I long to love too.
I'll take all of you, have no fear.

Just let loose your baggage -
And let me love all of it
As I live to love you and ALL
That comes with it.

i don't know.
where my life went.
but now i am dead.
my life was spent.

i put on my dress.
as green as envy.
my skin covering hate.
with witch my heart was heavy.

my lips.
red like lust.
i wore the seven sins that night.
thinking. **** i must.

her eyes shone.
full of greed and gluttony.
that her jewels gladly portrayed.
hidden there a mutiny.

her hair done up.
in a way.
that showed sloth.
its fashion lazy.

she walked.
every step full of pride.  
that was misplaced.
she didn't try to hide.

she let out her wrath.
and danced on satans floor.
dancing with the devil.
unable to stop her feet ****** and sore.

for one dance with the devil.
on his own dance floor.
her soul long gone.
the song forever more.

Habits
Gluttony
Greed
Bribery
Lustfulness

Passed down
Generation
After generation
After generation
After generation
Okay, I get it, it get it
You get it, you get it.

Let's get personal
Born set up for failure
My statistics not looking bright
First baby born of color born into
A family of strictly whites

Grandmother beat my mother
When she discovered
The life forming inside of her
Was half black -
Don't cry mother, or I'll whither
Inside of you.

I grew and grew
Taught lies upon lies
About myself
The other half of me.

The only love I knew was of my mother.
There was no other -
Until she started to take it out on me

Habits
Passed
From generation upon generation.

She was sick and tired of being
Sick and tired
Stomped to the ground due to her
Kindness
Abused emotionally due to her
Selfless-ness
Mistreated physically due to her
Weakness
She took it out on me.

Cornered me to a wall
Choked me up
Laughing - she couldn't get enough
Of the amusement of my pain
All done in vain
Because she couldn't stop the strain
Put on her brain.

Scarring my face
Pulling my hair
Public places
Not a care -

Kicking
Scratching
Pulling
Biting
The agony
The hate
The battle wounds
The hurt
The scars -
On my heart.

Habits
Passed from generation
To generation
To generation

I was sick on the inside
My heart - suffering -
never ending bleeding
My brain
Psychologically ill
Flashbacks
I locked myself up in my room
Head in pillow
Screaming louder than your annoying baby sister who throws her unnecessary temper tantrums

In the middle of the night.
I tied myself up mentally
Stuck
Self-hate
Self-abuse
Self-hurt

In the sixth grade I to myself -
I wanted going to ****
And my victim was myself.
Filled with the poison - I was ill
Injected with self-hate
Hated my family
Hated all my traits
Hated all forms of humanity.

Habits
Passed
From generation to generation
To generation.

She cooks in an apron,
smells like she is cooking bacon,
my stomach growls,
which makes our dog howl.

I look toward the kitchen hungry,
though if I walk in she will get angry,
my curiosity is filled with wonder,
what might she be cooking I ponder.

Just a quick look is all I need,
after all I just want to feed,
sneaking to the door I peak,
alas is the smell of meat.

A soft smile crosses her lips,
as she sits with coffee she sips,
I look around with desire,
though her apron is a liar.

Looking at me she gives me a smirk,
she has made me look like a ****,
moving a spoonful of honey,
she tortures me knowing my sin is Gluttony.

Vail tied to a weathering mask
with a child in tow
who grows swollen

And swells like his mother
from which he reluctantly
reared his head

In what was called The Cadaver Twist
A ******* accident, no less

No virtue in a conscience yet to breech
A lesson likely learned early
If only ...

Paternal instinct as the peripheral
responds autonomously to the bottle
with intervals of grease pouring
down the gullet

The rain decimates in torrential strife
Laying in bog known as
What Once Was

No justice nor equality
How to live without envy?

No money nor security
How to live without greed?

No motives nor prize
How to live without sloth?

No accessibility nor satisfaction
How to live without lust?

No pleasure nor satisfaction
How to live without gluttony?

No logic nor sense
How to live without wrath?

No compassion nor humbleness
How to live without pride?

Words of Harfouchism

He was fat in the corner.
The walls stood straight to crest the ceiling in place.
The boy’s arches were eroded enough to roll him out his created abode.
But it stuck between the sharpness of its lines pin cushioned on his body.
It blocked its concrete sound.
It nailed his waist into the water of floor as if it was holding buoyancy.
The floor which was like an ocean hung his body to only sit and stay.  
This is where he would sit.
This is where he viewed his world.
With his Cable T.V., he viewed the world.
He became them in a sense of what they know.
Sometimes he was the sailor man saving the gal in the red turtleneck.
Sometimes he just wanted more than ****** snacks.
It was the static that came into it and the tremor of the popguns and bicycle punches.
His costume was the hand that drove into his pocket for yellow spheres of his personal favorite.

His fingers would unwrap the same world over and over again.
No matter how many copies.
They were in wrappers.
They were in silver lings of the stuff in what was known to stick and to sit on my palm like reflected sunsets.
These were in forgotten little notes to the odes of what was the turn of his tongue. He loved being sweet.
He loved to chew it ever so darling.
He crunched.
His mouth builds a castle.
To the eyes arrived in clouded visions coming from within.
As the teeth gnash off to the nectars and nips of sugar, butter, milk in *****, the crystals vanish.
They dazzled the eyes with images from the inside.
It was the way it took into him.
His cheeks became lambent as they were sagging off his face.  
In the motion was a peripheral point of the lips.
It would drag him into crave.
No more of waiting for it to melt.

The time was hung out to see the beat of his little heart.
He could have no more candy.
20 years later, he should have nothing more.
It was enough to make the scale rotate against zero.
But no one measured his content.
No one measured the happy in his heart.  
No one knew that what he wanted was just to taste the good.
He just wanted the tip of the tongue
To take him beyond a state of sitting and standing without really moving.
He wanted to walk on ice but float above its glass.
But he was going to die.
He would. He would eventually. They would say. Mother said.
Mother said this in her prim voice with all the promises of chocolate coated crisps in the world. He will choose to smile.
But here he is. He is still alive.
He is still rolling into the rears of his rounds.
He still loves what he is.
He still loves what he ate.
The choice of change is in his grip and so are his pockets.
They are still full of his old favorites.
He will take them when God takes him into his pockets.
He will be sweet.
He will be his own butterball.
He will be wrapped in what is 25 years.