all evolutions,
revolutions
to absolution
by liquid?

can we drive always away away away
our sins that are burnt into our
skin?

Without the spillage of a
witness of wetness?

is my own sweat insufficient?

product of sunrise and rays
testing the body’s hydration,
my words beckon to reckon
to emerge,
purge my seditious  sins,
my owned dissolution,
with false, half hearted acts
of contrivance contrition?

Why are
my daily confessions,
halved by inability
to give myself up a
full~on
fullsomeness,
but words available,
censored by a stub of
unwillingness
to embarrass
what little honor
left in my shrinking
possession

I am guilty of ******.

this act of admission
is legally insufficient
to sustain even
sky painted clouds
to cease moving,
there, it’s sad said,
and i breathe no easier
only comfortable that my
shame is openly accounted
for by you, my jurors…

Earthly possessions, earthly possessions;
At most they’re all of my greatest confessions

As the mask I so love to wear over my face
Is a mask made out of chameleon skins-
It grants me a shrewd changing appearance,
Camouflaging myself, to fit in with the crowd.

They shed no tears as the bridges burned
A lingering stench of phantosmia remains
No pouncet box can mask the memories
Their shame leaks through guilty pores

By Darren Wall ©

If I cry out to a gaze of boisterous
watchers, as every star falling out of the
sky, —I’d too, feel so out of place. I would
appear, a feast to Time, by just a second’s graze.

Truly startled at how short a life is;
even by the Greener pastures we so
meaninglessly hunt after; do know
full well, all the grass that grows so
promising; will all eventually be grazed.

And perhaps the purple envy I had
for the freedom’s worth knitted into
the sky, would all at last turn so grey,

And so, I would cry a river’s mountain,
upon knowing how much time I spent,
chasing after meaningless things in all my days.

For the cares of the world offers
only a moment’s praise,

Till I’m of course consumed, with finding
the reasoning to clarify such a craze—
I’d have no answer to my Creator’s name;
and I’d be so ashamed.

I want to unfold,
Stand and raise up
I'll stretch so far,
I'll touch the moon and sun.

Every star will fall,
Crashing through me
I'll never collapse again
I'll never feel the burning left by shame.

I'll expand into space's darkness
I'll know just how everything's connected
and feel I'm home once more,
and never hide my own galaxies.

I'll become space dust.

I have so much shame, I can't tell where it begins
All I know, is the feeling it is.
It's a burning sensation,
that makes me want to fold in on myself,

My thoughts are so hurtful, it's as if they're in shouts.
It's intrusive and steals my energy,
It makes me want to eat tons of food
to push the feeling out of me.

It's a disgusting feeling,
I want to make it go away
and become the me I've imagined
From daydreaming every single day.

Shame encircles me
It's a cloudy fog that blurs everything,
Making it harder to see reality
I run inside my mind and hide in a dream.

I am a master at romanticizing!
I might even avoid you to interact with a fantasy,
My mind likes to protect me by airbushing things,
even though what I want is to live authentically

Every moment that I'm not present
Is a lost opportunity to change my mindset.
I'm trying to push past my negative thoughts
and ground myself but I feel so stupid.

I want an identity.

i wanted to write like josé olivarez,
to love, plain and simple, and to let
the light in, shamelessly, for all to see

but she wanted a t.s. eliot, maybe a surrealist
portrait, or a picasso to my pissarro, and a tiptoe
around the elephants, for a look into me, endlessly

as if always in search of some deeper, divine meaning,
we parted our ways, but now i no longer feel like me
i have lost my rhythm, though i have not stopped reading

i fall into ignorance; i am called out for perfunctories; so
other than a casual fear of forevers, i now also know: my love
tastes like cheap prose, and an atrophied fondness of writing