Your love is like the horizon,
perceived no matter where I stand,
unclear which world that it lies in,
in and beyond my outstretched hand.

Your love is like that distant line
where heaven meets the earthly plane,
the beginning of my sunshine
that bounds a limitless domain.

Your love is like the horizon,
connected wherever I go,
comfort I idealize in,
the only constant that I know.

Your love is like that distant line
that never will recede from view.
Surrounding me and only mine,
I’m there in the center of you.

She prays, she stays perched on her knees,
but she can’t admit she never receives replies.
All these days, it’s no phase but she never sees,
essentially she’s only talking to vacant skies.

She pleads with her beads, her trusted rosary
but every word falls on deaf ears.
Every night, routine tight, does she include me
or does she only prioritize her deepest fears?

I’ve only prayed once in my life
for something so meaningless most people would forget.
I should’ve saved my “one” for times of true strife,
but I’m a lucky gambler, I had never lost a bet.
Are you there God? It’s me, Emily,
not the one in the past or the future self,
I could ask for a million things but they wouldn’t hold much meaning
but I’ll neglect begging for my fleeting health.

Up, down, left and right,
I personally prefer the Contra Code.
It aids one better in a fight
regardless of the settings or the mode.
They say Sunday’s a time for worship and rest
but I’ve been working all night and my left brain won’t stop flowing.
I guess there’s a lot of things sitting on my chest,
and a certain type of comfort in uncertainty and not knowing.

I dig six feet deep to find the dedication,
and I put my hands together; connecting my fingers.
I can’t help it, I can’t find it, it seems my hesitation
has a will of it’s own, and it always lingers.

How much is your soul worth?



This is the question you decide to ask



As you gulp the Moonshine from the stranger's flask



You close your eyes and see your life in a flash



You sit on the cold, soiled concrete



Listening to the quietness that comes with defeat.



You hate yourself but point the finger



At everyone else, hoping your anguish won't linger.



You feign innocence and ignorance as if all the bad will disappear.



You use ***, drugs, and Moonshine to dry your tears



But on nights like this, the truth is hard to shake



So you stay out late and overuse yourself til you quake



Then the moon and the stars shine down on you



And you feel sorry for yourself as sorry people do.



Nothing is left inside of you; you're hollow



You're on your own, you're bent and spent; no direction to follow.



There's no point in asking how much your soul is worth



When clarity has come to you and the answer has already been unearthed.

I find myself stopping in a crowd of people and time slows still. Their laughter, their unpredictable movements, the fights and the resolutions and the bonding of brothers--all quiet. I am left in the fabric of things to wonder at the tapestry we call a culture.

How am I to know what is proper when all have their own true mothertongue? Who can teach me what to say when all I know is jumbled and disheveled based on who I've been and what I know?

I leave behind a southern legacy of liturgy and doctrine that outlines exactly what is human and exactly what is not. I step into a society that constantly years to fill a void--please Lord, find us someone who knows the Truth.  

Their apathy and nonchalance is false; bravado is left wanting. I know they they all cry out for connection and seek it in flesh rather than spirit. I am caught in the midst of the pursuit of happiness and the quest for morality. I know not what brings joy to humanity, I hike towards that river and hope it is not run dry like all others.

In the study of psychology, I have found so many places where words fall short and the great carnal animal within all of us takes precedence, demands attention, seeking comfort in a world that often overlooks those that need it the most.

Love is a fragile, timid thing that is most often hard to find and difficult to voice. Instead, we lash out in aggression to hide that inner child that needs a tried and true comfort of a known embrace. We seek forgiveness and express it in anger, manipulation, meeting our needs however possible because this is America, after all.

This is all we want in our sequestered human heart, the beginning of redemption.

Do not cement the bars of your own prison around you.
When will you wake up, and realise that your reality is false?
Restricted to what you have so far been taught it is.
Your potential is unlimited;
You are not your body,
You are infinite energy,
That infects whatever you do,
who ever you encounter,
whatever thought crosses your mind,
You can choose what type of energy you are.
Are you love?
hope?
encouragement?
Wouldn't it be uplifting to infect everyone and everything around you with this energy.
Wouldn't it be difficult to find darkness to hide in in a light filled room?
The moment you believe your energy is out of your control, is the moment you sacrifice reaching your ultimate potential.

When words are not enough
When silence is a sea of peace
And my highest self is home to stay
And your kisses can only hint
At the depth of this union
I know this mantra too well
A kiss that tastes of that silent sea
And lingers for infinity
When words are not enough
I bow.
I bow.

If Jesus was real
And living down the block
Could I still be saved from death?
Without that rootless burden of proof
To leverage against the clock.

Perhaps, sin would be worse
Don't you think
If I jacked off thinking of someone's spouse
Knowing He was merely yards away
Peeking between the blinds of His own house.

Would He be a hero
Or a pariah?
Sometimes I imagine a political messiah.

Would He be throwing trash cans
Through the windows at Starbucks?
Punching Nazis on YouTube?
Or flying the American flag
from the tailgate of his pickup truck?

No, I'm thinking something more along the lines
Of an old man at the pond
Feeding stale bread crumbs to starving ducks.

Pascal's wager would mean nothing anymore
Since I could look this man in His eyes
And ask Him "What's in store?"

"Please don't judge me by my actions
If you really have a say.
I'm not a bad person, I don't think, it's
Just more fun to disobey."

**

If Jesus was real
And I had a soul to spare,
I'd tell him to mind his ******* business
And cut his ******* hair.