It was already 7 in the morning
And here I am, still contemplating.
I wonder what's about life
That I want to end it with a knife.

I had never been a pessimist
These voices that I can't resist.
Telling me to move on and die,
A wonderful life's nothing but a lie.

But the Voice clinging inside my head
Has never wanted me to be dead.
I looked upon this haze of illusion
And saw this Man full of salvation.

He told me that I'm never worthless,
"You are precious though priceless."
He told me good things that I've done
And told me to never be gone.

Alas, I thought. Who'd this Man be?
His words are leading me to curiosity.
Regardless, his words are pure and true
And He had come surely for my rescue.

To write
is to confess.

something empty
in my life
feels less empty
when i write

I've never written of love, because until now, I've never been engulfed in its transcendence.
Enamored by the faint breath of a sleeping beauty.
Being assured without assurance.
Fire in the chest, and Ice on the toes.
Completely immobile, only jetting endlessly in the right direction.
Can this,
be real?

Sometimes words
Don’t come to mind
When I’m trying to throw together
A poem.