I asked to be forgiven.
     You didn't have it in you.
     I'll build a cross and carry
     it 12 lashes and be nailed
     upon it and die in agony with
     a crown made from thorns in
     your heart. Pierce me with
     hatred to die all alone.

We swarm to be heard.
We write to plant our seeds
in your furrows. Ideas take root.
Cocktail chatter and bedroom whispers
spread them far and wide from church
to AA to shooting galleries.
We shout words in sound proof rooms
wrapped in straight jackets and put down.

My skin doesn't fit anymore.
It's 2 sizes too big and my bones
live in a circus tent and my face
gaunt and eyes sunk in my skull.
I'll still write these poems so you
will be prepared for being old.

I've chased love over and over
like a dog chasing ***** in a field.
I have it in my jaw and drop it at
her feet. She just throws it again.
There are always more dogs than
hearts being thrown in our midst.

Love is fog that blinds you.
     It is perfumed lustful fangs
     into your neck as you laugh.
     Lust comes disguised as love
     to tear your holy vows to hell.
     Love can never pretend at lust.

As poets this would be impossible.
A neighbor got this for a job interview.
I love "fierce". I use that often. My wife
suggested "quest". I thought it quite good.
What might you choose, poets?

He makes me feel inadequate.
I'll never measure up so **** it.
Like a mother who hates how you
make your bed and does it over
every time and I start to see the
cracks in her shell and the madness
that finally brings her to her knees;
visits to a shrink to put her back how
she used to be but the puzzle is short
of pieces and nothing ever seems right.