i want your coffee coated lips,
your tongue stained with beautiful words,

your leather-bound journal,
brimming with words, spilling off of the pages.

i want your stories,
held tightly between thick frayed pages..
your fairytales your fantasy,
the horror and the mystery

i want you so **** bad.

i want to kiss a girl.
a twisted lip sugary sweet brush upon the lips,
a flower budding, a proclamation of affection given to the other.


is that okay with you mom?

broken pillars lie at my feet,
wisps and curls of grass bite and caress my skin, sending my senses
into a never-ending tizzy as letters drown me in torrents of knowledge
in torrents of superiority
in waves of education.

soft classical music hums between my ears,
as the soft grass tickles me once more.

repent, believe, repent
part your lips to preach the sacred word of the gospel, it doesn't matter,
if no one listens,
if they don't care,
it's your mission to proclaim the saving word,
no matter how much it hurts- no matter how much it burns their ears,
melting, searing, sneaking into their minds.
preach until those are the only words you yourself can hear,
a convuluted symphony;
alleluja, alleluja, shephard dominus meus in bonum.
The lord is my good shephard,
and he is yours as well.

Repent until your conscious become white as wool,
the scarlet from every sin washing away,
a red river seeping, dripping, over your feet.

A red river,
seeping...
dripping...
lost faith...
upon your feet.

it's not that i'm naive, or unaware...
i'm just trying to convince myself that each of your sweet laughs and jokes
are just for me
built for me
written for me
sung for me
but it seems that every ounce of love is discarded
as you fall further and further away.

my fingers grasp
and stretch
but all I catch is a loose thread.

what if your version of feeling better is one that wouldn't
be considered morally acceptable to the world around you,
because you've lived in this realm where your "feeling better,"
is the equivalent to one's worst.