"proverbs" poems
Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.
I'll take them.
All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Give them to me.
They are wanted here.
All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.
Give them to me.
And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.
Let me have them.
And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.
I will take them.
And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.
Let me have them.
And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.
Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.
Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:
*“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”
“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”
“You were all my brightest colors.”
“I wish I were more like you.”
“I wish I were less like me.”
“I am sped.”*
And we will read them at dawn like litany.
Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.
That we may take them.
And make a blanket.
A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.
I will take them.
All the parts you no longer want.
Give them to me.
Because they are what make us beautiful.
Give them to me.
That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.
That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
A capable wife is far more worth than treasure
She lives for the good of her family
She works hard for her own
She is independent but still dependent upon the Lord
That is a woman you need in your life.
She will stand by your side and honour her vows
She caters for all, even the poor.
She is generous by heart
She is everything and more
She is wise
She is appreciated
She is respected
She is loving
She is not shaken but mere earthquakes, instead she embraces the beauty in faults and the lessons in mistakes.
She will stand with you through thick and thin, through sickness and health and through this miserable life.
Man, when you find a woman like this treasure her with all you have. Appreciate her insecurities and love her through everything you will put her through
Charm is deceptive and beauty fades but a woman who honours the Lord should be praised.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
Lack of money is lack of friends; if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you. ~ Yoruba
War has no eyes ~ Swahili saying
There can be no peace without understanding. ~Senegalese proverb
A leader who does not take advice is not a leader. ~ Kenyan proverb
If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty; if there is none, beauty becomes ugliness. ~Nigerian Proverb
Unity is strength, division is weakness. ~ Swahili proverb
Wisdom does not come overnight. ~ Somali proverb
Knowledge without wisdom is like water in the sand. ~ Guinean proverb
Home affairs are not talked about on the public square. ~ African proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
Make some money but don’t let money make you. ~ Tanzania
When you are rich, you are hated; when you are poor, you are despised. - African proverb
A man who uses force is afraid of reasoning. ~Kenyan proverb
Traveling is learning. ~Kenyan Proverb
What you learn is what you die with. ~ African proverb
He who is destined for power does not have to fight for it. ~ Ugandan proverb
It takes a village to raise a child. ~ African proverb
Poverty is slavery. ~Somalia
The wealth which enslaves the owner isn’t wealth. ~ Yoruba
Much wealth brings many enemies. – Swahili
You are beautiful, but learn to work, for you cannot eat your beauty. ~Congolese Proverb
A pretty face and fine clothes do not make character. ~Congolese Proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
A close friend can become a close enemy.~ African proverb
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep.
So often goes the *** to the well that it breaks.
So long you heat iron, it will glow;
so heavily you hammer it, it shatters.
So good is the man as his praise;
so far he will go, and he's forgotten;
so bad he behaves, and he's despised.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So glib you talk, you end up in contradictions.
So good is your credit as the favors you got.
So much you promise that you will back out.
So doggedly you beg that your wish is granted;
so high climbs the price when you want a thing;
so much you want it that you pay the price;
so familiar it gets to you, you want it no more.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So, you love a dog. Then feed it!
So long a song will run that people learn it.
So long you keep the fruit, it will rot.
So hot the struggle for a spot that it is won;
so cool you keep your act that your spirit freezes;
so hurriedly you act that you run into bad luck;
so tight you embrace that your catch slips away.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So you scoff and laugh, and the fun is gone.
So you crave and spend, and lose your shirt.
So candid you are, no blow can be too low.
So good as a gift should a promise be.
So, if you love God, you obey the Church.
So, when you give much, you borrow much.
So, shifting winds turn to storm.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
Prince, so long as a fool persists, he grows wiser;
so, round the world he goes, but return he will,
so humbled and beaten back into servility.
So loud you cry Christmas, it is here.
3.4k
"She is clothed in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future" -Proverbs 31:25
A noble woman.
Noble - having or showing fine personal qualities or high moral, royal principles and ideals.
Knowing this, I ask myself, 'is he worthy of being graced by my royalty?'
No.
And me, being so fine, why should I EVER have to dry my eyes as a result of his peasantry?
[You shouldn't']
Then I think about how moral I am, and all the good I gave to that man, things that no average woman can,
[He's silly]
So, keeping all of that in mind, I ask myself,
'Should a Noblewoman cry as much as I?'
[No.]
Lastly, should my dignity, hard earned, clothing me, be compromised for a man with 4 eyes, 1 mouth (full of lies), 2 hands that never had the courage to meet the small of my back, 2 legs that walk around here (arrogantly) like the gold was sitting betwixt his thighs and not mine.
[I'm not finished yet]
1 pipe, that I longed for, didn't even care if it was long or...
26 short teeth that I gave my all to make sure were always showing
1 pair of pants that were too tight anyway
1 face that I didn't get to see much, but it doesn't even matter because it wasn't cute anyway.
[Hell n-]
The nerve of that man.
So in strength, I'll move on, striding fearlessly into the future, laughing even after so much suffering, because I'm too fine, too dignified, too good ANYWAY.
D, Noblewoman
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
What if I could believed
All those impossible stories
All those brilliant miracles
Majestic in their glories
The proverbs
You teach your children
The comfort of your gift
What if it were true
That destinies were some how fixed
Where is this place
Where truth is hidden
For only the chosen few
The gathering of angels
The conversion of the Jews
Where are your invisible deities
The miracles of their love
If they’re real, then no big deal
They can stop the wars
From above
Sea of gold
Trees of knowledge and life
A ****** heart
Becomes god's wife
Bowing down
Forever more
Before the judgmental
Blood stained floor
Answering questions like
Did you support the war
I'm afraid you'll need
To convince me more...
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
Despair unrequited asked of me;
*where do proverbs, poems...
such wisdom's go to die?*
do they expire with the ink of thought
penning themselves out of imagination?
or simply tire of expectation?
tell me
&
i would scourge
that unenlightened grave-site,
guillotine its immoral keeper,
&
decapitate him upon
a writer’s block!
show me
&
i will breach earths bowels
wrenching words from darkness' depths
with the light verse of celebration
&
a calligrapher’s paragraph of praise.
only then should i rest in piece
from wordy passion
scribed with its, novel pleasures
&
when spent,
upon my epitaph do write;
*'she was consumed,
birthing words to life'*
© Qwey.ku
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
As quiet, sleek and sophisticated as they are.
Cats speak volumes
In meow tunes..to the nation of humans.
In the space they consume...
Cats speaks..uniquely thank you's in cat chat hues..
Colored as colorful as the rainbows...
loving to hide where nobody knows
Cats walk with confidences,, able to leap high over fences..
Able to hold their own.. able to freely roam..
A cat can cruise in packs..... or walk solo as a matter of fact.
They don't need man to tell them they are royal
you can see this in their stroll.
Deep down in their being.. so noble,, mankind is blessed to behold..
The animal kingdom fashioned purposefully..
Striking divinity blessing mankind usefully.
Needed generously..Well now if your
sharing space with a cat do it graciously.
Being gentle feline Angels..even when naughty enough to scold.
A cat has a unique role...Even with their pampered attitudes..
If your cats is giving you attitude and acting rude.
There's logic behind those actions and moods..
Get yourself on over to cats school and learn cats 101.
Figure out the madness causing this sadness.
Don't be a quitter.. never hit him/her...
Do no harm.. Or heavens bells will ring a alarm.
Know your attending heavenly royalty keep your blessings flowing.
Cats walk and move softly gently with grace...
Your blessed when a cats in your place.
Show them love..don't bring about disgrace.
Proverbs 12:10 A righteous man regards the life of his animal.
By HeavensRosePoet aka selinarose!
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Really only knew you from your posts
On Facebook
That made me smile or
Made me cringe at times
Or made me curious.
A family man
But seemingly alone
Two teenage daughters
Apparently who you'd see rarely.
I didn't pry too much.
Just saw your presence through the stream
Of news feeds. Every other day..
Only A picture or two of you
Otherwise generic public images
With short proverbs
Or offensive religious posts..
I know your father.
But again, I didn't pry
it seems there was little contact between you.
Today, as the dawn broke,
I saw you'd left.
Just an image of you, shades on,
With RIP, JS (same initials as my long gone timeless love)
Too young to leave.
Didn't know you were ill?
No, reading the comments I discover
it was not a sickness,
Just another day, outside
While chopping down a tree.
That came down on you with massive force.
The blow was delivered by nature at least..
And in that there may be some comfort
I hope
For the loved ones you leave behind.
And perhaps an opening for love to return
To you and your dad.
Who I know to be a most sensitive soul.
And Who I'm sure is quietly shedding a river of tears
For a son who left the world so suddenly,
Just 10 hours ago.
On a winter day while chopping down a tree.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,
and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,
like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light
and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,
and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession
and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,
a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,
as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids
lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart
heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour
of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,
and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
i want to think in philosophy,
to speak in prose,
to act in proverbs,
to admire in odes.
i want to love in sonnets,
to feel in poetry,
i want there to be literature
in every part of me.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
The seed had been planted long ago. The words had been prophesied to give life.
I'm making deliveries, although I'm not a midwife.
These words are a key to unlock the invisible bars for those who have lost their voice......due to a bad choice.
He observed her movements, like a lion that stalks its prey.
She found him to be quite handsome when he spoke to her that day.
She had been praying the her loneliness would soon come to an end. The third wheel activities needed to come to an end.
He wasn't a big time star....just a regular dude. His mother instilled manners ....so he made it a point not to be rude......
He was well aware of the female's who thought that men only wanted to see them ****
Although, he had to admit there was some truth to this myth. There was something about this woman ......that had him in awe.
She was a Michelangelo type woman.....rare and precious. He didn't have any crafty lines....so he didn't know how to catch this.
Opportunity that he knew would only come once. He had read about the Proverbs 31 woman and wondered if she could be.
The addition to eventually make three.
How did he jump so far along in his thoughts?
Just married a woman and had a family......
All this from watching a beautiful woman walk down the street.
Hopefully....one day he will muster up the courage eventually to speak.
The seed has been planted.....
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
Where does solitude end
And the beauty of love begin?
We must allow our emotions to permeate
Our spiritual vestibule
Before rapture dawns
Like an empyreal gust
Within, upon, and throughout us,
Then our bliss will no longer be ephemeral,
It will be everlasting.
Someone on this existential expanse
Loves you
Beyond words, Beyond thoughts, beyond
Time & space,
With cosmic understanding;
Like, age-old supernovae
Radiating with stellar light
Until their macrocosmic romance
Waxes nebulous:
—Dust to dust.
You who are gleaning these words,
Contemplate your immortal value
As a living legacy
That Burgeons & blossoms beyond the day
Of your exodus from the Earthly Plane
For the soul is a seed
Radiating with the Eradia of Ages;
Therefore, shine
Until The Flora of Yore, Yggdrasil germinates within.
Lamentation makes you more loving,
Just, wise, and strong;
Yes, embrace every moment
That life brings
For Providence safeguards you
Within His Celestial ramparts.
"But the path of the righteous is like the bright morning light
That grows brighter and brighter until full daylight."
(Proverbs 4: 18) (NWTSE)
You have an undying will within you,
You are a vessel of sanctity
Intemerate & hallowed;
Yes, you have been set apart
For an ethereal crusade
With no known beginning &
An indeterminable end;
Exhale, you are Life, Love, and Liberty,
And a Spark of The Divine.
It is true, that you are the experiencer of
Your joys, your sufferings,
Your exultation, and your woes,
But you must ne' er forget
That you are not alone;
Therefore, walk forevermore
In the Baptismal Rays of The Sun
For you were borne with purpose,
O, Warrior of Light.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
Here, at the end of the world,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like india ink,
& poets dip their pens in
& they write.
"Here, at the end of the world,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestack feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
& people come to resemble them. . . . "
Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.
Write us a letter!
Send us a parcel of food!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.
Here at the end of the world
our heads are empty,
& the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house.
2.1k
We are the poets.
We create poetry out of silence.
We are so incredibly good with words.
People often wonder what our hands can do.
People find these fingers incredible.
They watch as these fingers transform simple words into beautiful poetry.
They watch as static thoughts transform into kinetic conversations.
As simple as they are, these words tend to sound like proverbs.
The void that you constantly try to avoid.
We will fill that void with light.
The type of light that constellations hunger for.
These hands transform simple words into beautiful poetry.
The aim is not always to write to impress.
But rather to write to express.
We constantly find light in the darkest of places.
Even constellations envy the light found in our eyes.
With a suitable paint brush, these words can create vivid images of paradise.
Our words create worlds.
Our words create worlds within worlds.
Our words capture moments and paint pictures.
So next time you hear one of us recite, bring a friend and a frame along.
We create poetry out of silence.
We are so incredibly good with words.
People often wonder what our hands can do.
People find these fingers incredible.
They watch as these fingers transform simple words into beautiful poetry.
They watch as static thoughts transform into kinetic conversations.
We are the poets, you should ask the world about us.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
he had a voice that made her want to believe in eternity
she had a heart that made him want to believe in love
his mind has a secret garden bearing grapes
his words are butterflies kissing flowers
his thoughts derives from what passion brings
her body curves perfectly like a well crafted grapevine
her crown is the minds image
her beauty is light in a formless world
her body gave him life
his soul told her spirit to feel honesty from that hug
a hug warm like a summers evening.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 6:57 AM UTC
By Sharday
"Old Fools"
Old crudes.. appearing as Fools gold. The Irony. When you offer joy and laughter.. and all the best to offer in kindly spoken joyful chatter.
When you only offered a sprinkle of smiles and sunshine's. A regular day by short easy breezes to fellow online unknowns you never ever met in the flesh and briefly known online.
shared with them smiles and sunshine of encouraging crispy apple finds. To wish they smile with glee and inwardly are filled with bitter unrest.. Unknown to most of us. We only see the clown painted hidden face. A true face of sunken holes filthy craters in mold. The corrupt soul waiting to unlease it's misery soon as the old fool see, your joyful positivity isn't gonna stay for the foolery.
How you can't be captured, in the web of rotten hell where the Old fool dwells. Just wash your hands wipe your virtual feet from where you ventured and never again there enter.
A fool full of liquor and utterly bitter all of its own. To whom you never did any wrong. Yet the fool will claim you have. Is a stalker web crawler, harassing fool.. Report the stalkers harassing's obsessing's words of hate. The fools mouth of polluted lies disguised as crafted blind leading the blind sorrows.
A brief encounter online in 14 days causes a fool to write so much **** poor chatter.
Obsessive, stalker, old fool, not your muse, move on fool.
Psalms 18:2 "A fool takes no pleasure in understanding, but only in expressing his opinion." psalms 18:2
Proverbs 29:2 If a wise man has an argument with a fool, the fool only rages and laughs, and there is no quiet.
Sounds like a abusive deranged so madly insane. Type foolish, type thang. Can't find a away to stop using you in written metaphors. Like his pictures of he wish he had ******
Keep virtual 911 on hit report speed dial,
this fool seems a virtual danger stranger chillld.
H.E.R_Poetry...#Over.It..
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 12:23 PM UTC
-The Right Way
Finding a proverbs thirty two woman is definitely a must,
Never again will I let my life be led by the spirit of lust!
Jan 19, 2022
Jan 19, 2022 at 11:29 PM UTC
My friend published a book
of collected Scots Proverbs.
200 pages and more, filled
with countless ways of saying
"Don't show off."
And that precious wisdom,
generations in the making
percolated through smokey thatch
in dismal dripping glens,
Tattooed into tenement bricks
with the soot of dead industry,
added to the diet
with the excess salt and saturated fat,
Paving the roads
on which all ambition travels south,
And fizzing through the lager
on its way to the head
Now hangs around the kids
like the stink around an ashtray
and stifles any pride
they might invest in themselves.
They will pass it on
with their genes
and their endless disappointments,
despising anyone who rises
above the station
at which they are
eternally delayed.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
(Proverbs, viii. 22-31)
"Ere God had built the mountains,
Or raised the fruitful hills;
Before he fill'd the fountains
That feed the running rills;
In me from everlasting,
The wonderful I am,
Found pleasures never wasting,
And Wisdom is my name.
"When, like a tent to dwell in,
He spread the skies abroad,
And swathed about the swelling
Of Ocean's mighty flood;
He wrought by weight and measure,
And I was with Him then:
Myself the Father's pleasure,
And mine, the sons of men."
Thus Wisdom's words discover
Thy glory and Thy grace,
Thou everlasting lover
Of our unworthy race!
Thy gracious eye survey'd us
Ere stars were seen above;
In wisdom thou hast made us,
And died for us in love.
And couldst thou be delighted
With creatures such as we,
Who, when we saw Thee, slighted,
And nail'd Thee to a tree?
Unfathomable wonder,
And mystery divine!
The voice that speaks in thunder,
Says, "Sinner, I am thine!"
2k
I have found God on my knees,
read scriptures along your lifelines.
I sang your praises into my hardwood floor,
memorizing every note as they fell from my lips.
Hold me close and make me believe in a deity I can only see by starlight.
Our bible is not written in ink.
It is a roadmap of purples and blues scattered along my collarbones,
parables of passion bruised into my hips.
I will give you this body
if you will show me divinity until the glints of morning touch this church of hollow promises and hot breath.
I will murmur my sins into your skin
until the morning makes us mortal again.
But for tonight
make me your disciple,
let me drink you in like sweet ambrosia
until I am sure that the stars spell your name.
For tonight,
make me absolute.
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 4:09 PM UTC
A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.
Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.
A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.
And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC