We used to look

For monsters

In our closets

Or under our beds

Silly us!

What innocent children

To not realize they lived in our heads

None of these darkened pixels on your computer screen mean anything.

The scribbles of ink in your notebook have no more inherent sound to them than the blank spaces in between them.

The inflections of your lips and tongue create nothing but meaningless noise.

But these pixels, and these scribbles, and these inflections mean worlds to us.

They make us love, and they make us go to war.

They describe themselves, and make us think in ways we could only explain by ways of using them--

But in reality,

Words are nothing but a myth of the collective mind.

how do you release yourself when

the incarceration of the one who once imprisoned your love,

and strangled your sexuality,

is the definition of your freedom?

how do you release yourself when

the keys are dangling from the belt-buckle

of the one who once trespassed your garden

and trampled your wildflowers?

how do you release yourself when

your heartstrings are double knotted,

wrapped around your wrists,

and your vocal chords?

how do you release yourself when

your heart takes her hands,

rattles the bars of your rib cage,

and with a whisper, cries out?

when i was a child,

i would run down the back steps

away

away

away

from my parents,

trying to dress me.

and i remember how free i was-

running, my bare feet on green summer grass,

bare body under

bare summer sun

until they chased after me and

dressed me in a purple, lace rimmed dress.

i scratched and squirmed and ripped it off once more.

i ran down those back steps.

and i did it again;

again

again

again-

i have ran

down those back steps,

away

away

away

many times.

now, when i rest,

and fall to the feet of the night,

my own two feet run down my back steps once more

and i strip myself of

thoughts

words

fears

doubts

pressure

memories

and skin.

bare body under

bare summer moon.

but when i rise,

i am covered

concealed

clothed

once more.

This woman whose eyes are

blinded by the thought that

once one man falls away from her,

no one else in the world

will look for the same person.

Love is blind I can tell,

especially for her

when everytime she cries

is because of that one man

who had no plans in giving her

the respect she really needed

the confirmation that he loved her

the affection that everyone else could bring,

but she fell into a trap either way

his hands shaking in pleasure as he used

her blindness and arrogance

to paint the picture of power

Now tell me the difference between

prostrate in prayer

and

succumb to submission.

Organized religion.

I was told that coming together could save lives,

but to be selective?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

held over me are your convoluted ideas of what God accepts.

I wonder how this deity,

who you dedicate your life to worshipping in this world,

created by hid hand,

would feel about you preaching false pastorals?

Switching substantiality with sermons,

not spoken by the mouth of your God.

Bibles and bazookas,

declaring every word of these human gospels as weapons to cleanse

my homosexual ways.

Untitled authors have written their experiences down and twisted it so it could upraise their lack of understanding.

Morals are what any God preaches.

The details are decided by

this free-will,

which is still fretted over and fucked with by

hands of hatred.

Hands of man.