I am the wailing unclean spirit, born in a palace of corruption.

I am the wide mouth of the glutton, bearing the daggers of consumption.

I am the tension ever rising, in the wake of my regret.

I am the hopeful father's soul, on the long way to repent.

I am the hedonistic mercenary, flaying children with a smile.

I am Christ upon the cross, my disciples drowned in bile.

I am the sprawling army waiting, a vanguard of mistrust.

I am a kneeling God in exile, a tarnished icon of disgust.

Watch as I dissect myself.

Watch as I destroy myself.

For I am the omnipresent ghost of lust, in a world of black and red.

For I am the bane of self-acceptance, seething among the dead.

I am just trying to. Be something. In the light.

/Not your holy fire or an endless daze to fall into

to flee the endless days.

I’m a whisperthroat & poor eyes

full to the crown with dancing nights. Or so

I dream. How tired of teeth

can you grow, do you think. I bruise his collarbones.

He moans for me.

The silvered words are seeking my ankles.

Life is string & if the puppet longs to fly

does the yearning rot its cords

& is the fall to the ground

close enough?

I knew some kids who tried it out.

(& why can’t I speak my soul in the empty spaces/

what star forgot how to glow & how will we ever

know it)

We were getting lost in waves of electric

cheap beer, stoned

speaking of nothing

within our heads

& the saliva coated the entire carpet,

the walls & the ceiling

but we couldn’t talk about it

because it was

something.

(& I was just trying to

be something

in the light, my dear.)

Depression can’t write,

Anxiety can’t read.

So if you’re reading this and writing that.

You’re doing alright, take solace in that fact.

But obsessions can manifest and they can kill.

So be careful with that free will, to think.

Stop!

Just don’t think.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Focus on that.

You’re connected to us all,

Within and without.

Mind’s eye.

Just that.

Don’t die just to realise you were alive.

Sing my words to me 

In another measure 

Last week's trash 

Is this season's treasure 

The Bible in a bottle 

And mass consumption 

Use the rear view 

For a year-end-review 

If you have the fucking stomach 

Or just hum

While I'm at 10 and 2 

Using both hands 

I expect the same from you 

Escape 

There's always someplace better 

If you're not afraid to see 

A little further down the road than 

You thought you'd be 

Warm this winter 

Pulling threads of a dusted 

American sweater 

I much expect that when men first harnessed the wind and filled sails by the power of god, seeing before them limitless adventure, exploration, domination, and even exploitation they believed, some of them, that they were closer to creation, others, The creator, and some still yet, being gods themselves.

A few. A humble few, instead realized how small they had just become, shrinking with the world, chasing stars forever out of reach. The spirt is the spirit, today as it was then.

My hope. My only hope is that I am the humble few.

she kept passing me,

in the dark,

like a shadow

the sun forgot to erase.

but I felt her

like a warmth

ready to rise,

a dead man

using hope

to resuscitate,

and I've waited

years to see the dawn,

to see her rise

beyond the bend,

to see her prove that

love beyond grasp,

can scale the earth,

can trace my steps,

can find me

long after I see it fade.

and the spin of the globe

becomes the rhythm,

that my heart makes,

when it dances at the

sight of her,

when the future

has no night,

and the pain chasing me,

becomes a shadow

before her face.

My faith is lost somewhere among the trees

Capped off by a ceiling of leaves and thorn walls.

Too drawn away by the impending doom of your eyes

Sex and honesty. Raw and unbiased

Bared flesh and bared souls

Left to rot amongst the forest floors

She holds her morning cup of tea,

Walks in the green lawn,

Shivering a little in the cool breeze.

The dew has started to form,

Alas, Autumn is here.

And then a warm blanket falls on her

A blanket of words wraps her heart.

She holds it tight for a while,

Then ties it like a cape around her neck

She stands tall,

She stands with grace.

With her doubts all shunned

Her faith survives,

They look at her,

They see her wise

Here comes Firdaus

The Queen of Paradise!

i told them it was grey.

the soap in the shower,

the comforter on my bed,

the look in his eyes:

grey, grey, grey.

they said:

the soap would be white again

with a little more use:

you scrub and it swipes away

your love and pride.

and that old comforter

can be colorful again,

as it can be washed and dried.

but his eyes- they'll always be grey.

i said no.

his eyes are green.

within them are the emeralds

that whisper sins and secrets,

the pins and codes i use

to unlock his heart.

because the way he looks at me is foreign and simple,

but a pure work of art.

and i know in my heart his eyes are green

but i see only grey.

and he sees the same as me

much to my dismay.

so together we tell them what we see:

grey, grey, grey.

they say we'll get better, well won't we?

if we can find our way.

together or not our paths are steep-

you can always rely on fate.