Bad Religion

Now I lay me down to sleep
I prayed to you my heart to keep
and to love me assiduously
in the way that required no boundaries.

Bounded heart and soul to your every word
I thought you granted peace and serenity in my world
but only really left it in turmoil
plagued by false hope and no promise land.

That which we swaddled in cherry blossoms in our hands
is now crucified against a wooded stand.
And your refusal to resurrect it
only makes me question your purpose and existence.
You told me you were God
and I almost believed it.

How could you be so deceiving?
I bit into the apple you handed to me
and was instantly infatuated by your being.
As much as I questioned it,
you convinced me that this was what I needed.
I ended up drowning in a sea of sorrow 
wondering if tomorrow you will finally be true
to what you originally set out to do.

I've simply lost my faith in you.

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I wish it weren't you that became my fate.

Love Is Poetry

A poetic melody has manifested itself into what exists today.

We have swaddled it in cherry blossoms

and laid it to rest on the rich green grass of our idyllic scenery.

Our hearts have crooned this melody for months

Now a lullaby that I fall to sleep with at night.

Endless writing on thousands of paper cranes

Our words are nightingales in the spring evenings.

A fallen star our eyes have witnessed

and colored lights prancing in the cloudless night sky--

A flower breaking through two plates of concrete--

May the ink that flows from our fingertips nourish this unexpected miracle.

Oh what rare beauties we have been able to see

when love is nothing but an ideal of poetry.

Dissonace

Part I

You are empty promises
Served on broken china and half-empty crystals
Of red, red wine,
And your service slices through my delicate hands easily,
Creating wounds too wide to close.

This blood, like honey, drips slow and stains
This white blouse--
I think it looks pretty.
I sip the liquidity of your entity,
Losing sobriety with each drop.

Part II

You are half notes with cacophonic tunes
And I prance across your bare floors with such elegance
Only to find bits of glass kissing my skin--
But I do not stop.
I can't.
Blood spills from the ghosts of their lips
and auburn streams streak over the sheened wood. 

Your music
                    And my movement
Are    
          never
In sync.
Alwaysclashing,
Never agreeing on that perfect rhythm and harmony that,
Once upon a time,
the two had created.

The Lost Ones

They are the girls who are quiet and mild at first glance

but after peeling away their many layers can find they too just want to have fun.

They are the girls who don’t obsess over their figures,

knowing that someone will love them in all of their glory.

They are the fine line between eloquence and plainness

who wear just enough makeup to enhance their natural beauty

and don’t spend their time and money on something that will last until midnight.

They are the girls who would rather wear sweats and tees

than strut in a cropped top and skin-tight pants

but when they do go out, they go out in style:

classy, but never trashy.

They are the wallflowers at parties who dance with their friends

because grinding on drunk guys who just want to hit it and quit
because they're afraid of commitment

is just not appealing to them.

They are the hopeless romantics who wait for someone to admire their smile

than be in awe of their thick waists

because they know they have so much more to bring to the table.

But they go unnoticed because of those girls,

the ones who easily lie down with no questions or expectations

because guys love girls with no strings attached.

They are the lost ones

and some day hope to be found.

Writing Challenge (2013)

I have come to know the vastness of paper

How its surface bursts with such blankness

It’s calling my name

Its transient emptiness transforms into characters

that I myself have never even imagined could happen

This scene they act out is the perfect picture

of what my story is

It has all been done before of course

but not like this

No one has been able to perform my story

with such accuracy and passion

The only imperfection is that none of my misunderstandings are resolved

These characters falter over these misunderstandings

It was wrong of me to assume that

they were capable of accomplishing such an impossible task

If one cannot understand oneself

how can one expect others to understand too?

I have come to know that paper and pen just sometimes aren’t enough

Morning Breeze

The morning breeze pushes past my bohemian-esque draps

and creeps silently upon

my naked skin, caressing my shoulders, neck, and face.

I turn to welcome it,

rising and pushing away the sins

of the night before. The perfume of

clean air and fresh cut grass

fill my lungs as I partake

this breeze.

It dances around me,

carrying me to a tub

filled with pink tulip petals and a sweet aroma.

It lowers me into its altar,

washing away the

dirt and grime

of imprints left upon my skin

that were trapping me. The breeze carries me

back to where it found me this morning,

leaving me limp against a new skin

and escaping back behind

the bohemian-esque drapes.

Beastly

I met a boy once

who had thick lines of scars

etched across his face,

each one telling its own story to me

as I stared into them.

At first my weak eyes could not see,

but as I went deeper into those lines,

I could see that the reason for their thickness

lay behind short personal narratives

of indiscretions and consequences;

lies and betrayals;

regrets and mistakes.

And as I stared deeper

into these lines that bled such tales,

Fear slithered across my neck

and whispered into my ears,

Stay away from broken people.

But I couldn’t,

because looking at them

was like staring into my own face.

And so my eyes ran over his face,

tearing these lines apart

so that I could find him.

I suddenly could feel his soft flesh

as if my fingertips were

lying against it.

Then I found his eyes,

feathered and what seemed to be half-closed

and smiling

and I could really see him.

My vision faded out

and the scars

along with their stories

took their positions on his face again.

But I was blinded forever.

I met a man once

who had thick lines of scars

etched across his face,

each one telling its own story to me

as I stared into them.

And he was the

most beautiful person

I had ever seen.