The Second ComingI.I struggle because God told me that he doesn't like slackers,and it is almost winter, and I have to believe in something.His desk is so tall, I like to sit under it and stare up at wherethe edge of the desk meets the ceiling and his hand tapping.I don't like the cold, but God says that it builds character,so I trek through it to get to something I once loved and it onlyleaves me feeling small.II.I was never a child, I told the interviewer when he climbed ontop of me. I was never born, I just appeared.He wasn't listening anymore, but I kept telling him.God sank into my skin when I was sleeping one night,in a church somewhere east of here, andHe speaks to me now."God doesn't exist," huffed the Interviewer Man.III.There was this man who said that if you spoke to God,then you were praying. Lots of people pray in snowAnd silence, but if they're silent then how does he hear them?This man also said that if God spoke to you,then you have schizophrenia.I don't know what
The Flowers -wilted-She'll give me the garden if she can lift it, turn back time if I need it;The things I find are mine to keep.She is a saint, a goddess, a crook, a fable of festering goodbyes,and if I finally get around to decidingshe will always be nearby.I always find her, like a coin on the street;What I find is mine to keep.The letters she wrote me, the times she left me, the crosses she broke;I'll fall asleep as if I never woke.She is the ocean, the walls, the curtains, the glass, twisting and revealingwhat I told her to hide.It isn't healing, it's just oozing and oozing; she is in my insides.The bottle she left me rocks on my table, spinning and spinning.She looks in my eyes.The flowers she left me never opened, played games on my ceiling, sang softy as I weep.Hers to keep,I was always hers to keep.
Her ValentineHer Valentine was a Religious Man She was the mistaken marvel of a monstrous place. She hung young hearts on the side of his studious church. The weight of the world had its withering worries, and she traded them all for bent apple trees she planted on the highway between belief and wishful thinking. She was a delirious debutante in ripped, white lingerie. She ate her boyfriend, and she ate his words; Now she's back for him, she's back for more. The years
Frigid . He MeltedI fell in love under a mighty pineto a man made of snow.His touch was bitter andhis kiss was slow and frigid.I decorated the tree with orbsof my imaginationand hung lights so I couldalways find himwaiting for me beneath the tree.The night he told me thathe loved me,it was negative ten degreesand his words were ice,and his breath was freezing;I fell in love on Christmas Eve.The morning he wasn't there,all he left me were my love lettersand a yellow rose growing from the groundwhere he once stood.He had a heart of waterand never found his perfect fit.He was afloat in a sea ofuncertainty and memories.I smelled the pale petals ofmy loss's final goodbyesand began to wonderwhen will I fall in lovewith a man made of springsunshine.I'm sure his words will be brightand warm. I'm ready for spring.