How can I breathe at night,
When my lungs escape me?
How can I supplicate to my Lord,
When my soul's dead to praying?
It's all just a matter of opinion,
They say.
It's all just a difference of upbringing,
They entreat.
But I say it's no different than opposition!
I say it's a difference of upbraiding!
And what of my lot, of not, and of woe,
Than what I have cast to my Lord?
My heart now lilting, and killing the flow,
Of which I had pressed on so before.
How then can we sleep at night,
When we are guilty of worse than our calling?
How can we stand in the presence of God,
When we are the ones who stay down after falling?
Thus, we result to a prose of blood!
And we see not how the pain of what we say will press on,
To haunt our deepest fears of adequacy,
And we wonder why we find comfort in Solomon's Song.
It [Love] is a product,
Some say.
It [Sex] is a currency,
some entreat.
And defy, I cannot; I will not!
For who am I to judge a misguided soul?
I am to be, for I think, and so.
Filled with bitter contempt and woe.
No Locke can define the keyhole of reason,
Nor Robe dress me with the negligee of treason!
Merry, Magnificent, Majestic, yet Mal,
This vanity in me is solemly foul.
It plays games on my heart, and my sides, caressed for the tickle,
Influenced my Adolescence, whom are already too fickle.
Oh how then can I say I am more holy than ye?
Who then can I vindicate to set his heart free?
Yes! He can lighten the load on my conscience,
But Beyond Reproach... need I say more?
Maybe now we let light on the depths of my collapse,
And prelude the intentions so prophetic;
Or maybe look back to the beginning to relapse,
Why, thus, I have come forth with confessions of my poetics.
