To all of those who want to “Fuck”,
Do you even realize what that is?
What you’re making it out to be?
Sex is a beautiful thing made from love.
“Fucking” is using another’s numb body to feel good.
It’s a way to “score”,
It’s an act of lust, not feeling,
For cold people whose affection has fled them long go.
Making love, however, is gradual.
It rises after years of holding hands,
And gathering each other’s heart pieces,
Promising to never let them shatter on the floor.
For those who are inundated with so much love for another,
The flame melting them as one,
Will never burn out.
It’s delegate, a big deal to those who care.
And you call it “fucking”.
If only I’d have known
That was going to be the very last time your big eyes made me shine,
That was going to be the last time I called your name,
I would have reflected that light to the stars,
And hugged you tightly as your identity left my lips.
She’s like fire under water.
She’s like hope in the rain.
She’s like sunshine in the storm,
And a vacation from the pain.
“Get some sleep. I mean it.”
And then I made the mistake of picking up a pen and paper.
Worries flying in the wind
to a place a care not know.
The light filters through the clouds in a
golden beam that shines right down on me,
daring to let go of the chains at my sides.
The air speaks smoothly to my skin,
The slight current on the creek
making music with the rocks and water.
I kiss you lightly
As if you are as delicate as the flowers at my feet,
Peeking through the stones and mud.
Above, robins praise nature.
Below, I praise God.
This is so special
that I can tell it’s going to be
one of those memories locked inside my heart.
But that’s later.
The smells of blooming color and
the childish love are now.
I am at peace.
There’s got to be a reason
My heart doesn’t skip when our eyes meet.
There’s got to be reason
I can breathe when you’re not here,
My pulse is normal when you kiss me,
Or all I feel are your arms when we hug.
There’s got to be a reason.
I am tired of seeing
My faith on a gurney,
And my happiness in a body bag.
Exhausted of pounding their ribs
For a painful resuscitation.
I’m starting to wonder how many more
Trips to the hospital
I can take.
Why can’t grief take its final death?
Why can’t sorrow be the one to fall ill?
Instead, I feel like I’ve been given
The scalpel and gloves with
No one to wipe the sweat from my brow.
But you know what?
I am not a hospital for broken hope.
I am a temple of flourishing spirit,
Something that stores all the happiness
And faith I need to overcome.
It’s in there. Somewhere.
I just have revive it.