Old Poem

Here are the titles, here are the stories, here are the woes and misfortunes of the life that loathes and respects the solitude of souls...

Here are the porings, the loves the lusts and happenings, here are the darknesses represented in happinesses, the smiles the glimpses and the lapses...

Here are the broken, here are the thought to be healed and forged and tap dances, here are the feelings, here are the thoughts and emotions of the emotionless forgetfulness of lost friends, and new brothers...

Here is to long lengths, and extreme measures, here is to wash outs and walk ons, here is to pain and plain view disdain, here is to men of valor forgotten by opinions, and the women who stood at their side thought to be slaves, but never happier and proud to be the reinforcement for an army that would of never made it without them...

Here is my soul, here is my spirit, here is my mind and all kinds of lost hurt, here is the love that no one has seen, and no one will, here is to imperfection, and how it pisses me off, here is to my demeanor, and the way I walk, here is to pride and the way it destroys all men, until their redemption or as I call it their compensation...

This is what I see when I look down, a foot, now leave it alone...

This is what I see when I look up, a face, a case of mystery laced by my doubt and distributed by my bull shit and love to see people who are happy, and lost in their misery coming out of pain, only because I did that once and I wish I could do it every day until I die, for that was the day I fell in and out of love...

When I look at my left hand I see a person I do not know, and am not sure if I want to be...

When I look at my right hand, I see one corrupted by a world I knew nothing of until I was taken out of it, I’m not a victim, I am the perpetrator, I am the prosecutor and the remnant left behind by the sin that filled me, how could I ever be the perfection that was asked of me, I don’t think I could ever be what he asks me to be, from on high, I’ve always felt perpetually out of place and never at home, and they say that’s because this isn’t my home, and I ask should that debilitate me...

When I look at my heart it is a weak one, its one that the father shunned for its very nature is death, and I use it with my every breathe, but to no avail for by His power I deny it, but I still soak in the presence of what I will be until the day I die, which is that sinner, and that lie...

I am not something special, that he died as I still was a betrayer, and the only Love I have comes from a man, that I have never seen, and wont until he awakens my heart and makes it strong eternally by his uttered word, it is his command I wait for, everything from my fingers to my core...