When coaxing from me life and breath,

You could’ve gifted anything–

Beauty, grace, reprieve from death

An angelic voice to sing.


Or, You could’ve stepped upon my neck

And silenced all hope with “no,”

Instead you created me, a speck–

And you gave me hope to grow.


I grew beyond the speck of dust,

Became the universe entire.

You gave me hope, and hope I must

For all that We can acquire.
You gave me words, and pen in hand

You force my words to free

“Write,” you said, and with that demand

You gave me hope to see.
I hoped for peace and love and truth

And I hoped for happiness

I hoped for life, infinite, and youth

And I hoped for eternal “yes.”
Yes, you can live infinitely

Yes, you can hold in your hand

Worlds and words–immortality–

For that which you hope– demand.
With this hope I have left behind

The dust from which I have risen

Still, hope cannot still my mind

And thus, it becomes my prison.
You could have given me just enough

To keep me satisfied.

Instead, you cursed me, a silent rebuff

And in that hope, you’ve lied.
I stumble, waiver, hard I fall,

Searching for you all the while.

I reach for you, you ignore my call

You dangle hope and you beguile.
I hoped that if you did not hear

Your “grace” would lead the way,

But in place of hope, abiding fear

And from the fear, decay.
My hope and faith crumbled to dust

A vast void left behind

Anger, despair, pain, distrust

No hope for peace of mind.
I am left with diminished hope

I keep it close, untasted.

I traverse down the endless slope

Away from the life I wasted.
You could have stepped upon my neck

You could have told me not to grow

I created you, you are a speck

Does He exist? No.
I hope that when the void greets me

You are not behind.

Without you, creator, I am free

To hope without you, blind.

Dirty Words

Your words splinter
When you force them out
They are rotten and cold
And they drag away the breath, but
You cast them out.
You are comfortable
They will not come back to you,
Not really.
You will say,
“I didn’t mean it like that”
And then you will say,
“Oh get over it”
And I won’t, but you will think I will.

I will pocket it
Until I can place it
With the rest;
Beneath those are my
And every mistake
I have ever made.
A lower still
You are.
I was young
and ignorant
And now I am old
and tired
And I place my disappointments
In a box.

They will overflow soon.
You will be angry
And you will say that this is small
Just like all of the other things
That fill the box.
They are small
But they are heavy
And the smell of your words
Lingers on them like death.
They last longer than your memory
Can hold
And they cling to everything
And they distort everything
And I can only see them
I can only feel them
We are the sum of
Dirty, rotten words.
Here are my last for you:
I will say, “get over it.”
But I know that you will not.