Time moves along so fast

Yesterday I was seven and tomorrow I fear I'll wake up with wrinkles on my face and children all grown up and a husband who can no longer achieve an erection without pills

Emerging a slight crack, your voice carries
Seeing sleep from the inside, bumping against my eyelids when I blink
You little piece of me
You little piece of me so in the way
And helplessly wail, a tiny blowhole gang popping rainbow soap bubbles
Little calloused feet with big silicon mothers
Getting in the way again
Soles on the carpet to walk it off
Burying ash, gray to float away and praise, hallelujah
With my knees in the grass to say I hope you never find out
Lucid and laughing at nothing at all
Soon I’ll need another and another and another and…
Dionysian grip with Apollo all dressed in crimson
Billowing above from a stream of gray elation
Skin, illuminated forearms reflect the ceiling and hands catch
From flaky white surface, sins as a crutch

Shake it Out

I found this little treasure hidden away in the depths of my hard-drive.

Points like trumpets, swallows and sighs
Self-loathing grows little feet and runs around
An awkward tap dance for the indifferent sky
To make sense of the heavy shouts rolling down
Or the bolts of light setting fire and blinding eyes
Gashing down yellow strips of jealously in rage
Splitting the soliloquy of the sublime oak tree right in half
Cutting hands away from the golden box
Bloat its legs when it was once so proud
Make it an art to find yourself stumbling around
Smile so big is just flipped upside-down
Hyper-sensitive, give in, give in god-damn
I’d claim you were tipping back the bottle, holy father
I caught you sneaking around the corridors with their daughters
Whispering “submit, submit” to make no martyrs
Grow your hallelujah gut cute creature of immolation

How could this happen? I keep playing it over and over. Is it possible for this to all just disappear? Please God, please.

Am I delusional when I see what Ive been asking over and over again? Is there some plan, some intricate design to all of this? Because when I saw what some person wrote, I started to wonder if God was listening.

But God is not listening. Because God does not exist. God is a construct we make and fall back on when we are feeling weak. This idea that we call God is the ideal of humanity, humanity at its pinnacle. I noticed it, she noticed it, and Frank noticed it. I live by reason, even the Bible says our hearts are deceiving.

Nature vs. Nurture

I thought for sure I could manage the explosions, they were, after all, mines I laid myself. Carried like newborns, cradled rather, like Christmas ornaments or glass China seconds away from shattering, I placed them all with careful consideration. These were mine, these buds of anger, cracking the dirt like seeds straining to see the sun. I sat back to watch, trembling. Have I sewn seeds of things I will grow to regret? When the time comes, will they explode in my hands as I struggle to find them before my enemies pass? Will I protect them once again? Or stand in silence, the proud owner of their wrongs; a machine they have created, their prodigy child, perfect replicas of their sin. Are we just patches of experience molded by the quick hands of lust, rage, gluttony, fear, negligence, and disgust? What of nature, what of innocence at birth? I'm not sovereign in my own body.

"I also have in my mind that seemingly wealthy, but most terribly impoverished class of all, who have accumulated dross, but know not how to use it, or get rid of it, and thus have forged their own golden or silver fetters."
-Thoreau