Your words are the breath for my soul. (Your soul is the typewriter)

Your words are the breath for my soul;
The in and out life coming and going
Into me.
Your words are the breath for my soul
Because they are messengers of perfection,
Leaders of insurrection
Calling mutiny against anything that is evil
In me.
Your words are the breath for my soul
Because they carry your heart
Upon their backs.

Your words are the breath for my soul,
And if your words are the breath for my soul
Your soul is the typewriter,
The instrument of Divine Fiat,
Awakening me from my dusty deadness.
I've tried and tried a million times
To write a heartbeat on a blank page,
But the ink dried,
The heartbeat died,
Life escaped me.
But when the tap of your keys
Occurred in my direction,
My crumpled-page heart
Awoke,
The wrinkles straitening into
A script,
With all the lines I need to be the Romeo
For your never dying Juliet.

-Misfit
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Companionship. "Misfitian" Prompt #1

I feel the fog,
I swear I do.
I feel it drawing heavy on my soul.
You and I walk beside the river,
Or perhaps it is a lake,
I never can quite tell.
You are like a grizzly.
You scare me.
You have a wild beauty
That rages like a bristling coat.
It overcomes me.
It melts my soul and heart into
Collision,
Making me feel like a small child
Leading you along this lake-like river.
Or are you leading me?
I never can tell.
Enrapt by your savage beauty,
Fiery in your eyes,
Flaming through your dancing hair like
The arrows of Hino* himself,
I surrender to your companionship.
Let us journey into the grey,
Side by side,
You and I.
We will leave behind us a trail of
Gnarled branches
And shadows,
For you carry life on your back
And trap light itself
In your glistening, emerald
Eyes.

*Hino was the Iroquois god of the sky. It was said that he shot arrows of fire.

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Misfitian

Glued Apologies.

A card.
A simple white card
To cheer me up
And smile my heart.
Bur from the start
I was destined to destroy
This moment.
It always happens like this.
Your wooing smiles are cut short
By one
Negligent word,
Or action
Or Re-action
Breaking your smiles into
Shortness, and hurting the attraction.
The coldness returns.
Spurned by my mis-intended
Fruits.
Apologies stay glued to my lips.

Teary Theotokos

Tears hang heavy in the air,
Just out of reach.
Just out of the grasp of my thirsty fingertips.
Driven insane by the unquenchable desire
For their
Salty sweetness
I am drowning in oxygen
And memories.

They called her
Theotokos;
Mother of God.
Her eternal gaze
Was the life they sought
Desperately.
And by "them"
Of course I mean
You
And I.

I still smother quietly,
Silently,
Shying away from all that is
Alive.
My lungs fill up with Emptiness
And empty of Fullness.
Come sweet Theokotos Tears
And break this heart of stone.

The Bride

She’s the bone of my bone, and the flesh of my flesh
But I use my authority to leave bruises on her flesh.
I’m not man enough to handle her humanity
I tell her I love her,
But my actions speak profanity.
She’s the weaker vessel,
But I turn her into a broken one
I raise my anger, and then my voice
When her tears begin to run.
They fall and so does she
Cause I treat her like a piece of trash
When really she’s a masterpiece.
But I can’t see
What she’s supposed to be
Cause my arrogance is blinding me.
But I show up on Sunday,
With my kids all in line
Singing the chorus of Amazing Grace,
As I call myself the Bride.

I call myself a son of the Light
But in darkness I sneak away
So I can feast my eyes.
I open my computer screen and flip through glossy pages
With my filthy heart I give in to my longings
Then with my Bible I pretend to bury my wrongings.
I check off my Ephesians five checklist
But really I’m nothing more than a serial rapist
Forcing myself on the image of God’s creation.
Night after night, time after time
I take what God calls beautiful
And call beautiful a lie.
I heap to myself lust for God’s creation
With every tap of my keys I call His work DEGRADATION.
I go to church every Sunday and call myself a man
While using the precious blood of Christ to mask my bloody hands.
But I’ll go on using 1 john 1:9
Degrading his creation, as I call myself His Bride.


Prince Charming came down from His throne
And said his vows on Calvary,
And one question keeps haunting me
Taunting me
Gnawing at my conscience
As I embrace sin consciencely.
What If my Beloved
Was a Husband
Like me.

Magpie.

My heart is a nomad
Drifting across the landscape,
Looking for a place of sun.
My soul is a transient.
Rootless, Homeless, and
Lifeless,
I search for a place to lay my head,
A pillow to become
My potting soil.

This Booth.

I love this booth.
It is tucked away from clutter,
Like a hidden enclave,
Like the underside of your covers
As a child,
Hiding from the wispy ghosts
You knew took habitation
In your closet.
In a way, that is the same
As this.
I feel the wispy ghosts still.
They still frequent
The closets of my life.
But here, between the
Air conditioner's hum
And the smell of coffee,
The wispy ghosts find
Other closets to frequent,
Other people to frighten,
Other booths to haunt,

Companionship.

I feel the fog,
I swear I do.
I feel it drawing heavy on my soul.
You and I walk beside the river,
Or perhaps it is a lake,
I never can quite tell.
You are like a grizzly.
You scare me.
You have a wild beauty
That rages like a bristling coat.
It overcomes me.
It melts my soul and heart into
Collision,
Making me feel like a small child
Leading you along this lake-like river.
Or are you leading me?
I never can tell.
Enrapt by your savage beauty,
Fiery in your eyes,
Flaming through your dancing hair like
The arrows of Hino* himself,
I surrender to your companionship.
Let us journey into the grey,
Side by side,
You and I.
We will leave behind us a trail of
Gnarled branches
And shadows,
For you carry life on your back
And trap light itself
In your glistening, emerald
Eyes.



*Hino was the Iroquois god of the sky. It was said that he shot arrows of fire.

The Little King.

The chasm-like blackness lies heavy
Like a blanket of soul.
The eating, gnawing blackness
That can never relent.
Timshel the king sat silently,
Pondering carefully the
Perilous flight.
His life was denied.
His kingdom a lie,
A never-ending insurrection of scarred, broken eyes.
He thought he had control.
He thought his feet were planted firmly
On the events of the day.
But he found that he had miscalculated the decay.
His kingdom of hope rebelled,
And became a tyranny of broken dreams.

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My words can hug too.

My words can hug too
Because I can't tonight.
As you sit alone in your room
And I sit alone in mine.
I know you say they aren't enough
But tonight they will have to do
Because they are all that I can give you.
I poured out my heart to you in those words.
Can't you taste the liquid heart?
Did you even know my heart was
Contained in those word prison-cells?
I poured it out for you to catch.
Did you even catch my poured out heart?
Or were the word containers not good enough?
Because I can't tonight,
My words can hug you,
But you have to let them.

An Elephant with wings.

The vagueness comes
Like a blanket of dusk.
The lines that defined my character
Fade into grainy horizons.
I've lost my place,
Like an elephant with wings.
I can neither fly
Nor live in peace on land.
My weights destroy all hopes of flying
And my appendages break
All dreams of normality.