Religion

One day I will come back home.
I will walk on the familiar welcome rug
and smell the scent of childhood;
an emanation from a past life.

One day I will come home.
When I can walk into the arms of loved ones,
without bearing the need to care for those
biological associated with my
name.

One day I will come home.
But it won’t be to hand written to-do lists on
my wooden desk
nor to the kitchen slab with
food awaiting knife cuts
and other members
awaiting sugar coats.

One day I will come back home.
Treading on familiar sidewalks and skipping
the ending lines of cubes.
Racing my spirit
and finding it
at the doorstep.

One day I will come back home.
I will lose the idea of my self the moment
I ring the doorbell
and will slowly let my soul
fall prey to
religion
as I walk through the door
to home.

 

My God

My God isn’t perfect.

My God is made of skins of color
My God is multidimensional,
inhabiting eyes and souls
and other little beautiful things
that are empty,
vast,
infinite,
and sacred.

My God doesn’t overview us.
He does not look upon us from above.
My God’s colors are smudged across
all of the skies
and galaxies.
My God is the fabric with which the universe
first came to existence.

My God is the first lump of energy
years ago.
He is the moment of creation,
the Big Bang,
the present, past, and all the little
pieces of time
in between.

My God resonates in
the candles lit after midnight.
He is the revolutions
erupting
against governments
and desires
alike.

He is the dark strangeness
hovering around
the thoughts
and little corners in the rooms
of your mind.
He is the light
breaking through
particles
of
him.

My God is made of me.
I, of him.
He is the souls in revelry
and those in black.
My core, my skin.

 

Existential Pentagon

Light is the theme by which I write every single stream of thought.
My mind is a sun, I believe.
–
Everything revolves around the ideas that put me to bed
every night
I am under the illusion that I know what I know.
I sleep the doubtful self of mine away and hope it doesn’t haunt my dreams
with solid
question marks
and ideas
too large for my blue pills
to stomach through the entirety
of my existence.
–
Light is the theme by which I write, hoping to wipe away your features by something less pretty and more real.
My soul is a hollow but ornamented vase that withstands most
hurricanes.
–
I still believe my soul is sacred and eternal and there is something about that which
makes life all the more
bearable
but
they call me religious and conservative and superstitious
like all three of them
are synonymous
with everything that makes me unwantable.
But I still see reflections of God in my soul and so I hug myself,
abandoning their judgements,
and awaiting his.
–
Light is the theme by which I write. Your face is chiseled by it and your eyes glisten from within.
There is nothing beautiful about you,
but I am still fascinated by your perception of light.
–
I wake up just before dawn from some bad memory
stimulating a bad dream
like the rush of vomit through my throat
and incompletion
causing me to
swallow.
It is not pain, it is the taste of sour lemonade
that I’ve waited so long
expecting to be served by something
less malicious than the rusted
guts
on my insides.
–
Light is the theme by which I write. My God, my lover, my soul, my self, and me. The perfect pentagon of light from which I write. You are my theme.
Not piece-oriented
but rather
infinitely bound to
by all the reasons
that aren’t there to answer
the question of why we are
who we are.

 

Interest

When I talked to her it felt like the realignment of an estranged self of mine,
I know I have abandoned you for so long
I know but I do not have enough space
for the galaxies of your thought
and your negligence for the limits of this world

But I miss you,
every single constellation reflecting in your eyes.

My temples resonate with the frequency
of your soul,
The permeable vessels of my mind
are so easily trespassed
by your ideas
and it is
like a long-awaited victory
for the devil

and love.

For both are made of
fire,
and we were
lighting
up.

On Cherries and Daisies

I love the taste of cherries.
Their strong stems and their swollen seeds.
Their color and their glimmer.
Like a reflecting ever-strong shield.

I never liked the daisies.
Ever since The Great Gatsby.
I fell out of love with roses.
When I realized I was taught nothing
about the remaining flower population
but color and scent.

I love the taste of cherries.
But their season here only lasts a month.
I guess the daisies are pretty.
I just need to stop remembering Fitzgerald’s narrative
of a character with the same name.

The daisies are everywhere
all year round.
They all think I should go around collecting daisies
rather than sit back sucking on my cherries.

But I love the taste of cherries.
And I don’t want to go liking daisies too much
for the fear they’ll make me forget
how all year round
I keep sucking at my taste buds
for the remaining taste
of cherries.