Dear Forgiveness

Since I have been on this Earth

I have been standing in forests

Full of pre-papercut

Fingers and tongues.

Tongues which bleed love,

Fingers that write it.

We pass down simple stories,

Myths, and secret whispers.

Our language, is age-defying

Stonehenge, not brought by

Extraterrestrial beings, but rather

A tear from the past to the future.

Two worlds collide and

cross plate borders

To mingle with the

mashed potatoes and peas.

Here, where science is dinner table banter

And bibles are written in the eyes

Of children.

Truth is spoke through

Songs about the North

Where a heart carved in bark

Means forever.

So I throw my voice like a

Broken boomerang,

Hoping I wont hurt anyone,

Wondering if they’ll throw it back.

It’s like the Thirsty Man’s desert song.

Hushed and baron, almost imaginary.

Yet, still he crawls to die.

We all do.

Craving that necessary ingredient that can

Save the souls of man.

That love, that water.

I’ve been awakened.

Born an over-zealous nay-sayer

Lost in Babylon.

The weight of seven billion rests

On these tired shoulders, but

Maybe if I’m squeezed hard enough

I’ll turn into a diamond

But goddammit for now,

I’m just an idea.

And you can’t put an idea in

A ring Forgiveness deserves.

Right now, I’m unsure if this ship

Has too many holes in it to float.

You patched me up with sour patch kids

And cigarettes, Dear Forgiveness,

And I’d be willing to bet that hidden

Somewhere in your back pocket

You’ve got a new set of sails made

From kazoos that the wind will hum though

To sing us home.

Like a classroom full of silent “H’s”

You left me saying, “ahhhh.”

Sometimes when I’m too sober to think

You can find me spinning around in circles,

Arms seventy-four inches wide,

Hoping a breeze will pick me up.

So far, no such luck.

But one day, when my body takes its flight,

I hope it settles among Leo and Orion.

Make me a myth so I can have proof

Of my existence.

Believer’s in Christ, cover your ears!

Living is not about dying!

Dying is not about salvation!

Yet somehow,

From the moment we are born

We are taught to be scared to death

Like every last second could be our last breath

As if everything can even have a “last”

So watch those memories fly passed

And laugh, always polie

And smiling.

As if I’m reconciling every thought

That has crossed my mind

And meant to feel bad for staring at

That girl’s heart.

So we’re pushed and pushed

Until finally we find that courage

But can’t speak out lest we

Offend someone.

But these speeches and sermons and lectures

Can’t comfort or ease with sandpaper

Sidewalk texture.

They hate these words that I’m saying,

These thoughts I bleed.

Until they super glue my mouth shut

I’ll keep yelling, “So what if they hate us?”

We are all side-seat test takers and

Back-of-the-room learners.

We don’t strive to be million-dollar earners

Or war heroes, or presidents.

I will always skip class to write

Instead of solving equations because seriously,

Who gives a fuck about calculus?

Educate yourself,

It is important but

Don’t let it control your life.

Like this test I got a “B” on may

One day make me a peon

And how can I get a mansion

If I always smell like piss?

I’m talking about progression.

Progression is:

Choosing not to vote for a party.

Buying local.

Knowing that “faggot” will be

Right there with you in death.

Progression is love

And love is accepting.

Progression is questioning everything

You have ever been told by your

Parents, pastor, and bible.

Paul said, “Let It Be,”

But fuck it,

Let us be.

It’s our job to show people that God

Isn’t some white, tax-paying, NASCAR-watching,

War-supporting American.

I’ll admit that my walls are covered

With revolutionaries and pin-ups

And sometimes I can’t tell the difference

Between Che and Marilyn because

Both give me a hard-on.

Sometimes when I get stoned

I laugh too much so my only

Coherent thoughts revolve around

Grilled cheese and applesauce.

And fuck you if you don’t like it,

It’s delicious.

Sometimes I write poems that aren’t

Being published.

Sometimes I write songs that aren’t

Being sung.

I’m getting $9.84 paychecks

Which is just enough to buy a

Pack of cigarettes,

A box of condoms,

And a Dr. Pepper.

And I wouldn’t have it any

Other way.