My photo
I want nothing more than to be that sexy, moody, artistic waif, lounging in a coffeeshop writing poetry, existing off of black coffee and cigarettes.


Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Empty park benches.
Empty trees.
A smattering of bright dandelions
in the hopes of happy-making the
Empty lawn.

They have failed.

Until the sun strokes her
loving hand
across the earth's face.
This is a wasteland.

Maybe I should make a chain
Rip their uplifted faces from their
weeping tortured stems.
Maybe I won't.
I've had enough destruction for today.

And the God walks on
leaving miraculous footprints in
the sand.
His footprints are bullshit.
His footprints are lies.
Merely the footprints of a glorified

Who lived and died, as all do.

The only thing miraculous
about Him
Is the gift of life,
That he had lived at all.

We are all Miracles.