I like this one a lot

The World is Our Clam


A valley grows in madness
Sadness earmarks the back-lit sky
(Why?)
'Twas (Y)ou there beneath the Cosmos
Almost as though we're born to fly
(Why, why try?)
The cavern that dwells within my chest
Bested once to never rest
Lest twice come 'round once more
(Folklore's still keepin' score)
'Neath the coruscating nigh
Sigh escapes, each passing dry
Eye emotes my shame
(Came softly here without a name)
We raised our birthing irises
Virused as we were
Sure of our own expense
(Defense of what we were)
We dilate optical illusions
Allusions to a diff'rent life
Rife with more potential
(Inconsequential)
Standing 'neath Galileo's dream
Seems impossible to be (to me)
We feel as though we are ants
Perchance, we feel we are little gods.
(Purveyors of our own existence)
(Resistors of our own persistence)
(Resistors of our own resistance)

ice, ice baby

Ice


There beneath the frost of abused
In cracking grass, the white-tipped bruise
To be covered and topped with dew
To be hidden and fade from view
To be kept far away from You.
As my fears scatter like the seeds
Indian summer's dying breeze
Bears away all my desp'rate pleas
And bares the scars the cover me,
That grow beneath the thrashing trees,
It bares the hidden depths of me.
Kept there beneath Your lock and key
Is all I ever hoped to be.
Instead I kept doubts arising
Found this harvest's freeze apprising
You of my lonely, prising grasp
Of this desolate, crackled rasp
Of all You gave me leave to be
Lest I fan fires of destiny
And find myself returned to Thee.

Leafing on a Jet Plane

Where Sermons Go To Die


I am the acolyte
Of autumn's dispersion,
Witness faith's conversion
To despair, and come
Whatever find you there.
Disbursing out our overdues
Perversing mold from autumn's hues
Conversing on our tattered news
Worn bare by all of winter's leaks.
I notch the passing days in weeks
One for ev'ry thousand hours
Drink before the sweetness sours
And we're all stuck in rhyming sap
Another feather in our cap
For delusion's own achievements.
As we wend our way past our bereavements
With bureaucratic speed,
Blinded by our own need
Stuck to redemption's tree
By our stupidity
So have Your way with me. 

I hate feeling a failure

Ultracrepidarian Me


Forging opinions I do not hold
From all the facts I do not know
Perhaps if I could be so bold
I might pretend it's all a show
(Cause after all, it's all my fault
But then again, I'm wearing thin)

(But then again, I'm speaking sin)

Perhaps I'm merely cherophobic
It's certainly less aerobic
Than prancing 'round in childish glee
I do not act so childishly.
But then, I only hate the hate
(Or at least that is what I say
I do not know myself today.)
My baseless anger at a faith
I have taken little part in.

My silver tongue turns to tin
Thus becoming little more
Than member of the infantry
In a lonely little boy's war.
Just soldiers in the games of kids.

Now I've put all that behind me,
Claim I did not do so blindly
(Why is it so hard to find me?)
A misanthropic misanthrope
(Cats in cradles, and mem'ry's rote)
Perhaps all that I've ever done
Is create endless streams of me
All dumber than the prior ones.

(I'm just one mistake from greatness)
(Just one success away from death)
(I swear, oceans apart from you.)