Lord:

no bequest requested.
no grant, no teach,
no need or greed asked
just a hey listen up,
if your attention is elsewhere

this is an
all-on-my-own
prayer that
my eyes only utter,
my tongue,
self-silenced,
can only watch
and must approve

in fact,
this is more
of a post
than a prayer,
updating you
on the state
of what we Earth temporaries
call the heart, mind, soul
and even our,
your-designed
crafted carrier,
my body

Mine enemies call me
cursed, embittered,
they are right - but fools,
they are
so much more than wrong,
for in this they err grievous,
for they cannot see their own
bile provisioning their end

ask for no interference
from the sidelines
neither from the
sapphire mother sky
that raised me up gloriously
this morning

nor the emerald earth
that this day
both gives and gets
common bounty
gives me sustenance,
as much spiritual
as grained cereal delights

lest you think this
just one more
me-centric rants,
let us recall this prayer,
is his very own,
prayer of gratitude

woman's head
rests on my chest,
her blonde highlights,
highlight our bed
and our
life

take and tuck her tresses
from eyes and forehead,
gentle them into place,
behind her ear,
and my hand journeys on
to the skin,
flesh of her backbone,
where my fingers
spread wide,
five messengers unique,
advising all of the 120 provinces of her
heart, mind, soul and body,
she is my beloved,
and I pray,
I am hers

learning still to
live with my means,
such as they are,
sometime mean,
sometimes extraordinaire

even this skill,
to express

is a gratitude
that though
comes and goes
like summer breezes
that as now we pray,
cools my AM coffee
while studying the
patterned mystery
of the bay's
Ave Maria waves
from that
dock-by-his-name

where my heart, mind, soul
drink wet inspiration
from the still-oak-tree'd-strong-surfaced waters,
the blue glue of
our common delighted,
uncommon existence

this skill,
at this moment mine,
to share and
not to keep,
for have I not,
been blessed,
by comrades-in-arms
that kneel beside me,
asking, imploring
to be stronger yet,
for their sakes,
for them!
I pray for
best they-can-muster
sustenance of peace
of heart, mind, soul
and body

here now,
my shills,
my failing skills
cannot help express
in new ways,
a gratitude
that has a shapeless shape,
no measurement app enabled
for their comfort,
our comfort,
best grasped as
an unbounded divinity,
how so I wish I could pray for them better

focus this prayer
on the good ones,
who so greatly honor us
with a greater-than-a-creator,
gift glorious of
friendship

this walnut crack'd shell,
this container ship of
heart, mind, soul,
here there,
a few leaks sprung,
no nicotine patches
to cover

this dented car,
this dented body,
new dent every day
from only-you-know-where
still gets me there,

but
other than taking care better,
it plods along and houses
the rearrangement of this prayer's words,
and that is what is called
plenty good enough,
self-sufficient

prayers that are too long
go to the back of line,
so here we be,
but here we do not wait!

for prayers of gratitude
are instantaneous fulfilled,
and thus granted even before
they are completed

There is a crushing vulnerability, weighing on my lungs.
My youth is obvious in my words, my idealistic views, my poetry.
I write and hope and dream and wish for a one day, that's far away, better than this.
School drawing to a close, days rushing by my ears, I lose touch with all I feel.
I devour as much knowledge as I can; letting sentences sink into my skin, over-analyzing everything.
Craving the touch of those I love, friends and lovers alike.
The future claws it's way into my eyes, daring me to be brave.
My arms span above me, like wings, stretching, wishing for a break.
I write essay after essay; each devoid of my aspiring voice..
I'm taking on the world, one step at a time, desiring to make it my own.
As I rotate on this ginormous blue sphere, my youth begins to show.
It surrounds me, a soft warm glow; reality cannot touch me.
I am a youthberry, bursting with joy.

The tips of his wings stained a crimson red,
the light drawn from his eyes with his final breath,
a loathsome look upon his shame filled face,
forgetting all his amazing grace.

he's fallen from the tips of heaven to the depths of hell,
the angel his face stained with an auburn glaze,
captured in the battle just lost,
his nobility failing at his own great cost.

they whisper in his ear, the superficial beings,
they speak so mellow yet there words be celestial,
they scrutinise him, tempting his weaknesses,
their ****** eyes divulge his very being.

"Come my son ill give you peace" his father calls from above,
at this his tepid and tedious ways at once are banished,
he takes his fathers effluent hand and he is made clean,
saved from the superfluous for all eternity.

If I were the words
that fall like crosses from your lips
I would flow from your lungs like holy water,
opening your mouth like double mahogany doors.

If I were the words
that fall like crosses from your lips
and float down on guardian wings from your tongue
I would carry no sound but still be comparable
to church bells.

If I were the words
that fall like crosses from your lips
I would have been glad
to have been nothing more
than a word from the bible of your speech.