You’ve spent a long time walking
down a darker lane,
spiraled out of control,
dragged yourself
into the wrong kind of fame.

Now you’re picking up the pieces,
learning they’ll only remember
who you used to be—
not who you are now,
not who you’re becoming.

There is no turning point
when they look the other way.
Still you hope that someday
someone will take you
with open arms.

’Cause there’s no greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.
No greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.

You’ve reached your breaking point,
almost given in.
But I want you to know:
your past does not define
who you are,
or what you’ve become.

You cannot let the sins of yesterday
swallow you whole.
Yesterday doesn’t define
who you’ve become today.

And today,
you are enough.

Don't have her eyes O' Lord
Bear the eyes of a devil before hers
Better even to stare with dead eyes
Let it be neutral, your saving gaze

The song I sung has taken a turn ,
what once was evil, now had to burn .
With all the spirit and nature in guide ,
not all is ours, what we provide ,
to free the soul from burden of hell,
and nothing humane-WELL ! WELL! WELL!
The sight and motto to be the "GOOD",
still standing there ,where you once stood ?
Kept the people by your side ?
But nothing's left except that PRIDE .
Insane , how it worked on death ?
Body is freed and the soul at debt .
The chemtrails running white on blue,
has been once me ,now it's you .
Vibrating air and sleeky wind,
couldn't erase what has been sinned.

I see where David Berkowitz got Jesus in prison
like they always do.
Now he runs a ministry, adept as he always was
at delivering
succinct
sermonettes
delivering people to God.

He was a postal clerk, always involved
with the Message.
Such converts have a carnival of explanations--
the devil
the neighbor's dog
and other invented booshwah.

Susan Atkins got Jesus in prison too
and wrote a memoir
about her redemption, her will turned over
from Charlie
to Christ
but it could have been Moonies or Ekankar.

There is a rat who lives in my garage.
He hasn't heard the Good News
but he never
hurts anyone.
He has published no book, leads no prayers.

He likes to hang out behind the shovel
that has never dug a grave.

The authorities let Leslie Van Houton, Caril Ann Fugate,
and Nathan Leopold out.
Karla Homolka changed her name and might be anywhere,
at services maybe,
holding a bible and smiling.
___

Hate swirls deep within my gut.
Hands covered in blood.
Muffled shouts—
I can't decipher
over the raging whirlpool
that is my mind.
I wipe the blood away,
but it comes back.
I don’t know how to hide it.
Everyone is looking now—
a thousand sets of beady eyes,
loudly judging in silence.
Murderer.
Traitor.
I hear their screeching now.
My ears bleed.
Guilty, GUILTY!
NO - I swallow the glass shards
with an unearthly growl
It hurts so much so
I run, far away.
Deep into the woods.
My lungs burn red too.
black smoke emerges from my ribcage
A trail I must follow
A one-track mind
follows the one-track path.
I run and I run—
faster, more desperate.
Footsteps thunder behind me
Are they His or mine?
I can see it now:
salvation.
I walk
to the glittering door
in the sky
straight off the edge
of a cliff.

Our mutual friend
had told you
how I used to be Queen of a very small tribe.

"It seems almost..." I said, hesitating.
"Like it really happened?" he asked.

"It did happen. But now
things are so different that it seems
ridiculous."

I sat there,
shot full of arrows like Saint Sebastian--
like him, not dying
but split and empty like a dead pew.

There are more gospels than they let on, you know.
This man loaned me two records--
Joni Mitchell
and It's a Beautiful Day.

Like poetry, it was love for life for me--
Hot Summer Day and Sweet Fire.

I left Illinois not long after
to Gypsy it in a small car with two teachers
off for the summer.

We read Richard Brautigan,
and wandered the bars in New Orleans, then Galveston
where I left both my crown and my grave in a coin laundry
on a Sunday morning.

Amongst the midnight sky,
I stare at a rose as it dies.

Its pedals are torn and bruised,
such a precious thing to lose.

Yet, when I stare into the full moon,
I see that it will be daytime soon.

When I hear a girl's sorrowful cries,
I know that a new rose begins to arise.

Those pedals are lush and red,
nowhere close to being dead.

And as I find her inside my heart,
I know that I am not falling apart.

I finally realize who I really am,
it definitely took some time but, ****.

It was all worth it in the end.