Altar regrets; please don’t alter my texts –
or delete my last request; as lust requests
you do what feels good, but it all becomes
tomorrow’s bad mistake, dressed out in
yesterday’s breath.

At the front of my books – my body language
in bold font is what I’ll flaunt; though at times,
I’m not so bold at being myself...
Physical or digital – spiritual or literal –
loaning some faith on empty days,
loading some company when I feel
I’m moving through life at my lonesome,
feeling loathsome.

But take your time; write your own books if you
want to – just don’t forget the lessons you’ve read.
Despite being blue-ticked in person, my presence
and influence still get left on read...
I can’t claim ownership of everything; crying for
it all, till my eyes are painted red.

As each good word you’ve received is a divine gift –
to defy the rifts; to train and define your divine gifts,
learn to prune the sickness from your vine so new
creation can live... value the chance to forgive —
make every reason solid, for choosing to live.

Walking down the aisles of fear –
a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic,
a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned.
And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered,
spinning, never quite finishing the lap.
Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar?
The echo that completes the pain, or the piece
of you still aching to be whole?

Some days feel like broken piano strings –
and not every key fits success, as the minor
hopes can also become our major regrets.
And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place,
living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest
your mind, find another song to sing.
One that knows your name.

Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee –
as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold
a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night
stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand –
grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps
washing away even as we walk forward.

Take the time—don’t just spend it— to watch your grind,
These dreams are brewed, steeped behind these caffeine eyes.
Still, as the sunrise scripts its golden lines, my gaze still delays
Having to put on a daily mask; trapped in yesterday’s disguise.
All of these borrowed hours lace my breath, thinned and worn,
All these seconds spent on second-guessing myself; I’m torn—
Barely paying attention to obvious life lessons due in reflection;
Skipping those lessons, now I pay with life's collection.

As for facing my many regrets, it proves facing the glass—
But not all mirrors can clearly cut clean through the past.
Truths are warped, wrapped for the present, for who peer—
Peering in, fragile as much, cracked, and smeared with fear.
We search within ourselves, as all seekers must willingly do,
Searching for a love clear as glass — one that is sharp, and true.
As peach blossoms fall, and small stones roll, know: that through
The times of picking yourself up, some dust gets stuck on you.

The world isn’t so clear, especially if man’s clarity is uninvolved;
Profiting from all our scars – given titles hanging over ourselves
So many times, that prophets need to remind us of who we are
Profits, or prophets, but it all depends on who’s worth you trust.