trikuti

If Jesus and Buddha met each other, d'ye think they'd fight?

blood-stained keys, chipped and cracked, reincarnated songs of the same body and mind, what i would give to not sing but speak, so i could implore you, please, for just one new melody.

dear lord, one day i would like to meet you, and when that day comes, maybe i will see the light. but right now I'd sooner feel rain on my face and believe it, than have conviction of an unseen Spirit. so do what you do, that's your job, but don't expect me to understand, that, would be asking too much.

if each empty promise you swore to me were a pane of glass, those words you speak are mute to my ears, and the louder you shout, and stamp your feet you push me further still, 'till all i see will be a reflection of me, when the sun rises again.

you scrape and scar yourself every time you open your mouth, not your lily white skin, no not your pouting lips, no sadly for you, your soul.

Your excuses whistle through the tattered remnants of what we were, no longer able to bind the fragments, plug the holes through which the cold winds now blow.

Like old cans stripped of their labels, naked tins of tomato soup and cream corn, their purpose lost in anonymity, I find myself invisible. Opened and emptied, I roll through dark days like blind alleys, kicked by tattered feet wishing for shoes.

She has never been a daughter, or a sister, and she will never be a girlfriend or a mother. She does not have a birth certificate, Or a driver's license, or an adress, And you will never see her, touch her, Hear her voice or her laughter. She is not tangible, or visible, Objective, or material. But she is not a fiction, or a fabrication, A lie, an illusion, or a mirage. She is not a wish or an aspiration, A desire or a dream. She is not a role, or a character, A model or a construct, an ideal, or a cliche', A conception, a convention, a projection, An expression, a notion, a fashion, or a whim. She is not a condition, or a d

I do not blame God for the evil that befalls me. I blame Him that evil exists at all. Preacher says that life is a testing ground to determine my eternal destination, but if I indeed have a soul, the breath of God, within me, my forever should already be secure. Preacher says that God does not tempt His children to evil; of course He does. In allowing His servant Lucifer, a lesser power whom He could easily crush, free reign, rein and whip over the world, He tempts us all. Preacher says we all serve one of two masters, God or Satan, but there's only one master, is there not? For all of his power and disobedience,

You’re a conundrum to me –  a mystery I need to solve,   a maze I yearn to unwind    a labyrinth I long to navigate     a knot I lust to untangle      a skein I ache to unravel        and lay smooth.