crystal clarity.

fine & sculptured
rounded fingertips
cold.
cold like my hair standing up
pushing my muscles.

go faster.

my eyes shine open
an iridescent blue

contrasting the
one murky green
that made them:
swamp eyes.

listless & lethargic

suddenly fall victim to
a tsunami of energy
infusing the iris
with the realisation:

your time here is short...
stunted by the
finite lifespan
given to me so lovingly
by a god who never knew
another's love

He lingers
omnipresent
wishing to be loved
so personally
not by masses
all to willing to worship Him
without getting to know Him

they say
He will give himself to you
if you let Him.

prayer hands are touched so tenderly
together
closed off

&He cannot feel your p[s]alms.

we have the option
of understanding
but we never exercise the will

we lock our doors & hope
opportunity will knock
instead of seeking it ourselves

fifteen year olds carry children with their burdens
and aspiring artists stunt their visions
with chemical doubt.

the prodding continues

i have a job
i am a professional human being.
i act out my profession well

the only funny thing about it is,
the people i feed are rarely hungry

where is the justice in that?

i return to a nice apartment
which i can't fathom calling home

but i am not without shelter.

i will always have arms in which to keep warm
blankets under which to hide

who is the lucky one here?

the moral of the story:
stop complaining.