I never feel good enough:
My words needing something special to attract sleeping eyelids.
All these guns for hands,
even my own, want to construct violence. Hatred sells a million
views, while Love is on the run
& go. You’re always running toward me, saying that old familiar rhyme from my childhood, with a twist:
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but holding onto You will never hurt me.
When I am in Your arms,
I am wrapped in a house of gold.
You take my contemplative nature-
my staring, silence, questioning completely. I can’t fake you out
when I shoot someone through thought.
Why are they doing that?
Look at me, I’m gossiping
in my head.
Out loud is throwing stones
I profusely apologize throwing.
It’s spitting on You,
begging, Friend, please forgive me.
But the saliva has taken to the skin.
I’m the semi-automatic sinner
You let pull Your trigger to these crimes I wouldn’t take credit for.
My implicit demand for proof
someone means when they say,
I will die for you.
Author’s Note: This was inspired by a conversation with Justina, about how we all feel as artists. Whether it be a writer, painter, poet, etc. I also used Twenty One Pilots song titles throughout the whole poem, which was a lot of fun. Enjoy! 🙂