Fountain Of Confessions On Amazon

fountain of confessionsFountain Of Confessions

    Fountain Of Confessions is now available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. I look forward to hearing any feedback on it. Thank you so much!

    Ghost Plant

    One story
    up, under a roof,
    under a perfect yellow moon,
    I wait.
    I watch oxygen expand
    into greatness.

    Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
    from me snoring.
    Oxygen starts its engine, then
    shuts off again.

    God grows in a cradle like a
    ghost plant, a living reminder
    of what is yet to be dead.

    One story
    below me, kids are
    throwing stones.
    An eye for an eye,
    till war takes them both.

    When tonight catches up, it will
    pluck spots from the day until
    we sing the song of
    the crickets.
    I will wait for God to grow
    out of his cradle, strike a match
    against conscience and finally,
    rename me.

    And The World Doesn’t Agree With Me

    My time is 15.
    I am round cheeks
    and naked with definition.
    I don’t know how to hide under
    the thick film that buries me later.

    He is built with reddish, muddy hair.
    He flares and expands in size,
    greater than any other young torso.
    I watch him hold hands with Grace
    and Innocence, I listen to him
    sing with rebellion and defiance.
    He strums, and he strums me along
    to the quiet, unexposed nights.

    My time is 16,
    and he has left. He has found liberty;
    liberty, or abandon.
    I have found a stuffy old pharmacy.
    I sit on sidewalks eating tiny tablets, remembering
    abandon from times: 8, 9, and 10; it is
    sadly comfortable,
    like I am with him.

    3 months later, he brings back the East Coast.
    His air is accented and tired,
    thick for me to breathe.
    He smells like 15, though, and he tastes like
    the cigarette we shared on the night he left.
    He brought himself and his guitar
    just to me,
    and he strings, and he strings me along
    to the quiet, prudish night for two more weeks,
    and then he is gone.

    Now, I listen to the music,
    to motorcycles drive by
    my dark basement, with strings that
    I will learn to play later.
    Not yet, it is not time for me yet.

    Right now, the film is building.
    Right now, I am being defined.
    Abandon has timed itself, lined perfectly
    with my over-exposed skin.
    I need him.

    I need him.
    I will,

    and the world will never agree with me
    and nobody believes me.

    Your Darkness

    Are you just out of mind? Or have
    you lost bed, too?
    I’ll lay you down with straw and
    help catch your rogue.

    The passage to sleep
    is in a cottage, as bare
    as birthed privates, down a
    cottaged street. The seeker has treats
    in that darkness! The darkness
    where we meet.

    You collected loneliness
    in places that I jog in. I
    watched you paint,
    I watched you slice your flesh
    with window,
    I watched you crawl under his
    sheets at night, to
    ward off  the darkness.

    Still it comes, a happy thief,
    painted like a victim,
    no matter your age, it never will
    outgrow you.
    Though, your flowers bloom and
    your pumpkins grow,
    though you scrub light into
    your palms,
    it never will outgrow you.

    I taught you a language, a long time ago, a
    protection from the shadows,
    before sun marked your
    pale skin,
    before your lips touched a sugar breast,
    you were my garden,
    you were my flower;
    a light, all of your own, to light your darkness.