Slow, lazy whistled songs,
in an echoed morbid reflection.
Thinking of Sunday hymns,
Blues, Jazz…
Anything to fight rejection.
I pray at night
for forgiveness in her heart.
I wonder if He listens;
and the sentence of my charge.
I know friends;
it sounds like contradictions,
but this is spilling of my heart.
selfish, self-seeking asceticism,
you could say I’m a little lost by far.
But my war is a battle I fight from within
through intravenous injections
I express through this pen.
The ink is my blood that I sprayed in the den
clotted with infection
like my heart soaked in sin.
2011
MyPersonalAtonement 