POEMS NOT PUBLISHED
In truth, I ask sincerely,
Can a flower blossom without dying;
Just as I also inquire,
how can my love for her be forever faithful without falsifying?
I know, and I believe,
Us humans are beautiful but God is brutal;
For He, positions us in an awkward situation;
Which is hard and forever futile.
Something About Jesus
Something about a child born in a stable
Something peculiar born by a virgin;
Raised by a carpenter on behalf of a spiritual father
Something in a world filled with sanctimoniousness chagrin.
Something about changing water into wine
Making the blind see and cripples walk;
Something about raising a man from the dead
Something in a world that can hardly talk.
Something about a last supper and betrayal;
Something about an arrest, a trial, a crucifixion;
And while the whore loved him so much
Four of his friends wrote something called fiction.
While the scars of the past still remain,
the wounds haven’t closed since the sixties,
when I was merely eight years old.
In a large part,
because of the abuse, I got
from a paedophile.
To be honest with me
I have to recall the scars of yesterday.
It's all about being molested.