Poignant

I can’t write about love,
No, it’s not the lack there of that has me dried…
It’s every single little thing that’s become romanticized, exploited, disfigured.
Is nothing sacred?

There are times that I find myself standing still,
And my thoughts become like a windmill,
Turning and turning in that perpetual motion around my head.
And when the wind is still, when humanity holds it’s breath,
I can hear the voice of God.


I’m so tired of being scared.