I keep missing the people
I never loved at all
when it was my time to love them--
too green, perhaps,
in the skill i am most skilled in manipulating.

Each has now gone to his respective
bedlam,
and i could cry off a cliff
but my tears wouldn't turn
to apache stone
because the mother turned her back on me,
she cries on my birthday,
screams and spits.

I look at them and feel so close
like I'm looking at pictures,
but only half of memories exist,
the other half are no more real
than the pain i feel
when the wind blows bangs into
my eyes.

I confess, I confess,
I wish I were catholic so I could be heard,
but I confess, I confess
I love you and wish
that it could come to fruition
now that it is impossible...