This can't last forever ...

I've just been trying to find a space that feels nothing less than perfection.

Where my day commences with love filled in the next room-scent of coffee and the singing I have always loved from the woman that shared her body with me. Or maybe the first glance of light being of the man that shares my bed and soul. I want nothing more than for the aroma of my existence to be a mix of joy, faith and intimacy like no other.

I want to re live the life I should have had after the production of my chromosomes. I know nothing of how a man glances at the mother of his children, nothing about the love a mother fosters into her rib cage the moment her womb becomes the root of a new beautiful world. The way she gives love to everything that was suppose to save her.

Being thirsty for love has to be one of the saddest realizations. The sensation that you carry in you everywhere, that you leave tainted in everything. It doesn't sit at your vacant address when there's no space for sorrow. Never does it terminate it's exchange of pain with one. It just rocks there so quietly; waiting for life to trigger the fuck out of you. And when it does, Her pipes burst into melodies too strong to comprehend. The pitch of her agony stings every nerve within me. It obtains all control of the word "Love".

[I WANT TO GET EVEN!] She befriends my ego. Almost a stronger match than the reckless mess that compiled me to a road with no direction; a train wreck meant to happen. United, they've erased my identity, my faith, my longing for more than this life. Dozens of endings, bitter beginnings, and no consistency but the drugs that are holding this canvas rock steady.

All I've been asking for is a space where my reflection isn't so hard to digest, where the sound of my voice won't electrify me, where who they made me and what i've created for my life; fits. Fits the puzzle that never feels will be complete.

Strapped to my chest

Heartbroken because of my defeats. These boys have yet again to make it a smooth trail of sun flowers and star light leading me through the forest of all my ruins. Constantly trying to connect to your being primarily seems as hard as me searching for God. Maybe both are just as taboo. Isn't it faith I lack in both of you? Records that will never have solitary truth? 

But missing the connection between my safety and haven comes with a price of sacrifice and compromise. Compromises outside of my jurisdiction. I don't mean to be reluctant but the beat to my heart feels as if its touching foreign grounds. 

Praying is the only way I feel connected to my plee, to my faith in knowing if you just practiced me, you'd never question the universes conspiracies.