anything can be pressed into hot wax.
anything can seal the words into
copy paper white envelopes.
the pastor speaks in words aflame,
the green of fields oh so misrepresented
upon cigarette yellowed walls of a
church that has never seen a god.
the men in suits and the women in dresses
only show up to keep face,
and their children call them unholy,
and their parents call them unholy,
and i look upon their faces and
they are sealed with guilt.
i talk to the lights in the ceiling,
they say
god has abandoned us, neither yours
nor mine,
will ever gaze into your eyes.
you have not been loved,
nor will the storm ease your pain,
and the earth will not grow to fit you,
and you will not grow to fit it,
and your eyes will be ruined from the sun.
and despite this, you'll gaze upon the
cross that dons orange,
and you'll apologize.
YOU ARE READING
an idiots guide to life; how to survive the badlands of wyoming
Poetrythe slightly deranged ramblings of a teenage trans guy living in wyoming there's no overarching theme but there sure is a lot of dogs, horses, and god(s) . i do not know what i am talking about 97% of the time mostly posted chronologically in order...
