REBORN
this sickness envelopes mortal form, 
for pain tastes just so palpable— 
‘cause when her wrists burn from the stripes that she placed there, 
perhaps she’ll then glean some semblance of control. 

darling, it’s with a heavy heart i write 
searching for answers in surfacing letters 
which float like cadavers to the surface of this paper. 
when we mark our lives with anything but Grace 
i find that truth is easy to efface. 
for drowning in self-hate’s undertow 
we’ve forgotten which way’s up and which way’s down. 

she’s got a heart made out of empty boxes, 
built more for temporary storage.
she wears pretty dresses and doesn’t even try to hide 
the battle scars that float upon her skin. 
in her eyes i see oceans and waves 
but they mask a past of which she is so afraid. 

daddy’s cold fists and cold beers went hand-in-hand 
and his empty soul that longed for a home 
begged for a solace that transcended control. 

momma was too busy talkin’ church to recognize 
her daughter had red lines across her arms. 
too consumed by her own need to feel worthwhile, 
she made her daughter feel worthless 
seeking vanity and labeling it “righteousness.” 

little girl, only four years old, 
gettin’ touched in the dark by men full-grown, 
crying out loud because she’s dying alone 
where were you, God, while she drowned in her own home?  

so, she turned to the blade, bled red on her arms 
and crimson rubies mingled by her wrists 
as she tried with all her might to have something 
anything—to control. 

the razor was serenity, it granted her amnesty 
from the shouts of her mother and the fists of her father 
and no one could rip this sanctity from her. 
little girl, only six-years-old, 
struggling for some semblance of control. 


but, soon, this was not enough 
she needed more than control, needed more than enough, 
so she lost her heart in an attempt to find it, 
sold it to a boy with a glimmer in his eye and a shimmer in his smile. 

he took her dignity from her, but she didn’t care 
she gave sex to get love 
because this was just another teenage affair. 
it made sense to feel at home in his arms, even—
even when he was exchanging lewd pictures with other women. 

she craved intimacy, don’t we all? 
so she sold her heart for a bronze piece 
turned priceless into purchased 
hoping he might reassemble the fragments of her tragic, broken heart. 
but, this guy was just a boy, craving for your touch, 
so you gave that kid your everything, hoping it wasn’t too much. 

and he abused you with his lips the way daddy did with his fists. 

you didn’t know any better, and how could you? 
they’ve scorned the trappings of your grandeur in their vanity. 
this scissor, paper, rock façade has you on your knees 
making something that couldn’t be any further from love. 

so, she settled for poppin’ pills and suckin’ down smokes 
nicotine numbing the nothing that she feels, 
trying to forget about last night when she— 
shoved her fingers down her throat 
or what she did to her wrists so she could cope.  

how do i convince her that she’s worth it? 
how can i show her my God died for her? 
“i’m sorry” sounds so empty 
when she’s barfing all over the floor.  
truly, princess, if i could swap this skin for stone, 
barter blood for brick, i’d be the castle i so long to put you in.

how can one begin to express her value in words 
if she transcends the might of language itself? 

i know my empty cup can’t fill her
but that won’t stop me from dribbling every droplet i have left. 
all i hope, God, all i wish, 
is that she learns to embrace the taste of Love’s precious, forever kiss. 

like the dew that paints the morning grass, 
her splendor is fresh with every new day. 
as songbirds raise their melodies high, 
so, too, should we raise her heart; 
yeah, her worth is like the sun—for it brings up each new day. 
bright and blue, and though her smile masks the turmoil she feels inside
it’s that smile and those sparkling eyes that make me feel so alive. 

i’d trash every razor and kiss every scar 
stand toe-to-toe with the bastards who bartered for her heart 
and with clenched fists and unmatched fervor 
fight tooth and nail, 
fang and claw. 
i’d ware my flesh down to the bone 
and fight till these bones were ground to dust. 
i’d die with her name on my lips, 
because she is the one that has given me hope 
through all of my own worthlessness. 
 
if i could take every scar from her and make them my own, 
i’d do so in a heartbeat, 
because all i want, no, all i need 
is for her to see there’s not just defeat. 

i want her to know that when i look into her eyes,
i see more than just the scars of her past. 
i want her to know that i think those scars on her legs, 
those bruises on her hips, the cigarette burns on her ankles, 
that they’re just beautiful 
because they’re a part of her.  

i want her to know she is gorgeous. 
i mean, i want her to know that she is lovely. 
that it’s not a matter of opinion, but the espousal of a fact.
that she can turn the pages of Teen Vogue 
wishing she had a body like that, 
but, God, i swear, she shouldn’t trade it for the world! 

i remember sitting in a park as the moon waltzed in the sky 
and she asked me to write her a song. 
well, i ain’t so good at singin’, so i wrote her this poem, instead. 

because, girl, i want you to know: 
your beauty is like our God’s love— 
it prevails, regardless of what you think or feel. 
 
 




Reborn - Single

WOLVERINE
we live in a shallow world filled with shallow people 
answers sought for everywhere, save the broken Steeple. 
we’re artificial, superficial, time cannot erase 
the plastic bags and shopping carts 
we’re helplessly displaced.  

celebrity magazines deceivingly glimmering 
it all seems just so fickle. 
“mingle with hot singles,” 
‘cause that’s what love is, right? objectification?

reality television, painting a portrait 
that scapegoats our own wavering convictions. 
aestheticism and poeticism, coupled with romanticism 
traded for oiled skin and muscle tone 
and all of this vehemently condoned. 

when broken homes and wise-word tomes are rarely intertwined 
it’s times like these, we search like thieves, for what’s impossible to find. 
encouraged to offend, scorned if we can’t pretend 
i didn’t know it possible to drown in the shallow end. 

with aching hearts, crude body parts, we’ll search for love again 
but perfect Love, though we may seek, is not of human plans. 
crude hands rubbing skin 
sand-paper throats choking down alcohol 
blacking out and waking up in pools of our own vomit, sweat, and spit. 
pissed upon by friends who think it’s all a joke 
while we lay unconscious, Death’s fingers about our throat.  

three hundred and fifty channels promoting a valueless existence, 
confusing sex with love, forcing us to deep-throat madness. 
sanity has ruptured, leaving room only for confusion. 
we are a mess, and this is my conclusion: 
we’re obsessed with leading lives devoid of faith, hope, and love. 

for, what am i but the resounding clang of a cymbal? 
if i have not love, i am nothing, i tell you, nothing! 

we sit on university campuses, pretending we’re awesome 
while starving children are yearning for the extra half 
of the cheeseburger we just threw away. 
we part with our reality, we bask in our anxiety 
‘cause we’re afraid of what it means to be vulnerable. 
i remember reading that love is vulnerability 
and we can’t begin to love unless we engage in a dance of transparency 

but, this openness is mindlessness 
because i hide my insecurities behind my extroversion. 

i talk about God like i know Him, but i ain’t got the slightest clue 
‘cause if i really knew what He did on Calvary, if i knew what He did for me 
then, maybe i’d start acting like i actually need Him. 
i wrap myself up comfortably in my anger, 
arrange my heart with earnest trivialities 
and blanket my sadness with filth, 

yeah, ‘cause i’d rather be pissed off 
than to hafta feel this hole that’s in my heart 
and it’s easier to be irate 
because when i can’t see past my rage 
it’s easier to forget the Cross and what it means for you and for me. 

if i truly believed, i’d live my life so differently 
i’d quit pretending i was the only one who mattered 
start breathing in the Spirit and exorcising disaster.  

each and every one of our black hearts has known the kiss of grace 
yet we seek the lives that seem to me so easy to replace. 
we ask the question a thousand times, “why must it end this way?” 
in the end, it’s just a matter of rhyme, we’re nigh impossible to dissuade. 

we live in a beautiful world filled with beautiful people, 
infused with rich community, far more important than any Steeple. 
we burn the tangible things of the world
and search for love in all the right places, ‘cause
at the end of the day, we realize
we can’t take anything past the grave.

so, show the world that you still hold hope.
victory outweighs the burden of regret,
and i’m just beginning to find the answers
to all the queries that lurk within my chest. 

don the full Armor of God, 
so you can be firm against the lies of the Enemy. 
stand strong in the face of wickedness and with all your breath scream, 
“you have no power here! you shall not pass!” 

you are more than a conqueror. 

i will never ever forget that the easiest route
is only the cheapest way out.
i’m reminding myself to live above and beyond my regret.


Wolverine

SELF-PORTRAIT
pull back the zipper lips of this cold, marble façade 
and rip open the soul, digging at the chest cavity with wrought iron fingers 
better fit for squeezing the life from my own throat 
than extending to you any form of hope. 

this self-deprecation leaves me gasping, rasping, clasping on 
to a truth i’ve come to believe was only a lie. 
is there really any use in hoping anymore? 

you see, i’ve got fish eggs for eyes 
and mop strings for strands of hair. 
i’ve got yellow teeth like caution tape 
and a haggard beard that my momma says she hates. 
 
i got more dirt under my nails than a trash compactor 
and more black on my soul 
than black-lunged cancer patients waiting in hospices, ready to choke down one last smoke. 

i’m a monster who drinks lust 
and dines on the flesh, 
a hypocrite, a cheapskate, and a fake.
so, with God as my witness, i stand not a man 
but something far more foul and gruesome. 

i am my own judge, jury, and executioner 
i am the skeleton hiding in my closet. 
this here’s the second-hand cigarette smoke that i breathe 
it’s makin’ its home in these discrepant lungs 
while these words burn my throat like gasoline rum. 

and maybe these words are nothing but the stink and filth 
and rot that i espouse—yet, i’ll fill my lungs with shouts
and try and cast aside your doubts. 

it’s been so long since i’ve had a home 
seems like every new place i go 
is fraught with failed expectation. 
and if the journey’s truly the destination 
then, why do i so long for the pace to slow? 

darling, trust me, i am bruising and i am lusting 
but, i swear, in the end i’ll somehow work it out. 

my friends, it might be better if you cover your ears 
submerged beneath the waves of sound and oblivion 
than listen to the syllables that froth on my lips 
the foam licking the beach’s shore, like a kiss. 
i’ve hidden behind ambiguity for God knows how long 
hiding this—flesh—beneath an exoskeleton. 
i am a contradiction, and my walk has become a crawl 
my Bible’s just an ornament hanging in the hall 
and the fragments of my sanity stain my crimson skin. 
but, you’ll smile politely, perfect teeth gleaming 
because you have no idea of the anguish that wrestles in my stomach. 

she says i’m chasing romance, 
tryin’ to fill this hole in my heart with temporal happiness, 
but she’s only right in part. 
yeah, she’s only right in part! 
‘cause, you best believe, i’m lookin’ to be satisfied 
and no amount of niceties can convince me that i’m anything more than worthless! 

my momma said, “actions speak louder than words,” 
so, go ahead, darlin’, say the words you think i need to hear, 
all the while telling me i’m nothing in a way far more sincere. 

they say quit lookin’ to your past 
but it’s so hard when i have no hopes for the future. 
all that’s passed is shame and regrets 
and i’ve become defined (confined!) by my guilt. 

like Simon Peter, i fall at Your feet, 
“Lord, get away from me, i’m so unworthy.” 
God, i’m so unworthy, so inadequate. 

so, how can You tell me that i have value when, 
for so long, 
i’ve found security in my insecurities? 
and, yet, You propose to value the valueless, 
to give worth to the worthless. 

oh, Eternal Optimist, come redefine this legacy of mine. 
‘cause God You say i’m altogether beautiful and i can see that in everyone else, but 
when i look at my reflection i am filled to the brim with bitterness and resentment. 

God, You say i’m beautiful, but i can’t see it! 
i’m blinded by this broken heart, these lines of red that lacerate my soul. 
God, how could You ever love a monster like me? 
i think You’re crazy for loving a wretch like me, 
for i so often give You the finger 
when You lean in close to me. 
how can You love me when i hate me? 
You love me when i hate me 
i hate me 
hate me.


Self-Portrait

“and then,” said the man to the ocean, “come make your home within my chest. 
i lost my heart so long ago, Lord knows, i need some rest.” 
but, the torrent of rain wouldn’t cease and his words were lost to sea… 

there’s a demon devouring his mind, 
replacing neurons with little gears 
that grind and gyrate in irregular patterns 
leaving him fixed with a temporal existence that supersedes understanding 
replacing synapses with wires, rearranging into a detrimental mentality.
and, now, there’s nothing in his chest 
there’s only a remembrance of loss and death 
and his mind has been long since dissected, 
now, nothing remains of consequence. 

i am driven back to this paper again 
after another night of screaming my lungs out. 
built of lust and filled with greed, 
i am in desperate need of repair.  

i will carve her name in the clouds.

i’m drowning on perpetual tides 
and i find the best place to kill my anger 
is in the typhoons of broiling sound waves. 
 
i strike out, far out to sea, because the guy i mentioned earlier, 
well, yeah, that guy is me.
i find my peace at home adrift the reeds. 
i must confess 
(even if it’s with my last breath,)
“i am the culprit, i am the criminal!” 

the silence of my solitude 
the chaos-sea in my own mind 
i cannot seem to leave it all behind. 

i know what i need now 
(but i keep dreaming of what i had) 
and whenever i hear the soft whispers of unconditional love 
they’re silenced by the roar of my guilt. 

you built your kingdom in my heart 
and i will carry the pieces for the rest of my days. 
i am composed of remorse, 
i am assembled by my regret. 
i couldn’t tell the truth, ‘cause, i was afraid i’d lose you
seems it’s a bit late for that.  

i wish i wasn’t so obsessed with tearing myself down. 
i have become addicted to digging myself a deeper and deeper 
grave in the ground. 

when will this be banished? 
because i can’t stop thinking of the way she used to look at me. 
it’s devolved into a bitter memory and it seems to me that, 
with all of this baggage, i’ll never live free. 

what did all these sleepless nights mean? 
when i told her i loved her, i swore that i meant it, 
ten pages, inked in blood, mean nothing 
because i am a liar,
because i am a coward. 
my enemy is me. 

as it was written, “Love never fails.” 
so, why, oh, why am i such a failure?


Pearson Bolt

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