Demons always inhabit desolate places.
No one chooses to be a writer;
Or seeks to be oppressed,
You’re called to this suffering
And either flee or accept.
Well, call me Jonah—
I spent a lifetime resisting
Oh, all my poems are there-
In my old high school yearbook
Under the title Anon
I was a wild ass of a man
Who thought he could hear God and run;
It happened to the desert monks
In the form of temptations
And apparitions
Ghostly voices on the wind
And rain with its sadness
And not to forget,
Beautiful women
Made up of nothingness.
The gold, the glitter and the girls.
He took a coal from his altar
And cleansed my lips
I was a man of blood
But He saw something else
Something hidden in my heart
I had no knowledge of myself.
And so, torn between dreams
And confusion
Not wanting to be a prophet,
But only to be human,
I deliberately spilled
Black ink of despair...
My stained glass soul
Too broken to repair.