Writings of a Sinner

For all sin and fall short of the glory of God

Category: The Sins

Saving grace 

This is where I pray for forgiveness. 

This is where I break from the strain. 

This is where I call on your mercy. 

This is where I call on your name. 

I have stepped off the path with deliberate steps. 

Now I beg you to pull me back into your grasp. 

I am broken and rusty, but you give me the best. 

I am dirty and sick, but you wash my feet. 

Lord, We are tired and worn and we ache to be home. 

No words can say it right except yours. 

I won’t pretend to be worthy to even ask for a drop. 

But this is where I ask for forgiveness. 

This is where I pray for your saving grace. 

Disappoint

You try, but it’s barely an effort. 

You push, but it’s barely a sway. 

You’re known for hard work, but you’re one step from lazy. 

You’re looking up, but you’re falling away. 

Don’t claim to be whole when you’re broken. 

I’d be surprised if they don’t already know. 

When you’re hoping to pleasantly surprise them,

Just remember that you’re bound to disappoint. 

Lust

Sticks and stones break bones and find homes in your brambles. 

You flash a wink and throw a smile to crush a man into hopeless shambles. 

Heavy air surrounds your name to leave me shamed and so unclean. 

You whisper softly in my ear and tempt me with your evil scene. 

Worn

My eyes tire from seeing the stars glisten in peace so far away. 

I don’t know who is lonelier. Them or I?

What do they see when they look in the mirror? 

Do they see the fresh smiling face of content beaming back at them?

Are they warmed by their own heat? 

Or are they worn by the effort to share their light?

The Lonely Hour. 

It’s that fateful time where you could be dreaming wistfully away into your own reality. 

Or maybe it’s one minute out of many that you lie awake and watch all of your downfalls play out on the ceiling above you. 

Possibly, you breathe in your lover’s hair and find comfort with their warm body in your arms. 

It’s not out of the question that you’re fighting off heavy eyelids during you quiet night shift. 

This lonely hour whispers only longing and isolation into my ears. 

Longer than any normal measurement of time, I shall try to sleep through the lonely hour. 

Permission 

Am I allowed to ache to feel you wrapped up inside my embrace? 

Am I allowed to trap you in my arms like a fly caught in a web?

Am I allowed to send whispered love letters to your in acknowledging ears?

Am I allowed to tell you that I miss you even if you don’t say anything back? 

Am I allowed to let your silence break me? 

Am I allowed to let myself fall asleep early instead of waiting for a response that’s short and vague?

Would that be ok? 

Do I have your permission?

Am I allowed to miss you?

Forgotten 

I’ve forgotten the way it feels to hold on so tight you break. 

I don’t remember the addicting annoyance of long strands of her hair tickling my neck. 

I was reminded of the sensation of hot breath against my lips. 

I can no longer taste the salt of skin. 

There’s a hint of perfume on my bible. 

Sand slips through my fingers and I can no longer grasp the things I’ve forgotten. 

Crush

Inhale.

Vision blurs

Exhale. 

Fire splits the sky from your maw. 

Inhale. 

Claws dig into the soil. 

Exhale. 

Muscles tense and launch you to destruction. 

Inhale. 

You crash through. Concrete turns to dust. 

Exhale. 

Lifeblood leaks from the cracks in your skin. 

Inhale. 

Lights fade. 

Exhale. 

Inhale.

Exhale. 

.

.

I can’t look away

I can’t close my eyes and shut out the scene that I don’t wish to see. 

It’s there. It’s happening and I know of it’s existence. 

I can’t look away and ignore the sight of my mirror’s betrayal. 

The downfall is painfully present and is shaming the night. 

I can’t fall asleep and not think about how I’m not needed. 

I felt the footsteps coming before the ground could tell me the same. 

Tightrope

Tiptoeing on a tightrope I’m trembling to tell you that I’m still trying. 

Broken on words that bust and bruise and bleed me dry of any bravery. 

Eyelids indecisive between easy sleeping and the effortless eating of hours. 

Honesty hurts harder than the hand that harms my hastily forsaken heart.