Darigankat

1. The first time I found God Was when I was 15. I found God in a pen. I scribbled down words And he brought them to life. 2. They found God in their phone. Instead of handling the awkwardness Of the party, They prayed to God to get them out. 3. He found God in his paycheck. He locks himself in his office As if it was a church, Hoping to see God again. I think I saw him praying Last week when I visited. 4. She found God In the mirror. When she looked at God In the eyes, She freaked out And punched the mirror until it shattered. The devil put his hand over Her fist and told her it’ll be alright. 5. They found God in each other. I

i. dear sunshine, you are my bruises. welts along my wrists, fingertips dancing on my neck. bluebird, you were a midnight mistake leaking over the next morning. you wept and all the world called you beautiful; we kissed the naked silence between your bones, we watched you drown yourself in vodka and not-so- secrets, and we brought you back to life; we held you as you quaked like a tragedy in its first bloom. I called you beautiful, and you used all of me [I am as naked as the breeze, as useless as a songbird without a note. I am as hungry the tide and as lonely as the moon who calls upon it; starlight, you took all of me, the negative sp

“There is no God.” “Well, you don’t know that for sure-“ “Bernard, as an AI connected to every philo-science document, every parabyte of knowledge in the Human Empire, every logic string going back to the days of the Past Colonists... I can assure you, there is no God. It has been proven.” Bernard sighed. His helmet visor fogged up then disappeared. “I’m not going to bother arguing with you. Soon that golden gate is going to open, and I will walk into the Kingdom of Heaven. That should be enough proof.” The gate in question was a smooth sphere of gold, slowly rotating on an equa

Tired of all the lies Fooled by your wandering eyes For too long; It’s time to reinvent this masquerade Ashamed of what I’ve done Confused with that I’ve become Do I care anymore? I’ll own this charade My masks are now my own Each one I will condone You think I’m lying? I know I am But I’m not hiding I’m through with fighting I’ll lay the facts down According to my own plan The mask among my friends Will lead me to new ends I‘m fearless, dauntless With whispers I’m through The guise with my elders Is me fluffing my feathers Take a look at my achievements, For they all surpass y

god cried for us that afternoon on the rocks, if I could be so selfish; you had your hands grasping at my empty vapors before I’d had the chance to whisper to you.          I see you                 shaking. I know you’re                 hungry and I know                 the temperature of your                 eyes when you lie. you                 said you were lonely. half-truths are the essence of symbiotic relationships, your fingers trailing along my hips, glacier blue eyes holding me still. the rapids churned. god cried for me that afternoon. he was selfish, too.

There was one thing I was certain of when we met that day; You were the most miserable looking cat I had ever seen in my life. A tiny white furball. Skinny. Unproportional. Your legs were too short for your body, as was your tail. It made you wiggle when you walked. There was that thing about your face that just wasn't right. Weird, squinted eyes. You were always snotty, like having caught a cold that never ceased. And when you purred, it was strangely noisy. As if something had broken inside long ago. We always had that funny joke about you, in which we pictured you as a human being. The school nerd that got bullied on in class. The one wit

we are not a fairytale. I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire, bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity; motivation seeping through my every last intended action because I was written this way (the heroine falls only to rise again: proverbial phoenix, burning out because it is the cycle of my life) and you, you are not the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed to strike me where I’m weak and [almost]human, delicately woven like the tapestry of my dismantling— a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer chuckles softly, understanding we are blinder than church mice, born in a makeshift world of darkness where I&rsquo