The saint in me is still a sinners son

I look at then

and I see me now

There’s people chanting

standing in a crowd

I wanna join in

try to help them out

But my mouth’s cashed checks

that just seem to bounce

Who be it that you try to believe

Who always turns into a parody

Now brush your teeth and try to behave

They’re all gonna hate you eventually

I look at then

but still see myself

Eyes wide shut

full of fear and doubt

She plucked the fruit

from the apple tree

As I stood staring

still I couldn’t believe

Who be it that you try to become

The saint in me is still a sinners son

Who be it that you try to believe

Now you’re all dressed up living a fantasy

I look at now

like she saw me then

All fed up

fist balled paper and pen

There’s dishes broken

on the kitchen floor

The serpent speaks

in tongues I can’t ignore

Who be it that you thought you saw in me

A break fix and used return policy

Who be it that I thought I saw in you

But what difference does it make there’s an election soon

Angels

Don’t you dare close your eyes

like there’s nothing to see

or tell me there’s no reason to be

foolish and fragile and fearful of love

for love is the Ark which braved the flood

Hell I don’t know uh single Saint

but I see Angels every day

they’re all around us can’t you see

in him in her in you and me.

The Futile Attempt to Explain a Temporary State of Being.

Somewhere between

breathing in and breathing out

comes this wave

of melancholy,

like salt to a snail

the only defense

is to crumple

back into a shell,

drained is all sense

is all sympathy

buried beneath

the weight,

sinking

deeper, deeper

into

this chair,

like a prisoner

wrongfully accused

without the funds

to buy a voice,

but time

is a cruel saint

without regard

for its hands,

that never miss a beat

or waver indefinitely

like this melancholia

that rests a while,

waiting for

another breath

to break up

the sea again.