My confessional diary is like a drill that digs into my chest

water gushes out and dampens my dark-blue-shirt,

spectators watch in silence hoping to read what happens next,

disciples hold their pens as they stare and anticipate my raising,  

a new decision flows freely from my heart; poetry will honor women.

I lie in bed; my dreams are very different from yesterday.

Dreadfully today gives lower back pain, I aspire to recreate yesterday. 

Drained empty, it burdens me sadly to attend the funeral of L.P.

Accomplishments are obtained by ambition,

poetry without passion is a body without purpose,

Oneal without god is love without growth.

Thou shall not envy his neighbor

learn to turn the other cheek.

I ignored your calls and texts, oh Vulture

Wont answer your emails your blocked forever.

Facebook?

Our friendship drowned in the toilet

gone as a pound of flesh carved from your body.

Built with wipers that wash away landscape poetry,

My car navigates around rotten poets

who cling to broken-tree-branches and colored-leaves.

My Lexus is justice for every young poet.

My books cement my position as

a Canadian fighting for the integrity of all poets.

I have heard; “Salvation comes after His death”

is what some Christians have said,

“Belief in one God”

is what all Muslims have said.

I say, love is like air, necessary for all of us

so I would prefer to shake the hands

of Jacob and Esau; children of Abraham.