On nights like these
She tells me she's lonely
She puts her gold cross
In her nightstand drawer
And turns the photos to the wall
Guilt is to sadness what jealousy is to anger, blue is to red, cold to hot. Guilt arises from acknowledging your failure to act in a way you could and should have.
Jealousy is projected guilt.
The wind of acceptance moves the clouds of guilt, returning the sun of joy.
Inundated with choices,
All of them my vices.
Drowning out obstreperous voices,
You became an arbitrator, leaving me to make sacrifices.
Written in the way you stare me down,
Was the culpability pressed into my heart.
Senseless, naive; wrecking the lovely way I was perceived.
Cultivated to be your fault.
Nurse Me Back to Health
I've licked the tit of guilt
Past the point of recovery,
No nourishment within
the milk of regret,
tied rocks to the noose
to show karma
I'm trying to chew the wrongs
and digest my sins but
I'm too small to sink teeth
into the blood crystals
of my victims.
Tapeworms weave their way
wrapping around organs
suffocating the blood flow,
maggots begin to grow
eating away on dead flesh,
feeling them bite and squirm
inside your guilty gut
of disgrace, disgust, deceitful secrets
that linger night and day,
festering and eroding away
until the disease reaches the heart ...
For Now, Just Let Me Say It Again
As the words pass my lips, I feel as guilty as I do exhilarated
You were never supposed to say you loved me
I was never supposed to say it back
But here we are, your hands in my hands
Along with your heart
Some people live
in a perpetual state of guilt.
They cover themselves
in self-inflicted wounds
to rub in ash
watching pus form
hoping to make right
the deed gone wrong.
But nothing can alter the past.
then the person you are dying for
and be healed.
Guilt Not Traveled
I spread my guilt like butter on your toast
melting into golden squares of passion
against my skin in little liquid sips of ardor
rich canvas of fractured colors stroking silk.
Guilt dissipates as I inhale your soul
lingering remorse drips off my back.
There be Guilt at The Summit of The Sober Morrow
Eyelashes singe from grilling behind.
Bones ache, joints seized, unholy shrine.
Mouth arid akin to dust.
Raucous skull akin to rust.
Was it worth it?
Cloudy lucidity, hazy memories of words said.
Raising Diablo with sultry potions of dead.
Flashes of dancing... but I don't tread!
The horror, the dread...