No pipe brings dreams No matter how hopeless life seems Drugs can't replace love Abuse isn't love  A crow isn't a dove Just look high above  We all want to be rich This is a human glitch  

  The butterflies in my stomach are talented. They write symphonies between smiles And subtle serenades behind stares. They pull the strings of my heart And tie them around my ankles To puppet every step I take toward you. I don’t think I am in control of this, I am already running miles in my head Trying to catch up with my racing thoughts of you. I am stuttering and stammering, Tripping on my own words, My tongue is as clumsy as my feet Because I fell in love On the first two steps walking toward you. I have written love stories That start with hello And end with I love you, But I can never remember my lines Between those points. I want to call myself a hopeless romantic But I can’t stutter out the romance So I guess I’m just hopeless.

  It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far more i