Flay off my false skin.You can't see why I like to concealand highlight my face(Or is it that you refuse to listen)And continue to belittle me.It isn't like anyone, especially me, would care.But I dare you to try to kill my aplombAttempt to slice away my confidenceMy confidence to appear cythereanMy confidence to enjoy my appearanceMy confidence to exist in your denialMy confidence to rebel against you merely by existingMy confidence to kill, no, impale the black hearts of brutesLike you.You can try and you will failFor I am a growing thorn, not a thorn, a spear
Look at my legsMy feetMy face.The beaten bruisesHiddenBy hosiery and stilettoThe dripping offConcealerLook at my eyesBloodshot andFrenziedIn vengeful rageAnd righteous fury.Look me in the eyeAs you spit uponMe and
I miss your warmthI miss the way yourSkin brushes against my arms.My chin resting in the crook of your neckAs I rest against you.We delicately swayIn the breezeUntil the bell ringsAnd lunch break ends.
My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,Weak, wretched sinner though I be),My trembling soul would fain be Thine;My feeble faith still clings to Thee.Not only for the Past I grieve,The Future fills me with dismay;Unless Thou hasten to relieve,Thy suppliant is a castaway.I cannot say my faith is strong,I dare not hope my love is great;But strength and love to Thee belong;Oh, do not leave me desolate!I know I owe my all to Thee;Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give!Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be,
A Pit -- but Heaven over it --And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad,And yet a Pit --With Heaven over it.To stir would be to slip --To look would be to drop --To dream -- to sap the PropThat holds my chances up.Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it!The depth is all my thought --I dare not ask my feet --'Twould start us where we sitSo straight you'd scarce suspectIt was a Pit -- with fathoms under it --Its Circuit just the same.Seed -- summer -- tomb --
What does the hangman think aboutWhen he goes home at night from work?When he sits down with his wife andChildren for a cup of coffee and aPlate of ham and eggs, do they askHim if it was a good day's workAnd everything went well or do theyStay off some topics and talk aboutThe weather, base ball, politicsAnd the comic strips in the papersAnd the movies? Do they look at hisHands when he reaches for the coffeeOr the ham and eggs? If the littleOnes say, Daddy, play horse, here'sA rope — does he answer like a joke:I seen enough rope for today?