He who believes his own lies can not be argued into sanity. He who believes he can do no wrong can not be argued into learning. He who assumes his church position equals his level of righteousness leads his soul astray. For a man can be both a priest and a terrible human. In the name of God, a man can commit atrocities and call them glorified acts approved by God. Therein evil disguises itself in a rob.

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Success attracts envy. Failure attracts unsolicited advice. In the pretense of care, we Christians often rush to advise the man who has sinned or erred. But should that man succeed—or worse, find Christ—our ego cannot allow us to congratulate him with the same militancy we displayed when he failed.

There is evil, and then there are people whose gratitude is tied to their ego.

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A man who pretends never to sin or make mistakes faces terrible anguish when he is caught in one—whether by himself or a witness. Instead of accepting that, despite his status or position, he is flawed, he labors to maintain the false narrative he created in people's minds—or even his own. I suppose it is more important to be perceived than to be. Many have lost themselves in the refusal to be real. The idea becomes the reality. Delusion is the new religion. Acting is the new sermon. Pretending is the new “I am fine.”

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I have never felt an anger like this, angry at God for making you so perfect. Perfectly good at pretending to be fine. Perfectly fine. Perfectly good at curling into your laughter and making your misery into a joke or two. Perfectly funny.

You have the body of a model but a misshapen soul. You have the smile of an angel but the anger of demons, demons if demons were polite bout wanting to slit their wrists and rope their throats. I have never met one look so heavenly and yet carry so much hell. A face made like paiting roses but the mind pierced by thorns, puncturing every little hope left; bleeding every blooming idea of happiness. The serpentine stems of those thorns wrapping around your lips, your hands and your heart; denying you the ability to kiss without hurting, to hold without bleeding, the love without breaking.

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I want to know your body with my hands. I want to taste your skin, like I were having strawberries or sipping honey. I want to feel your soul between my fingers.

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You are my war
You are the fight between
My heart and my mind
They bang, clash, and clung
And dig their finger nails into each other's eyes
All for the sight of you or lack of it
All for the opportunity to hold your hand or (not, to be, or not)
All of it, all this war, all for love

And one says I must love me more than you
And the other says you are all that is worth loving.
You are my country, my earth, my universe
And for you, I would war every angel and demon

There is no discharge in war.
All men must die.
And I. I chose to die for you.

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Why does your pain hurt in mine. Why do my lungs weight for your sadness and my heart for your brokenness. Why does my soul sour for yours and my tears cry for yours. Why does my soul live in your body and yours in my skin.

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Each time I hear your laugh know what you mean. You have lost all your sadness, that all that is left for you is to smile. You have lost all your anger that all that is left is to feel numb.

And some confuse your numbness for patience. And your smile for happiness. But you have met the devil, and she was a woman. You have been touched by evil, in all the wrong places.

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I do not believe we were ever meant to be ; we are.
Like two pieces of the same painting, we are not some piece of a puzzle that must meet; we are: painted together but painted white. And so we are tomorow, today and yesterday. We are love, the idea of it and the color of it. We are not in it; love: we are it. We are meadows, and the flowers on them, the grass, the wind and the lovers there. We are the sky and sun and moon and air. We are. Therefore we have no need to prove our love, as many have need to do, but as long as all things choose to be, we remain without choice but to be; each other's compliment; each other's soulmate.

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I love you without the need for romance
In the same way that I love roses and butterflies
That, in their beauty, and certainly yours
I am reminded of the existence of God and angels
And I would die for roses, for butterflies, and for you

Without having kissed you, or needing to I know your soul tastes like nectar and your lips like galaxies. Without holding your hand or needing to, I have held the dark parts of your soul, from which your smile has borrowed its light. Having just met you, and yet it feels that we have known each other in every life, here, there and nowhere.

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