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After a Vodka, and Before a Bath, She Killed Marilyn Monroe

If talking opens up the spiritual gate of manifestation, then I dare not ever say it. Hate has attached to my insides and is eating away my serenity. No, I dare not speak it. I must escape the prison of my mind. The passion of hostility has borne a path. I must take flight from the weights on my heart.

How do I run from an inner wrath?

I am trapped in a world controlled by conservative psyche and extremist conformists. If I release wrath, I entertain the realm of playing with fire—to stop a flood with fist. Non-conformists have tried so hard to be different that they appear the same.

No gain.

Must I accept this path for it was a choice I made myself? Minimal thought, taught no gain.

If talking opens up the spiritual gate of the promises God made, do my words choke my hope? In all thy ways, acknowledge him, even when I’m speaking to those unequally yoked.

If confessing my blessings before they happen is bragging, then who am I suppose to reach? Is it to fall far from the cry of complaints, and care not if the bold seem meek when they teach?

For my words to center around an abyss of shapeless rope, faith becomes a box paradox. Am I woman trapped by key-less locks? Have I become the bitter overshadowed by knocks of shock? A thing not tangible yet shaped by two dichotomies; action turns its face from the faceless abstract.

The only love that matters is the love by God.

Will I live not eternal if my Knowledge lacks?

If I find my spiritual self by losing my self,

shall I heal myself by destroying the self?

Can I rebuke my flesh to receive my Spirit?

Can I hate my sin to find life, not yet?

So I stand before the choice all fools make.

And I wake from a dream those wise … forget.

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