Out of ten commandments, I get off on
breaking three.
There's the cussin' and the skippin'
church, and of course adultery,
and if I ever managed finding a partner
so inclined
I'd be open to breaking all three at
the same time.
Always lusting or hungering, coveting,
craving,
Things the commandments say I can't
have unless I'm misbehaving.
The things that I want and the things
that I need,
Or the unending urge just to blow off
some steam,
This missing material mass leaves a
tiny hole in my life.
God doesn't want me to be satisfied.
I put aside my pen or keyboard each
time a poem ends,
I sigh and breathe lightly for
forty-eight seconds
Before the Holy Spirit comes over me
with new inspiration,
Some unlooked-for, half-formed,
creative ambition,
Unchecked and unfilled and unyielding
and breathless,
A errant linguistic quest–won't stop
until I get this.
God doesn't want me to be satisfied,
and I think he's right.
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