Sins of my flesh

Beyond the flesh of my flesh, to the souls that reside in my heart, I ask your forgiveness. I know that my actions have harmed those that have strayed upon my path. Know that was never my intention. It pains me to know that my presence has caused you ill. Alas i know know mans by which i can gain absolution for these sins. They haunt me like specter's, discoloring every shade.

Prostate I lie before them, in the hope that I will be forgiven. I never meant you any harm. I am certain that does little to quell the storms that rage within you. What else can I offer you, i do not have that many pounds of flesh to offer. Though I will not call my life a disgrace, now matter how much I may feel it, for it would discredit those that gave so much for me to be here. Know that I plead for atonement

I Am So Sorry

I am sorry. For what I am not too sure. Perhaps, for it all.

I have kept a log of my sins, and hung them form the barbs that tickle the veins of my heart, keeping it from beating to hard or too fast. Keep me alive, that will be good enough for the moment. Let the hills roll past the horizon, as the colours change from green to yellow, until they are met by the cold purples of the darkening skies. With only my eyes to fill them with meaning, the freedom sits in my throat. Unable to swallow, it is better to leave it on the the road, amidst my mucus and bile, for soon glass, metal and blood will litter the intersections.
I could tell you the stories that whimper from the stones, muffled by peeling paint. But that would reacquire a caring demurer and I am pretending to be another player, hoping that this one will stick around long enough to keep my own nature from poisoning those dreams that have managed to survive this far.This face does not have as many scars. It belies the cringes that have etched their marks on its predecessors.  On it new errors can seem pure and intertwined with then need to learn. Alas these are not new marks. Aside from replacing the face, the cost of restructuring the core may be more than the mannequin can bare.
So pray for the child that sits besides the leg of a dream, looking up with all the hope that only ignorance can induce. He has long since lost that hope, his eyes have become murky with the truth of his own nature. The past has scraped away any effigy of purity his soul may have clung to. The suffering his inability induced has tainted the mornings that begged to be embraced. The tears, the pain, the regret, caused by his own hand. The child wanted nothing of the sort. Though the man realizes that his visage now mimics the nightmare that his desires despises, hence the face itself. No metal, nor colour will conceal its decay. Soon the stench will spread and no sweet smile will be able to conceal it.