It seems like they’re all gone now.
Every time I open the blue box, how
the green dot goes to mobile;
it’s getting hard to stay noble.
FIghting off persistent coughs
of a future habit hard to stop.
A red and white envelope of paper
buy one now, to use for later.
With friends, no thoughts fly
to what I should be able to deny.
Yet alone, the struggle is close at hand
My ego striving against the id’s demand.
“All writers do it, it helps create,”
my mind says to try and deviate
from what I do not want to do.
A whisper in my ear, “It’s true.”
A secret desire, borne of the night
in daytime spent trying just to fight
the shameful appeal of the world.
My conscience consistently curled,
bent at the edges where it would not lose
holding onto morals it could not loose.
Lord Jesus, I need you here in this moment
to guide me away from my sin’s strong torment.
The lips utterance are tears of crocodiles
as the mind still lingers on that which defiles.
Just try it once, and it won’t be that great –
a statement spoken with bitter hate.
For self-destruction is made of self construction
Ashes fall down from purity’s reduction.
God, help me, and help me to want Your aid
lest I fall in the subtle grave I have made.