A Fine Line

There is a fine line
between art and anguish,
a very thin line
between hurt and hate.

I walk that line most days now
like a drunken driver walks
the line at the side of the road.

Boundaries mean nothing
in the game of in-betweens,
when angels become demons,
when red gets the better of green.

They say guilt can be forgiven,
but shame is a permanent stain,
the one can beg for mercy,
the other becomes your name.

So there is a fine line
between heaven and hell
when truth becomes theory
and hope is hard to sell.

A short and broken line
between living and dying,
a very short distance
between true love and lying.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012

Dead Inside

I have a friend
who is dead inside,
you can hear it in his voice,
you can see it in his eyes.

Never takes responsibility
for the things that he does,
never feels remorse
for losing those he loves.

Always blaming others
for the failures in his life,
always finding faults
with his friends and his wife.

Thus passed his middle age,
as he tried to dull the pain
with alcohol and soft core rage,
and holiness movement shame.

He sits now upon a couch,
the throne from which he rules his house,
and refuses any chance to change,
claims the Bible will clean his stain.

And all who enter his home can see
a man trapped like Osiris in a tree,
a selfish martyr, full of selfish pride,
a living man who is dead inside.

© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2012