This might sound cheesy or a little too sweet
But I don’t give a damn
For at the risk of being judged
I simply want to say…
Thank you for believing in love

While you were busy being vulnerably you
Writing with teardrops on your guitar
Other celebrities were off selfishly “living it up”…
Thank you for not stumbling out of clubs

And for that smile you crack when you give your fans hugs
For not showing young girls they should dabble in drugs
Or that beauty is all sex and no appeal
Thanks Taylor Swift, for keeping it real

I hope this message reaches you
And that it doesn’t seem creepy…
Or uncool

The end.

With Love,
Rob Brayl

It’s a peroxide world
Where more plastic
Is found in humans
Than recycling bins
And last year’s faces
Can be found in suburban garages
In the bottom of garbage cans

It’s all relative
Everything ties to insecurity
Filling the void
With temporary fixation and condensation
We manipulate the situation
With scissors and knifeblades
Making it nearly impossible
To find the untouched

Cloning yet another stick
Of blonde bubblegum

There are lines
That cannot be crossed
Etched in silhouettes
Of skin and bones
And the heart quickly beats
The lingering of lust
Trips our feet

Temptation is satisfaction reversed
Quenching temporary thirst
Lying underneath the sin
Easily broken beneath cracks of dirt
Leaving faith stripped
Upon needles and pins

Yet when we’re naked of the world
Is when we’re exposed to you
Nothing hiding the habit of the selfish residue
That runs rampant through our veins

This love could be so magnetic
That it pulls the earth
And melts the moon
Like slipping fireworks
Dying for just one touch
Of the ground we walk upon

If only
If only we’d believe

Vodka & confetti
Flood the dancefloor
Where pretty people
With ugly habits
Synchronize bodies
Like battery-operated
Plastic toys

Sweat dropping
Like bombs over Pearl Harbor
Landing in a cage
Of monsters & Barbie dolls

Speakers explode
Glasses break
Voodoo cast
Time reverses
Circa Studio 54
When disco balls were revolutionary
And cocaine ran through veins
Like wildfire
True emotion seems tainted these days
Hiding behind sequins & dancing shoes

Flash forward
Our generation
Still distracted
Running like wild horses
Through a tsunami
Of dirt & thunder
Minds full of media garbage
Instead of Jesus Christ

I stroke the devil’s backbone
Then read The Bible
And I try to let go of the guilt that stains my brain
The guilt that’s been coated on like a mask
Layers of it drip into my unconsciousness
And I feel confusion and pain
I feel outside myself
I feel drained

Is this a blessing or a curse?
Is this God or just a ghost?
A ghost created by the church
One embedded beneath the surface
Of my sinful skin
Why repress something I don’t feel I asked for to being with?
If there is a God
And His hands created me
Am I not everything He intended me to be?

If you believe God makes no mistakes
Then how can you say
I WASN’T BORN THIS WAY

I AM GORGEOUS
Even in all your forbidden ugly disconnection
I alone carry enough energy
To connect my brokenness
And God
Well
I believe He sees the me
You refuse to embrace
He turns the sin and the scabs
And even your distaste
Into grace

And I am whole again
In all the misunderstood desires
That calculate equations
In my miserable memory of wrong and right

I am more than this shallow self infliction
I am more than your emptiness of judgments
I AM ENOUGH

And I will rise again
In a natural normal guiltless truth
That cleanses the dust
Of my psychosis

Imagine if supermodels
Ruled the world
The streets would be transformed
Into red carpet runways and every day
A severe fashion show

The art of couture clothes
Would become the religion of choice
And Vanity Fair would replace
The Bible

Every fierce flawless face
Would be mistaken
For celebrity
And everywhere you looked
Flashes of glitter
Would burn the air
Like paparazzi pollution

Living dolls and painted pin-up girls
Would roam in cop cars
Handing out citations for
Manic makeovers

Food would be replaced
With calorie corrected dosages
And flip flops discarded
For Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos

Tyra Banks would become President
And the highly anticipated press release
Would predict
Next season’s new black

Botox and lip injections
Would be mandatory
And silicon implants sold in convenience stores
Alongside cocaine cigars and dirty magazines

Beautiful clothes and makeup would overflow
Like gossip spill
But no matter how gorgeously mannequin
No makeup can clothe an ugly heart