"Why do people do impure things?"
Because what is pure is disputed.
Impurity often takes the form of beauty or passion that enlivens my life
Placing the special in heart
That was once an empty lot.
"So why is it called impure?"
Because beauty and passion, like other things, can cross the line of moderation
And can take the forms of
Betterment away if carried
Into excess.
Thus, it is not so much that
There is impurity as there is extremism.
This can shape a life into one
That has stopped or not begun
Any search for the depths of life.
It is not so much that there
May be impurity
But the lack of connections
Between souls and neighbors
Which form a community
That takes responsibility
For their own spiritual, mental,
Physical, and material betterment.

Roll up! Roll up!
Examine the corrupt,
the nose, hair, the olive of skin.
Dishonourable, alloyed blood.

Rub, Rub
I can't get it off.
grate, burn, scour,
I can only cleanse, gloss, polish.

Look! Come and see
the fresh, clean impurity.
Lay on the table,
sparkling shimmering.
We cannot control these sinful things.

That all hath fall'n away impure;
That all we thought is now unsure—
This is the final cause of it,
That which we know has gone to ****—
Yet here we stay, throughout the days,
Staring into a foggy maze.

The ghost of my childhood is lingering around the wave of impurity. The more I imagine, the more I drown in my own misfortune.

Dust, in the air
unseen impurity.

The spectrum of humanity, good and bad.
Black and white.

Being submerged in the black feels unnatural, unlike me.

I'm calling on my star for something unattainable,
unused,
pushed under the carpet.

It's presence sparkled when I saw a child laughing at the sky.  

Innocence.

To wear blue, and feel serene,
To wear yellow, and feel joy,
To wear pink, and feel love,
To wear purple, and feel life.

I used to wear Innocence.

I dress differently now,

I wear emerald green, and feel anxious,
I wear a cloudy grey, and feel impersonal.
I wear stained white, and feel everything
I wear only black, and feel nothing.

I wear sin now.

I'm all the things I once wished upon a star not to be.

So maybe I got riled up, and thought he was trying to steal my ****.

I don't work at Stop & Shop anymore, but I still
almost cried at those dogs,
on television.
The world is an impure place, but in times of trouble, you can always double your dose.

Trouble us. Forever.

As low, in your clever-minded excuses, to get out of your
parents' disapproval.
I bought so many
hallucinations, that I'm debating a few more.

Hope I remember writing these words. Scary to consider,
but there, nonetheless. The world is
melting into all sorts.
Colors, that I love.

Hope I remember writing these words, and the light,
reflecting off the ink,
in rainbows of black. The
ash, an impossibly-unforeseen consequence,
of the cigarette. The
cancer is laughed off. And you had forgotten my name.

Cutting up the canvas, she called it, "blood," even though, by a trained-eye, it lacked.  
Any tactic will take flight.
Take care to catch yourself when your wax melts onto your owned face.
Not your practiced one.