What if i were built for sex
Yours on command
big breasts and a small brain
pleasure me this
we'd both be satisfied
me draped on your arm
diamonds draped on my wrist
all I'd want is your hands on body
your mouth on mine
I'd breathe for you and little more
but that's not the way it goes down
tell me again how you just roll over....
while I cry curled up in in the corner
at the end of the day
everybody gets played
my eyes are wet and my body dry
sweat as much as I can
never enough and there's nothing left for you
that you can't do for yourself
you're just one more thing undone
take your rough hands and leave me alone
I'm too used to it now to even give register the thought.
Or what if we went back twenty years
When I was still clueless and crazy about you
If I'd just thought with my thighs
You filled me up for awhile
But I wanted more.
Yeah, a family and a home.
I should've backed away faster.
We should've watched that movie
What if none of this happened.
God knows I'd be drunk by now
and you'd be stoned.
At least then we wouldn't realize
How hollow life is
The things we didn't get but always wanted
Wouldn't be screaming in the back of our throats
And we wouldn't be screaming at each other.
What if you said one kind word....
I'll never know.
This is all you get
a woman with big brains and sagging skin
Built for dreaming
And little more.
No better than your thoughts on a cold night
You lose, didn't you
What if you hadn't said yes...'
What if I'd waited for YOU to ask the question?
That might have been a better forever
As you grow older you are suppose to find yourself
I have lost sanity
Lost my mind
Lost my dignity
Lost my faith
New beginnings are hoped for
You have nobody to blame but yourself for closing that door
You are back to where you wish you would never return
The strong one in which you are suppose to be
Strong and firm
Emotion is a weakness
Weakness is something you don't show
Or it will bring you back to that low
Stop yourself before it goes too far
Don't let your emotions crash like a car
Weak is something you are not
Don't let your emotions run hot
Numb is what you become
“Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float upon the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily!
“Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!”
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, “Behold me!
Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!”
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
“Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!”
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward:
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
“Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!”
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
“Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!”
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
Shaped them straightway to a framework,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
“Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree!
My canoe to bind together.
So to bind the ends together,
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!”
And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
“Take them all, O Hiawatha!”
From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree,
Closely sewed the bark together,
Bound it closely to the framework.
“Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!”
And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
“Take my balm, O Hiawatha!”
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-Tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
“Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!”
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying, with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
“Take my quills, O Hiawatha!”
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bow a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest’s life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch’s supple sinews;
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.
Paddles none had Hiawatha,
Paddles none he had or needed,
For his thoughts as paddles served him,
And his wishes served to guide him;
Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.
Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, “Help me clear this river
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.”
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and shouted in the river,
Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.
And thus sailed my Hiawatha
Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the water of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.
if i could see your soul,
i would tell it to look upon itself in the reflection of a lake,
the kind that shimmers clandestine blue
from the tears of the waterfall and the love-lost.
if i could sense your soul,
i would feel it in the light that bounces off;
the rainbows bounce off the water
as they come into contact with both the light and the wet,
the way the sun and the sea kiss every dawn and dusk.
if i could speak to your soul,
i would tell it not that it is beautiful, even though it is.
for god knows how overused that word is, how many lips has ushered its accent.
i would tell it, that it is
the wealth of owning
layers upon layers of
shimmers and shines
of tangibles and tangibles,
of the flavours i taste,
and the textures i touch.
if i could taste your soul,
it wouldn't taste salty from tears,
or sweet from tainted melancholy and forgotten memories.
it would taste clear,
freshwater that starts from the back of the throat
whose healing touch leaks,
leaving flowers to bloom in all the places
it has traced, and in all the nooks
it has graced.
the cave just under your collarbone,
the crook of your neck,
the curve of your hip;
if i could touch your soul,
it would feel
warm, like a fire glowing
in its hearth.
if i could smell your soul,
it would smell like you,
when he was five or six, my brother
used to straddle me on the ground
grab my forearms and use my own left hand
to strike my face
he’d sing as he held me down, turning
red with evil laughter
love feels like survival.
did evolution make it hurt so much
because it knew we would
eventually become addicted and
perish without it?
quitting love feels like a slow
dying, like removing a finger
with a used steak knife
and not having water to
wash out the cut.
then just lazily waiting around to see
how long before infection sets in.
love is simple footpaths, interstates
clogged with chemicals
frantically tyring to do the job
they were coded for.
is heartbreak just synapsebreak?
or is it something more
the reason lost-forever love hurts so much
is because it’s never supposed to happen
we are all one cosmic entity, one
magnum opus. we aren’t supposed
to be hitting each other.
once when my brother was maniacally
I pulled my hand out with all my strength,
freeing it at the
to punch me in the neck.
he jerked as my head went
back and I gasped in surprise
and his cheeks lost all the redness.
(his face looked exactly the same
ten years later on a day
he was dunking a basketball
and fell back on his outstretched arms
(who did what he asked them to do,
break his fall)
causing compound fractures in
both bones of both arms)
it looked like fear and nausea.
he breathed deeply, at last
and spoke resignedly
“it’s always been the same thing,
and now I know…-“ his voice cut off
and he shook himself out, and pulled me up
into an embrace, like the kind only
he knew when to
give. he patted my
head and he whispered,
softly, as an apology, the
very thing he’d always said
when trying to comfort
am you and
you are me and
we are infinity.”
Standing on the street,
his shoulder brushes mine.
He reaches down to take my hand,
and I am lost in time.
No one exists
as we cherish this touch.
My heart is racing,
I love him so much.
I belong in his arms,
and deep in his heart.
He gave me his soul,
when all this did start.
The deeper we go
into this beautiful mess.
Brings love, joy and passion,
and complete happiness.