Little divested flower,
Shame— how you break with the peak of light.
A blossom they might think,
You're still a phony stick.
Is it guilt filling the scene?
Or is it just the sunbeam?

it's still there
sitting still inside those bars
the pages we drew together
not yet finished
will it still sit there
to many more chapters together, as they say
or
will it be covered in dusts
somewhere no one knows it exists

so much depends
upon a green pencil
fitted snugly between
the blue and the yellow

upon a line drawn
across a page
where the sky
and sunburst clay meet

— as neighbours
who smile and wave
without names
or words exchanged —

upon a silence punctuated
by shafts of pine
shaved close by winding
laneways into storyteller points

On Facebook

for leaving a comment on a post about Orangutans. The article was about how they found that primates have an actual language. It's not like I said "duh". Another person said that they were probably talking **** about us. My comment said "**** them"!

Thanks Facebook for helping me realize that i'm not funny. And thanks for giving me a week to think about my actions(or what some lifeless ***** thinks is an action). A facebook ban is in the best interest of anyone who gets banned. Anyone who reported my comment as hate speech, has a lot more to face up to than me...and it's all saved on the master server.

A week of full on, beautiful reality.

i am parting my lips with a
poisonous
fruit

out comes
flagellant’s
juiced page

.
..
...
..
.
The blank page... I heard writers experience this often, but not me. Either I am not a novelist, or I'm the best one ever. How can you not find something to write on a white piece of paper, I mean a white computer screen. Maybe it's because I am penning about anything that comes to my mind, no structure, no narrative, no lesson... nothing to trigger the ego or the pride. Just pure random, meaningless writing. That's my therapy.