She was the only son
Her father never had.
Her legs were lean and long,
Alas, her eyes were bad.
And then at Sweet Sixteen
Her Father drove her mad.
(A sicko is a psycho, after all.)
And after ten long years
They set her on the street.
With a pretty dress
And new shoes on her feet.
And so she looks for Daddy...
Or any fresh, new meat.
(Cuz an axe is an axe, after all.)
Put it out of course others have doubts
Twist and turn the meaning of words
Right or wrong it needed to be said
Real emotions cantle expressed
Too many jerks shut down the topic
Accuse or trying to understand
Try not to be sensitive but feel dumb
Rude bullies talk like they know but have no clue
Emotions beat black and blue
Thoughts to strike overeact that the trigger to help them win
Loss of temper feels like a sin
Mouth burns a hole in their heart
Can't handle the lynch they started on others
Being honest is the code
Truth is cold not trying to hold on
Or give them the upper hand
Thumbs down check them no more messing around
I decided I'm going to cut my hair.
But not too short.
Just above the shoulders.
With some layers and angles and side bangs.
I've always had reasonably long hair.
Not like rapunzel length
But a sensible length
With a sensible cut
And a sensible color.
When I was in 7th grade I really wanted bangs.
But I was too scared to ask the hairdresser for them.
In 9th grade I asked,
but they didn't come out the way I expected.
I've never colored my hair either,
I've always liked my natural blonde highlights I have gotten
From my time spent in the sun.
So why am I writing about this you may ask.
No one really cares about a haircut,
And it's not like I'm shaving my head or dying it pink.
But I am not telling anyone before I do it.
Not even telling anyone that I'm thinking about it.
I'm just going to do it.
Because for the first time in my life,
I want to make a choice that is my own.
I don't want anyone else's opinion.
Because today I sat and thought.
I have never made a decision on my own.
Like even little things.
Isn't that sad?
Kind of pathetic right.
So I picked my hair.
It's something only I can control really.
So this weekend I think I am going to do it.
Or the next.
I'm not sure.
I have mulled it over,
and have gone back and forth like I always do.
But I'm just gonna do it.
I'm really kind of excited.
Like it probably sounds like I'm Britney Spears or something,
but I'm not pulling that kind of thing for the sake of attention.
A lot of things are changing in my life right now
And I thought this would signify it.
I've never done anything interesting with my hair, so this is it.
It is my metaphor.
It is me.
And I am proud.
Murdering is an art!
It takes caution, skill, and smarts.
It also takes a weapon.
In the case of murdering, you can say...
that technically a human murders every day,
may not be of it's own kind, but...
we kill other living things every single day.
Do we see them?
No, maybe, possibly, I don't know. Do you?
Jack the Ripper!
I murder prostitutes,
women who defile their bodies by
showing off their breasts and bellies...
and innards...to lost men.
I don't know why I kill this specific kind of pray...
but I do...And I know its fun teasing the media.
Maybe I should start murdering the men too...
Sneak into the room while their...going about their business...
...Never mind...That's a nasty thought...
Murderers care about that kind of thing too, you know?
They do not cry.
They don't have time to cry.
They do not scream.
They do not have time to scream.
I slice their throat first,
which means I win from the start.
Then...Save for my third,
I drag their innards around their bodies
like...fuzzy neck boas.
I take no souvenirs...It would cause a havoc...
A havoc I prefer not to have...
© 2012 Melody
little collected emblems
small symbolic weapons
find myself naked
caressing unforgiving ground
but the moonlight warms me
even in the rain
as I lay
Imperfect center to my holy ring
my treasures guarding
Finger space my soldiers
to align with the stars
now gone from your forest green jewels
Perception overruled outcome
The wind blows
I start again
I swear the machine is the culprit
It explains the sore bones and sleepless nights
from the moment your fist meets the black button
before the ink of time has dried
it grips you in caste iron clamps
inserts its phallic tube into your spine
and drains your humanity
gorging on it like famished swine
Through an ocean of searing hot oil
and pummeled flour
it laughs at you
a sordid laugh stinking of raw meat
amplified by static voices over an intercom
each beep penetrating with the force of a power drill
please hold for a moment
I've seemed to have spilled my brain onto this greasy floor
let me scoop it onto some rice for you
an original chop.