It's not deception,
but it, I cannot believe.
These truths transmitting,
time permitting,
will crush me flat.
I'm not sure what to think,
in the fact's bull-rush.

Screaming out.
Damming it to be,
cardboard scenery.
In sincere
secrecy.

With a dash of nothing,
spicing the world.
Give me a kiss; no,
give me a twirl.
Splicing the word-weary
and thought-Leery.
Such fresh *******.

Screaming out.
Damming it to be,
cardboard scenery.
In sincere
secrecy.

Now when they came to the ford of the full-flowing river Xanthus,
begotten of immortal Jove, Achilles cut their forces in two: one
half he chased over the plain towards the city by the same way that
the Achaeans had taken when flying panic-stricken on the preceding day
with Hector in full triumph; this way did they fly pell-mell, and Juno
sent down a thick mist in front of them to stay them. The other half
were hemmed in by the deep silver-eddying stream, and fell into it
with a great uproar. The waters resounded, and the banks rang again,
as they swam hither and thither with loud cries amid the whirling
eddies. As locusts flying to a river before the blast of a grass fire-
the flame comes on and on till at last it overtakes them and they
huddle into the water—even so was the eddying stream of Xanthus
filled with the uproar of men and horses, all struggling in
confusion before Achilles.
  Forthwith the hero left his spear upon the bank, leaning it
against a tamarisk bush, and plunged into the river like a god,
armed with his sword only. Fell was his purpose as he hewed the
Trojans down on every side. Their dying groans rose hideous as the
sword smote them, and the river ran red with blood. As when fish fly
scared before a huge dolphin, and fill every nook and corner of some
fair haven—for he is sure to eat all he can catch—even so did the
Trojans cower under the banks of the mighty river, and when
Achilles’ arms grew weary with killing them, he drew twelve youths
alive out of the water, to sacrifice in revenge for Patroclus son of
Menoetius. He drew them out like dazed fawns, bound their hands behind
them with the girdles of their own shirts, and gave them over to his
men to take back to the ships. Then he sprang into the river,
thirsting for still further blood.
  There he found Lycaon, son of Priam seed of Dardanus, as he was
escaping out of the water; he it was whom he had once taken prisoner
when he was in his father’s vineyard, having set upon him by night, as
he was cutting young shoots from a wild fig-tree to make the wicker
sides of a chariot. Achilles then caught him to his sorrow unawares,
and sent him by sea to Lemnos, where the son of Jason bought him.
But a guest-friend, Eetion of Imbros, freed him with a great sum,
and sent him to Arisbe, whence he had escaped and returned to his
father’s house. He had spent eleven days happily with his friends
after he had come from Lemnos, but on the twelfth heaven again
delivered him into the hands of Achilles, who was to send him to the
house of Hades sorely against his will. He was unarmed when Achilles
caught sight of him, and had neither helmet nor shield; nor yet had he
any spear, for he had thrown all his armour from him on to the bank,
and was sweating with his struggles to get out of the river, so that
his strength was now failing him.
  Then Achilles said to himself in his surprise, “What marvel do I see
here? If this man can come back alive after having been sold over into
Lemnos, I shall have the Trojans also whom I have slain rising from
the world below. Could not even the waters of the grey sea imprison
him, as they do many another whether he will or no? This time let
him ******* spear, that I may know for certain whether mother earth
who can keep even a strong man down, will be able to hold him, or
whether thence too he will return.”
  Thus did he pause and ponder. But Lycaon came up to him dazed and
trying hard to embrace his knees, for he would fain live, not die.
Achilles ****** at him with his spear, meaning to **** him, but Lycaon
ran crouching up to him and caught his knees, whereby the spear passed
over his back, and stuck in the ground, hungering though it was for
blood. With one hand he caught Achilles’ knees as he besought him, and
with the other he clutched the spear and would not let it go. Then
he said, “Achilles, have mercy upon me and spare me, for I am your
suppliant. It was in your tents that I first broke bread on the day
when you took me prisoner in the vineyard; after which you sold away
to Lemnos far from my father and my friends, and I brought you the
price of a hundred oxen. I have paid three times as much to gain my
freedom; it is but twelve days that I have come to Ilius after much
suffering, and now cruel fate has again thrown me into your hands.
Surely father Jove must hate me, that he has given me over to you a
second time. Short of life indeed did my mother Laothoe bear me,
daughter of aged Altes—of Altes who reigns over the warlike Lelegae
and holds steep Pedasus on the river Satnioeis. Priam married his
daughter along with many other women and two sons were born of her,
both of whom you will have slain. Your spear slew noble Polydorus as
he was fighting in the front ranks, and now evil will here befall
me, for I fear that I shall not escape you since heaven has delivered
me over to you. Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart,
spare me, for I am not of the same womb as Hector who slew your
brave and noble comrade.”
  With such words did the princely son of Priam beseech Achilles;
but Achilles answered him sternly. “Idiot,” said he, “talk not to me
of ransom. Until Patroclus fell I preferred to give the Trojans
quarter, and sold beyond the sea many of those whom I had taken alive;
but now not a man shall live of those whom heaven delivers into my
hands before the city of Ilius—and of all Trojans it shall fare
hardest with the sons of Priam. Therefore, my friend, you too shall
die. Why should you whine in this way? Patroclus fell, and he was a
better man than you are. I too—see you not how I am great and goodly?
I am son to a noble father, and have a goddess for my mother, but
the hands of doom and death overshadow me all as surely. The day
will come, either at dawn or dark, or at the noontide, when one
shall take my life also in battle, either with his spear, or with an
arrow sped from his bow.”
  Thus did he speak, and Lycaon’s heart sank within him. He loosed his
hold of the spear, and held out both hands before him; but Achilles
drew his keen blade, and struck him by the collar-bone on his neck; he
plunged his two-edged sword into him to the very hilt, whereon he
lay at full length on the ground, with the dark blood welling from him
till the earth was soaked. Then Achilles caught him by the foot and
flung him into the river to go down stream, vaunting over him the
while, and saying, “Lie there among the fishes, who will lick the
blood from your wound and gloat over it; your mother shall not lay you
on any bier to mourn you, but the eddies of Scamander shall bear you
into the broad ***** of the sea. There shall the fishes feed on the
fat of Lycaon as they dart under the dark ripple of the waters—so
perish all of you till we reach the citadel of strong Ilius—you in
flight, and I following after to destroy you. The river with its broad
silver stream shall serve you in no stead, for all the bulls you
offered him and all the horses that you flung living into his
waters. None the less miserably shall you perish till there is not a
man of you but has paid in full for the death of Patroclus and the
havoc you wrought among the Achaeans whom you have slain while I
held aloof from battle.”
  So spoke Achilles, but the river grew more and more angry, and
pondered within himself how he should stay the hand of Achilles and
save the Trojans from disaster. Meanwhile the son of Peleus, spear
in hand, sprang upon Asteropaeus son of Pelegon to **** him. He was
son to the broad river Axius and Periboea eldest daughter of
Acessamenus; for the river had lain with her. Asteropaeus stood up out
of the water to face him with a spear in either hand, and Xanthus
filled him with courage, being angry for the death of the youths
whom Achilles was slaying ruthlessly within his waters. When they were
close up with one another Achilles was first to speak. “Who and whence
are you,” said he, “who dare to face me? Woe to the parents whose
son stands up against me.” And the son of Pelegon answered, “Great son
of Peleus, why should you ask my lineage. I am from the fertile land
of far Paeonia, captain of the Paeonians, and it is now eleven days
that I am at Ilius. I am of the blood of the river Axius—of Axius
that is the fairest of all rivers that run. He begot the famed warrior
Pelegon, whose son men call me. Let us now fight, Achilles.”
  Thus did he defy him, and Achilles raised his spear of Pelian ash.
Asteropaeus failed with both his spears, for he could use both hands
alike; with the one spear he struck Achilles’ shield, but did not
pierce it, for the layer of gold, gift of the god, stayed the point;
with the other spear he grazed the elbow of Achilles! right arm
drawing dark blood, but the spear itself went by him and fixed
itself in the ground, foiled of its ****** banquet. Then Achilles,
fain to **** him, hurled his spear at Asteropaeus, but failed to hit
him and struck the steep bank of the river, driving the spear half its
length into the earth. The son of Peleus then drew his sword and
sprang furiously upon him. Asteropaeus vainly tried to draw
Achilles’ spear out of the bank by main force; thrice did he tug at
it, trying with all his might to draw it out, and thrice he had to
leave off trying; the fourth time he tried to bend and break it, but
ere he could do so Achilles smote him with his sword and killed him.
He struck him in the belly near the navel, so that all his bowels came
gushing out on to the ground, and the darkness of death came over
him as he lay gasping. Then Achilles set his foot on his chest and
spoiled him of his armour, vaunting over him and saying, “Lie there-
begotten of a river though you be, it is hard for you to strive with
the offspring of Saturn’s son. You declare yourself sprung from the
blood of a broad river, but I am of the seed of mighty Jove. My father
is Peleus, son of Aeacus ruler over the many Myrmidons, and Aeacus was
the son of Jove. Therefore as Jove is mightier than any river that
flows into the sea, so are his children stronger than those of any
river whatsoever. Moreover you have a great river hard by if he can be
of any use to you, but there is no fighting against Jove the son of
Saturn, with whom not even King Achelous can compare, nor the mighty
stream of deep-flowing Oceanus, from whom all rivers and seas with all
springs and deep wells proceed; even Oceanus fears the lightnings of
great Jove, and his thunder that comes crashing out of heaven.”
  With this he drew his bronze spear out of the bank, and now that
he had killed Asteropaeus, he let him lie where he was on the sand,
with the dark water flowing over him and the eels and fishes busy
nibbling and gnawing the fat that was about his kidneys. Then he
went in chase of the Paeonians, who were flying along the bank of
the river in panic when they saw their leader slain by the hands of
the son of Peleus. Therein he slew Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus,
Mnesus, Thrasius, Oeneus, and Ophelestes, and he would have slain
yet others, had not the river in anger taken human form, and spoken to
him from out the deep waters saying, “Achilles, if you excel all in
strength, so do you also in wickedness, for the gods are ever with you
to protect you: if, then, the son of Saturn has vouchsafed it to you
to destroy all the Trojans, at any rate drive them out of my stream,
and do your grim work on land. My fair waters are now filled with
corpses, nor can I find any channel by which I may pour myself into
the sea for I am choked with dead, and yet you go on mercilessly
slaying. I am in despair, therefore, O captain of your host, trouble
me no further.”
  Achilles answered, “So be it, Scamander, Jove-descended; but I
will never cease dealing out death among the Trojans, till I have pent
them up in their city, and made trial of Hector face to face, that I
may learn whether he is to vanquish me, or I him.”
  As he spoke he set upon the Trojans with a fury like that of the
gods. But the river said to Apollo, “Surely, son of Jove, lord of
the silver bow, you are not obeying the commands of Jove who charged
you straitly that you should stand by the Trojans and defend them,
till twilight fades, and darkness is over an the earth.”
  Meanwhile Achilles sprang from the bank into mid-stream, whereon the
river raised a high wave and attacked him. He swelled his stream
into a torrent, and swept away the many dead whom Achilles had slain
and left within his waters. These he cast out on to the land,
bellowing like a bull the while, but the living he saved alive, hiding
them in his mighty eddies. The great and terrible wave gathered
about Achilles, falling upon him and beating on his shield, so that he
could not keep his feet; he caught hold of a great elm-tree, but it
came up by the roots, and tore away the bank, damming the stream
with its thick branches and bridging it all across; whereby Achilles
struggled out of the stream, and fled full speed over the plain, for
he was afraid.
  But the mighty god ceased not in his pursuit, and sprang upon him
with a dark-crested wave, to stay his hands and save the Trojans
from destruction. The son of Peleus darted away a spear’s throw from
him; swift as the swoop of a black hunter-eagle which is the strongest
and fleetest of all birds, even so did he spring forward, and the
armour rang loudly about his breast. He fled on in front, but the
river with a loud roar came tearing after. As one who would water
his garden leads a stream from some fountain over his plants, and
all his ground-***** in hand he clears away the dams to free the
channels, and the little stones run rolling round and round with the
water as it goes merrily down the bank faster than the man can follow-
even so did the river keep catching up with Achilles albeit he was a
fleet runner, for the gods are stronger than men. As often as he would
strive to stand his ground, and see whether or no all the gods in
heaven were in league against him, so often would the mighty wave come
beating down upon his shoulders, and be would have to keep flying on
and on in great dismay; for the angry flood was tiring him out as it
flowed past him and ate the ground from under his feet.
  Then the son of Peleus lifted up his voice to heaven saying, “Father
Jove, is there none of the gods who will take pity upon me, and save
me from the river? I do not care what may happen to me afterwards. I
blame none of the other dwellers on Olympus so severely as I do my
dear mother, who has beguiled and tricked me. She told me I was to
fall under the walls of Troy by the flying arrows of Apollo; would
that Hector, the best man among the Trojans, might there slay me; then
should I fall a hero by the hand of a hero; whereas now it seems
that I shall come to a most pitiable end, trapped in this river as
though I were some swineherd’s boy, who gets carried down a torrent
while trying to cross it during a storm.”
  As soon as he had spoken thus, Neptune and Minerva came up to him in
the likeness of two men, and took him by the hand to reassure him.
Neptune spoke first. “Son of Peleus,” said he, “be not so exceeding
fearful; we are two gods, come with Jove’s sanction to assist you,
I, and Pallas Minerva. It is not your fate to perish in this river; he
will abate presently as you will see; moreover we strongly advise you,
if you will be guided by us, not to stay your hand from fighting
till you have pent the Trojan host within the famed walls of Ilius—as
many of them as may escape. Then **** Hector and go back to the ships,
for we will vouchsafe you a triumph over him.”
  When they had so said they went back to the other immortals, but
Achilles strove onward over the plain, encouraged by the charge the
gods had laid upon him. All was now covered with the flood of
waters, and much goodly armour of the youths that had been slain was
rifting about, as also many corpses, but he forced his way against the
stream, speeding right onwards, nor could the broad waters stay him,
for Minerva had endowed him with great strength. Nevertheless
Scamander did not slacken in his pursuit, but was still more furious
with the son of Peleus. He lifted his waters into a high crest and
cried aloud to Simois saying, “Dear br

today i
drank two cups of tea
and read a text from my mother
about my dying great uncle
and thought about damming up the ocean in my eyes
but it had other plans
and today i
am sorry that i am cut off from half my family
sorry that my precious, dying great uncle
thinks that i hate him
because of my mother
and today i
am writing a ******* email
to tell him otherwise
before he
dies
he will not die
in hate
*******,
mom.

At least I had it at one time—
The ability to make pretty words flow and rhyme
Not only that
Those words were sincere
Genuine uprootings of feelings made clear

Whether the emotion be happiness or fear
You can count on the fact that they were true projections
Yes I write simple now
Maybe that’s okay

I was lucky, I was good
At bleeding out all the emotions I could
Feel, but now replacing it is fear
Of not writing a good enough poem for my virtual peers

That is where the trouble lies
If I write for others, that’s where the bleeding subsides
Perhaps my poetry has been tainted by my pride
Or worse, perhaps it acts as a block from the right
Words that I have so been longing to find
That’ll do it
Pride can **** the flow alright.

Time’s up

Times up!
Hollywood says,
glad for sordid Weinstein
for setting up the stage..,
but, please do explain
that there’s a sitting President
who publicly claimed
to grabbing women’s *****..
all because he can!

Times up!
but, the script has not been reversed,
the discourse dies a little
every time a women’s story
is subjected to shame.

Time’s up, for who, I ask?
When only the story of the powerful
is being told!
Who will play the little girl
who’s innocence got taken away?
When Barbie is still playing doctor with Ken,
yet no one says, Ken is a grown up man!

Who’s playing the story of the women
who can’t report her husband for ****?
How can he **** her? She belongs to him!

Time’s up, I wonder when!
When time is a concept we don’t understand...
and ****** someone gives you
five months in the can?

Time’s up, but who will play the story?
When our original sin starts with parents
who had *** with their offspring’s!!
Shiit, Adam and Eve...
you really are dammed,
damming us to perpetual violence
to the very ones we give birth!!

Time’s up! It’s really inspiring.
I hope that legislatively
it creates an impact.
I hope parents all over the earth
begin to openly talk to their children
about molestation and ****.
We all know the math...
90% of all **** is perpetuated by someone
you’ve already met!

Time’s up!
The phone’s ringing....
in the time I wrote this script,
someone else was already *****!




LeydisProse
1/7/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
#timesup #**** #metoo #notonemore

Going down,
my knees hit first,
splitting old scars,
and spilling more blood....

Every side touched by slow quicksand on cold toes.
The virus rages on.
Being scared to write means something,
damming up words that are my body
denies sweet breath
to parts that need the most to breathe.

My fetus universe
flashes red and gold
on the walls
inside the cave...

Bust out that cage!
Shut off the light!
Wander through the street!

Back from the dead
again
I have a bone to pick...

Once wandering alone in darkness,
I was guided by my Jesus from some slinky, slimy nothing
to a tangible, ****** dream.
My Jesus and my Virgil
--eaten up too soon.

I had to walk through Hell alone
Now poised at my striking hour...

I have no more words.

For every one in a star-crossed pair
For every Juliet with her eyes on Romeo
There’s one somber, solitary figure
That dreams of holding love close

I’ve been told that I’m a goddess
Something mentioned only yesterday
My dominion, then, must be love
Unrequited, every step of the way

Pretend like you know me
Pretend like you’re true
Pretend like you love me
And I’ll pretend that he’s you

Oh, the make-believe in every story
When love’s sight is suddenly cleared
The ones you find your head in hands
And smiling through your tears

One gets good at changing the subject
And quickly damming up the seas
When another questions and worries
As to why, at night, you bleed

Pretend like you know me
Pretend like you’re true
Pretend like you love me
And I’ll pretend that he’s you

The pain is quiet, you toss and turn
And demons plague until you can’t sleep
In the stillness is a whisper,
’Take me away to fields of wheat.’

Rejection, at length, gets cumbersome
Hill after hill on a lonely trail
While strong eyes can bear the stares
The heart, inside, is frail

So pretend you can smile
Pretend you’re not blue
Pretend that you don’t care
And I’ll pretend I love you

How can it be that when ever I can't see you
I'm stuck so empty. ****, do you even know?
I'm damming up a waterfall but I can feel the pressure building...
and I fight it, I fight it so hard and I don't even know why.
Logs come loose, currents push through, leaking
I pull my head down, using my curls as leverage to keep my face hidden.
Hidden away from these four walls, these four hovering beings.
The only witnesses. Counting my tears, muffling my sobs, but you don't know.
No one really does.
These walls unmoving, silent, still with eggshell paint, cannot comfort me. Cannot hold me. Cannot tell me that I am not a worthless person, that these feelings will fade. These walls cannot take the blade off of my thighs, soak up this crimson shame before it stains the thin gauze that makes up who I am.

A simple stumble of my thoughts can send me tumbling into reality where I sit alone.

It’s raining,
And I’m taking refuge,
Watching a bridge
Withstand a river deluge.

Drinking the sight of waters rage,
The ebb and flow of each new age.
My faces are glazed,
Until I exchange my gaze
For a traveler
Treading
Woe.

In a hastened pace to stave disgrace
By their cultural need for saving face.
Their mind unlaced,
Glancing through
Time’s passage;
They can’t see the message,
Blind to choosing a clue.

I assume their fear
For failing to adhere
To societal passages,
Spurred by the purchase
Of each new dear.

I feel their urgency surging waves of gravity;
Tied tides, I can taste the apocryphal surgery.
It hurts me,
To see their druthers change hue
Just so they can drink the dangers they’re daring,
Slaking their need for this fixed way through.

Un-damming a plea,
Steeped in empathy,
“Be patient. Please,
May I help you see?
That this river is
Swifter
Than you or me.”
All spilling from my heart's case,
And my mind.

“Can’t YOU see?
I haven’t the time and hardly the space.
I must keep trudging if I’m to keep pace,
In the race for the sun
And all that’ll never come
Undone.
Now keep you to yourself and--oh, never mind!”
Damming their course,
Leaking remorse lined remedies.

With each new step, the last one readies,
Traveling rapidly towards temporal eddies;
Vexed whispers in the flow of things,
Watch this fellow in the context of streams.

This friend thinks they can churn and rage
Against the turning of an age.
I really thought that they could too,
Oh! How I wish this stream’s course true.

Instead I watch the warrant
Of ridged destiny
Abridged,
Tearing under river's torrent;
I’m drinking in a travesty,
Of purely slickening torment.

The levees brim then burst.
The waters rage and rumble,
Spilling over bridge a-tumble.
“Don’t take me!”
My neighbor’s footing starts to crumble,
Their mettle and meter all a-jumble.
It is a tragedy.

“I’M DROWNING IN COMEDY!
What do I do?!
Can I do?!
Will I do?!
Should have done?!
Would have done?!
Could have done?!”
Nothing.

So I watched my dear friend swept
Away and wept
Into my hands.

I gave them a rope,
And found them hanged.

Then,
Looking up,
I realize something:

It’s raining,
And I’m taking refuge,
Watching a bridge
Withstand a river deluge.

Drinking the sight of waters rage,
The ebb and flow of each new age.
My faces are glazed,
Until I exchange my gaze
For a traveler
Treading
Woe.

Wanna see how empty I can get.
I can leak out all feeling.
No nerves left.

I taste and stiff every person I see.
I cringe crunch the cartilage of every baby I meet.


Heartless and artless old codger.
No posture.

Cramming damming the spam filled sandwich,
of ancient architects.

The tall statue of an empty shell, old malt glass,
unfilled.
Spewed upon the face of mother earth leaving acid mildew.

Shower of rain with a pH of less than 7,
maybe to the negatives, raising havoc on the crop lands.

If my plants would be watered.
I would whole.
I could stand upon the ground lain staked like a scarecrow.

I wish the emptiness protected all that I loved.
I could forever be the watering can providing my molecules with spirits'
Dust.

The aluminum in my body.
Will calcify or solidify (whichever's easiest)
Spontaneously, to create the fluids of osmosifiying mechanical dilution,
Into greater things.

It'll be alright by the lightening
it helps us walk like itself;
walking up through the ceiling window
of my flat
we link myth and flesh
amongst the cherub jokes and sinuous cloud,
hands shaking pulse in the concaves,
death dance and phoenix breeze,
the prayer and the wet
rolling down the slates
harmony in our butts, rolling the storm back, and watching it all
happen.

The night spills its last beer like weighted sweat.
The opera accepts our tickets and slices us down with gallous applause
Where do our limbs stop being the night?
They do not, so it seems, and spread the thunder out
from our one hand
to another;
the nails, and skull, of one, open
fist, retaken-
and driven up
from the worlds core, remedy in scent
the talent of our blood,
damming the poison, allowed to evolve
inside cell
and be another - celestial light, that not only drives the heard,
but is at home in the energy of waking
life.

The lightening passing down through gelatenous night clouds,
caring that there is only sense in the warmth of our mind, our synapse grace,
the float of our hands moving away from the globe,
un lapin mouvements de warren
farmer gathering his flock as the night moves
chain smoker watching you cook
another reason to storm the bellowing halls, one more toast to the sodden market,
brings the landscape to a halt, and strokes out its weariness as apes walk
the amazonian peaks, as the sunrise settles down
and into us; summits
made of nothing,
but the story of your day, all that makes a man
know
and remember
that yours
are always waiting
and are willed by things
that I will never know
completely, but walk like lightening;
creating,
when the storm comes.

Letting me know
it's all **** false,
if not
you.

i've really messed up
my whole life now f
                                    a
                         ­              l
                                         t
                                           e
                                             ring
slowly   each moment pushed
on my heart   a   l i t t l e  h e a v i e r

waiting for it to ...BURST...
and blow us all    p
                             U
                          ^^^^
i just don't know what could've been done+

preventing a storm :
only works when you know
it's going to come, coME, COME!
-not- when you're in the eye
•
tOo   tOnGuE     tIeD to speak
and just to hürt to try


ive gr0WN accustomed to
        u  m
the l        p    in the throat
the damming of ~water~ behind eyelids                                          f  c
the quivering of my reddened  a  e
and the knifē through the back to my heart

isn't it a shhhhhhame when pain is so common                         B O
and we learn HOW to T  T
                                        L  E   it up       y
and where to store it so                      a
nobody se•es                                    w
                 only   ..   to be hiding it a
from those who gave you heartbreak
                         $         !
and still they act surprised,
                   and condemn you
                   *  *   *   *             tops
when you    POP    off the ^^^
and DrrrüNK enLY g..g..guzzled them all

I blink, a wrinkled fold of skin
Holding back and damming in
What's betrayed in my brown gaze.
A thoughtless instance, this womb-light instant
Punctuates the days
And the autumn ringed origins of two parallel rays.

Fervency referring to effectuality as measured
by men,
I suppose. Positionally, top line.
Challenges are not all games,
all games are challenges.

That which he fears comes.
Anticipate war, teach your son to
access participation trope level
anticipatory experience
imagining dying
now
design a death that does not damage, eh,
no damming, no pile of useless hordes,
dammed to collect the flow
anticipating need
when need is non exist-ant.

Greedy gut.

Those saying they gave all gave nothing. 

No one knows she's crying for me. 

With trashhbags spilling from their pockets, the children weep as the men enter their silent temple. 

With potatoes in their hands and bricks on their heads, the women wait for the husbands. 

As priests they exit. All normal patterns again. 

I will separate these teeth from your heart as you scan my newest story. 

I've lost your wonder. Why everything is the same as it was remains a mystery. 

Why these eyes, this heart of mine, why not hers?

Hate simmers. Nothing cooks below. 

One more tin of cream. One more song repressed. A wife with her matchbook terrors. Skin pale, coupons clipped to save heart the extraneous cost. 

Out of the door the lesbians begin their drinking games. 

Smile of mine tell me more meets the eye. Look at the hearts and the pressing of its meats. 

Rearrange the peelings. 

Masculinity transmits over the air. I use this time to soften my bellly. 

The noose catches fire. His tears dousing the freedom. 

First date at theater. Curtain call, begin Love's Final Act. 

The death of you in pieces against rocks. 

Reading for signs of traumatized marrow assuming it is not. 

Warnings of obsession and secrecy as I pollute the sabretooth's mouth. 

My vacation shortened. Flying and seeing the dreams of next time whipping past. 

Coarse hair on my tongue. Trails of you when I speak. 

When will you fade? Love is dead. Let it pass. 

The figure and the ridge shake me. Alone counting how the years have not healed this scar. 

A day. And then a night erased from memory. 

While he speaks I'm told to stop sending letters. 

May the lines become thinner. The hush universal. 

A quiet time. Seen in the sun for the first time. 

Continue reading of deeds snared by Karma. 

Restore yourself for my benefit. 



And so this is the poison she poured into my ears:

 whisper whisper kiss. 


Of the poison what is there holding the vials together?

Machine cut squares knowing the curves of her *******. 

Pressed, brushed to perfection. Where is the warmth beyond the warmth?

Not the glow of nocturnal furnaces. The pressing of skin to the belly of coals. 

Only a mask hiding tears from the public eye. 

It is what you seek. 

Ignite me and marvel alone. 

Explain my scars to me in final excitement. 

On one shoulder I collect the rain. My other brings the spillings. The pool at my feet dries, gathers flies. 

My eyes never closed. My muscles began to shiver and this is all that can be said of last year. 


This year will be dosed heavy with dreams. 


The telephones will soon empty thief wife's of our conversations. 

New dust and **** will cover the bricks our hands feathered over. 

Plates we consumed our dreams on will break, become clean and discarded with the closing of cafe doors. 

You dying and older. Increasing desire. Your basket full of fruit. Your soil toiled in the night. Roots taken, their precious hollows filled. 

Damaged Boardwalk. Mussels cracked, pearl less by design or circumstance. 

Fake both hope and love. Slip away in the pilings of some Ferrari. 

The ash of your candle. Where is it now?

So close to the sea. Yet these stains remain. 

Burn or transgress. Your stones sink in my heart. 

An open letter since birth. 

The barge floats. The operators celebrate the river's damming. 


May you hear my tears in your happy silence.


Just a leaf in the sidewalk. Talks of saplings vanished in the processing. 

Here together in the colder air. 

Forgetful muse, run. Steal their wrestling's warmth. 

The swell beckons. We've yet to share this drink. 

Taste yourself on this raw plate. Fight and move away mediocrity. 


Few lover's sons left. 


Pick your battles from the bag with your boots and that picture of the lion escaping its cage whilst I fell into yours. 

Is there anything else or is this less than what you wanted?

Rude for noting your thinning soles and the leather's scars.

Hard to consider compensation for this blood you've been given. Diseased congealing life force. 

Awake and celebrating with me the people you've left. On this shore, this glimpse of Hell. 

Tossing and turning farther away from refuge. 

Mildewing pamphlets of my red and white memories. All the paintings we're without. 

Hack off my feet and keep me close. I float. Your hauntings with delusions of bliss. 

This is foolish, my pride in the envelope and later the shells. 

Every beacon a reminder to swim farther. Sirens witness my solace.  

Choking back wallows and whispers.

May Neptune weep as I fail in his righteousness. 


Into God's own heart I nestle. Finding rest eternally. 


Young Dracula, stop circling and take me.

Only when I dream am I safe,I ****** hate the place I'm at,
I ****** hate the pace I'm at forced to slow down to a crawl,
******* all I hate the four walls I'm constantly starin' at,
trapped in an evil habitat,as twitchy as an alley cat,
I'm feelin close to snappin necks,
leavin wrecks of bodies in the walls like my name is west,
my best years are flying past
while I'm constantly harassed by "so called" loved ones,
you're lucky I don't own a gun
-cause seriously don't push me cause I'm at my boiling point another joint?
maybe it'll help me chill,I'm so stressed its makin' me ill

and my friends can't help me,they've got their own probs man
plus I don't like to admit how suicidal Mr Sandman the tough guy is really feeling,
Astral project and punch the ******* ceiling
out of this glass house that's constantly throwin' rocks,
your self obsessed attitudes is seriously a load of ****,
so I try and get my sleep on,
no more time with the leash on,cause the Sandman controls you there,
remember all the nightmares? you've been having recently...
its ME messing with your nocturnal life is payback for my days of strife,
and I can keep it up for years,investing in your deepest fears,
lets see how YOU like holding back the tears,damming up like a blocked weir,you won't be spreading fake cheer,
with the Sandman in full control,
your life your dreams,body and soul,
like Alice falling down the hole,
my goodness!,oh my gracious me,
you really shouldn't stress me,
I'll fill your mind with TNT,
mix it with some ***,
you'll blow your mind like LSD,
and maybe then remember me!(to be continued)

You who are silent
You who once tended this garden
You who left once winter closed its teeth

I am sorry for the way
        I missed all your clues
They were subtle
        And I was too busy trying
        To untangle the bird cage
        In my chest
I only wanted to learn how to sing again

We were poor students
        But I have studied
        The trajectory
Of the bullet that broke us
Like a ghost haunting its own bloodstain

We could never negotiate
        Or way thought  the burning
        And the rubble
This ***** gift you left me with
That I hate to unwrap
But cannot help these anxious hands

        You who are silent
You who broke away
You who never learned to bury your
Caskets
I cannot fault you for this
I had hoped that
You would be better
Then the girl who forgot how to love me
But you were the same shape as your shadow

You who are broken
You who sung always in silhouette
        You who are silent

Sometimes on the quietest nights
        I suspect I hear
Your tremble dream
        Damming me for opening
That door you had locked so tight

But
You who took my keys
You who boarded up your spine
        Your who are silent

Someone will have to sing
For the both of us
And we can walk away
        Alone again
        Silent

in this place we see about us, I will tell you a tale.

I will guide you loosely along a river as we meander.

Do not fret that what I will show you is known in vast and secretive, stations and nations of groups hell bent on you not knot knowing the facts, of this river flush of a full house i will tell , wait, full house is later, lets do the flush first. oh, wait, I guess you should be reminded of what you didnt know you knew, and this is so true all the way through,
That I will only tell you of the things you already know, just forgot, kinda like I did so.. here, wee, goooo.

What is an Azimuth as in and exactly as a compass azimuth, but a direction or an Angle, of the Angels sighted line of focus a beam of thought sound and light energy over a distance in a given direction.

What is an Inclination, but an angle of the previously said deerhearted best to remember these things, bare with me please, I can meander rather briskly.

What are these things of azimuth and inclination and what the hell do they have to do with Love, the Flow and curing this life and tree we truly be?

Um, let me start now by asking of sound and sand on a rubber surface sound through the tube hitting and vibrating this surface covered in sand, what pray tell do you see that shall happen? shapes of the resonate sound frequency of a three ( oh so many more um, ;like all of the dimensions, for we are made of the love of the sound , for the sound is the sound of love being spoken to us, Son, ,,, let that one sit and steep just a little bit longer...........)
oh yes read read it.   .... shapes of the resonate sound frequency of a three ( oh so many more um, ;like all of the dimensions, for we are made of the love of the sound , for the sound is the sound of love being spoken to us, Son, ,,, let that one sit and steep just a little bit longer...........)


ahem, okay, now that you just popped a small part of your ceiling off and can now see the sky , which you should do every day, imagine your ceiling is glass by you can feel the wind and the air as the trees sway and the clouds dance by... um, okay, so, azimuth and inclination and the three dimensional aspect of sound, Um SHAPE. like the triangle, so lets say we want to fight fire with fire, lol, so funny, oh, um triangle is um, oh you will see when you choose to fact check me.

so to create a real shape with real sound and thought the true light you are unable to see, and do it in a large very large size. then you go to locations dictated by the map and math, and then take a rather modest size triangle and lets say the base is the distance from fort smith Ar. to Fayetteville , AR to um, measure it out and them send a group of loving people to these locations and at the synchronized with the real time as in at the same time and no time zone bs, you direct your thoughts and sounds, amplified or not to the azimuth and inclination or angle to the horizon so as to meet at the tips of the shape of the numerously sided , your choice triangle and then watch what happens, oh I know, wait, what if bad people want to harm you or others you have told them how to go about a chunk of it. oh, silly, I own the joint, or a good chunk of it. lol j/K... or am I,, but seriously, dont worry, otherwise they would not have concerned themselves with hiding it from your far more powerful and RIVER of real life, see the sound is the love which is a the flow of a river, and well, try damming a river which has real steep flow boundaries, meaning not much in the way of a down hill run of a water fall, hard as hell to dam the water flowing through air. *(yes and thank you for the nudges. no really. please except this, I wont name for reasons, but you know who ya are there beautiful friends). so, um, yeah, see, they rely on you not using your tech, the real and true technologies that flow, or bust up impeding events or behaviors or things to the flow of life. for nothing is more powerful than love, and though love like water, AHEM.......... like Water, it is shapeless, formless a void yet remembers the will and intent of its focal adjustments, or vibrational surroundings.
What I have done here, for those whom are not quite sure. is just handed you the keys to your cage and the keys to this love ship and its direction of partial travel, though I refrain from the temporal aspects, that is not up for discussion, well, yet.  Now get a map and map out all the people you love around the nation and globe and family, you will begin to see something, I WILL NOT TELL YOU OF IT, for it is the journey that causeth the flow to be unimpeded, and dear friend dont forget to overlay yours with your soulmates. and BAM, oh My Fing God do you see it????!!!! will be uttered aloud i many places. yes, I love you, and yes, You are dearly welcome, and Yes, i am Dearly Thankful for you all. all, artist doing Studio time cause Baby Blue needs a **** Binky, to the person that never will say anything, but influences the world in ways and wonders none will know till the big celebration. wink. no one is unimportant in this. for it is real and really a big **** deal.
Ummm, well. Yes I am slow. but when it happens and I am trly allowed to, my love is true. and yes this part is exclusivley for that 4 you, know who. , maybe one day yu will forgive my far too loyal to a flaw ways, that caused some rather serious delays, but then again, the Love is never not right on time. I know cause, I am awaiting yours, and know and loyal in my faith that it will undoubtedly be right freaking on time. I love you silly, so giggle, **** it. giggle. please. I cant bare you not laughing. smile for me. you silly funny face, you my peach fuze loves, my perfect side of the moon and tiny soft tattoos too. yes you silly. and it is me, werewolf feet and all. ugh, yes, have you not seen my ****** ugly *** feet folks. geez, lol. wink.

I am just as evil as you are.
That damming claws at my ev'ry choice,
but steadily I will hold the bar
and 'member my inner sound, my voice.

The call rings. I answer with virtue,
recalling reasons not to hurt you.
You spout your hate and project your pain;
pain - that chorus I will not refrain.

Sometimes I wince and curse the earth
and others I rinse and find rebirth.
Sometimes I lie the dead night awake
to try to burn before daylight breaks.

The saga lives, I'm tired of its tail.
I'm using all my strength to prevail.
The serpent slowly slithers around,
but again I bring the giant down.

High above the mountain air
The eye weeps gently on the trees
And every tear that touches down
Could bring the mountain to its knees

I don't recall a face that day
That owned the disembodied eye
What must man do to stem the flow
Damming up the sky who cries

And in the valley far below
Where peaks give way to mossy greens
The sins are all the same and he
Who sows discord fears what he reaps

Deserts occupy the waves
Turning freeman into slaves
And beasts are all
and burdens are not freed

And in the midst of such a strife
The universe returns to life
And balance please do right the wrongs
Perpetuated underneath the sun

Is there a difference between being anxious and being careful,
The fear of not taking caution, when all you’ve taken in the past is lost in sin.
My streams of encouragement aren’t running dry, but they seem to be damming up at my mind.
You can’t understand the weight these feathers have on my heart,
Your scales work in reality,
Mine float along in a dreamscape endless fantasy,
Pulled down at one end where I see all future of peace and perfection.
All I can see is the undefined, the forgotten in time, only mine.
Help me drown and wake up back here, I won’t get far up here, looking for my dreamt of dear, all I need is one good hear,
Listening to your whispers of truth.

Brain screaming so loudly
so many thoughts without words
so loudly I beat my head against the wall
a mallet breaking a drumhead
so loudly I swallow a scream
throat swelling, damming a sob
of defeat

I feel my thoughts clawing
cutting my mind
They need out
out
like a rat in the bucket
pressed against your chest
and the flame beneath will
make the rat chew through
your still beating heart

They need out

The thoughts without words
travel down from my head
towards my mouth
but my throat says
detour
you need words
to get out here
The thoughts without words
travel down from mouth
and into my heart
where it gets pumped
through
my veins
my body
everything
screaming
Screaming the message
the thoughts without words
are desperately trying to deliver
but do not belong in my body
So I grab the letter opener
slicing the envelope of my arm
hoping its red contents
spill the message inside

A configuration of obligations and considerations have given me bad nerves
the shilly and the shallying the counting and retallying
and the swerves that I make
all to take a crust
just to make a living
it's not fair that I'm giving my all
I can't take my eye off the ball or I'll fail
and bale out?
I wish
but the good fairy has gone and she has taken her wishing wand
I wish I had gone too
wish I'd flown the coop but I could not stoop that low
apart from the fact that there's nowhere to go
so I sit and I sew another mailbag
another old lag
trapped in the cells of his own private hells and the wishing well's run dry.
A guy
just a man
spanning the streams, damming his dreams
and yet the the dreams trickle through
a man
just a guy can only but try and the harder he tries too,the more that the dreams trickle on through and through and
what can I do?
Can I complain to some body
august,
some senator or just moan to myself as I usually do
'there is no one to help you', the inner voice says
'Get off your backside
and mend your ways'
and some days
it's like this
some days I could willingly kiss the **** of a mule
if only that would stop me from being this fool
but some days
when the richness of life peeps through the darkness of shadows I knew
then I really
do love it all.

I see you sitting there with a thumb in your mouth
and you wonder why the words wont come out.
The kid's too stout - he's too proud - too loud.
The type to carry around a pouch of sauerkraut
then pout when everything tastes south. Outstanding!
He's damming the river to prevent the peasants from swimming,
and doesn't realize the only thing keeping him afloat is down below.
Hello? Turn them sky highs into clout, boy- make it snow!

Lord of the purple prose - (what does he mean) who knows?
Not me - I'm too busy dwindling the last of the rations;
irrationally casting matches at a long list of parched cabins.
How can you expect me to feed in an orderly fashion?
I didn't reach the top link to eat without sending a message.
Savage patch kid wielding lightsabers for utensils -
We're a rare breed bred into existence to resist all that is vintage.
Equipped with shark fangs and griffon wings,
we're here to free the underlings from redundent sufferings.
Please excuse the reign, it follows me wherever I go
like a little lost dog caught up under my toe,
gravitating towards my end-all deathblow.

Tell me about your god
All those miracles you saw and all about his peace
I come into an open discussion and people get disgusted
Because I don't see what they see
Please tell me then, how do rapists run free
They tell me the devil's in the details
So why does it feel like the devil is telling the tale
Throw an isolated quote at me, that's getting stale
I'm spiritual because I know my actions have matter
The ladder most people with strong religious convictions
Put themelves high above others, damming the victims,
And calling their own sins a story of fiction.
At least the cross I bear is mine with no indecision.

I've looked through a screen in a room and spoke with a man
Five Hail Mary's and an Our Father, now I am cleansed land.
Look down where I stand, tell me I'm saved.
Tell me how saved I am, yet I felt more enslaved.
Leaving the hopeless to feel like this is God's plan
You were suppose to beaten and cheated
It was written in those ancients sands.
Sifting you out and clipping your wings
But keep praying for what these past hardships bring
And don't forget to donate to a priest who lives like a king.

I mean no hate by ideals I've written in my head
Just remember, the double standards, haunt you in your bed
I've looked to a sea flowing into that unknown
I got in a small boat and parted it on my own
You won't take the might I've shown and say someone else is to blame
The same goes for the failures and mistakes
I take me for the all of me that I am
In the face of these demons, I never ran.

She is in part
a viper,
a poisonous plague
upon my heart,
venom spitter
dark adder
damming me
from a distance,
crumbling my
resistance.

She is dangerous
but I do not mind,
I find I like that kind
of danger.

2020 -day 201

Sunday, July 19, 2020
6:49 AM

first 活 {livelihood}
remember meeting the enemy
seeing it is I
I am my opposition
I am the reason I lie I know

this is the day to keep my head,
if all about me are losing theirs.
this is
the day
the schism in the isms is widening
we may see scabs falling from
wounds healed at word
one,
hope, really, no wu wu, wei true hope
taken unseen as possible
- in a realm of imagining all things
- either possible or not things at all

wise to the ways of thought taught
conditionally
from the vibe in the tribe who took
triggering the primal scream from a theory
to musing drum music isn't good to sooth
the troubled soul instituted intuitive as
stories passed from inside to insider
states of waiting for
inseeing
ensuing peace...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

positioning super beings in mythic roles
once played by mortals,
is there an institute rising from its knees,
believing a we is enabling, any we

audacious hope tied to the idea that was
institutionalized in a polis with no
memory of standing as free men,
free to imagine the world we
formed from was an institutional lie.

Tweet... retweet liar liar seat on fire,
get up and run
with the lemmings disneyfied as a certain
truth, we all saw the cute little rodents
unreasonably leap into the sea,
as nature guides for the good of the species...

but we know the scene, the stage, was set
off stage, obscene, the critters were
herded over the cliff, for the shot, but
we saw it
we know how it was done, but the message
institutionalized in baby boomer minds,
passed on to children who had children who
live fully disneyfied lives,
in true imaginary prowess of children...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

A good man leaves an inheritance to his
children's children.
Mine get the wind, not good union
jobs, no guild proven tasks to perform to spec,
to gain
tenure, hold on
confess, professor, confess

are you now or
have you ever been the other in a mob,
did you run the other way?
or did you stand
institutional, alone? stretch it stretch it
-post Patriot Act,

is this the turn-key total war,
are we the children in the wolderness
hidden
by old hippies who read books and smoke *****,

but never lied, not even a little bit
to skip taxes,

the law does protect the satisfied poor,
who rear curious children formed
to fit smoothly into forms of being being
sold for tasks needing intel
teliosis tell me is that the goal, that brave
sorting of knowers from those
who can't get a grip on the
truth in the military
universal mind,
unified as the us, the objectional form of
we, the people, who hold certain truth,
as our state, once we swear allegiance,

wait. watch. lie, say you know you saw
lemmings suicide for lack of reason,
just as crazy as a riot of *******,
marching into my valley
through the fourth wall into you,
inner you,
what do you know?

You got infected by an idea virus
vaccine, some old hippie dreams set aside,

as sub science connected tenuously sparks,
shock
pain
why
-- oh, I see says the pin, penned between
trigger and spiral rifling
misfires of the un loaded gun...
----

䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


once, north of the rairoad track,
down in slaughter house canyon,
I met a Gila Monstor, face to face,

I assumed it was a he as much as me and
I heard a question, I would have asked
were I such a thing being a he as much as me.

The question was why I would think
**** it, fear it, jump back

while I were so far away, come closer,
come and see,
I
think of me being a she as much as me
as
any pain avoiding being,
I am she who uses mornings,
to recover from each night by
basking in the morning light to loosen
old bones stuck in the cold
inner being, the soul at the heart,
of the mindless, dreamless state of being
mortal
under the influence of time and chance
and creatures of the night
ah, she says, I see,
why you seem afraid of me,

differing POV, see, down low, you know,
no big fat lizard, big around as a ball bat,
long as a little leaguer's arm,
looking me right, seeing me straight from
an angle I never imagined
possible,

insanity, as defined by the inner child,
who still can hear hummingbirds
asking renewal of the famed
font of aqua dulce from
the legend that led
them, the flock that lives in the oak,
nearly always  only after the
flowers have gone brown in July...
----

䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


No unfinished thing is ever finished,
only finished stories end in hell,
and even then,
we unbelieve our way out,
time and again we escape the madness,

merely to stir up the dust that first formed
a reason to be at all.

Were I a gemstone cut to fit a brazen niche
beneath a gear and spring in an old watch,
fit, solid, held in underling relationship,
as a point,
balancing, perfectedly enough for a time,
the measuring assuring we see, as
life passing before our very
un ordinary, common sense of self

con science, con carne, con fusion
sub all that
under all that, sub conscience, sub knowing
I know you are you alone and the bell,
tolls for me, the after all,
being
imagined as you

stand and see if you were I
as I am me,
would you have reason to **** me?
...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


In my youth, we all lived in
Real McCoy
Western movies, tales of conquering
common folk,
whose signs needed Dave Wassen to make any sense,
but that link is likely lost,
despite all the merit badges earned
-- you could not learn the sign language of the plains
-- you needed to live in a time before we became enemies

we welcome strangers passing through

bo'weevilish little critters, jes' lookin'
fo' a home... the pattern,

the frame, the threads themselves all twisted
and tied, crisscross
woof and warp, first we weave the canvas,

then we set the sail, or stitch the story,
Cluny Abby edifies some,
as did Medussa, on reflection,
subtle ivy bound
gardens of stone people memorialized,
became wordless tales for children to believe,
you see,
you may become as one of these,
the leaders who led us to now, some how, we
imagine,
we were manifested now, from underlying
circumstantial evidence of unseen, yet

see-able, visible, ignorable or not,
feeling a blind insight where darkness seems
a spot,
only empty. A place to rest a while and
imagine
peace as a river flowing from another's belly
to swallow me in being
as I seem
some days more than others, aware of efforts
to wind the invented witnessed cloud
of unknowing too tight to tic,
tic,
take a clock from long ago, one of those
hour glassic witty inventions for
timing eggs. Nada mas.

But, imagine, time shifting phase, each grain,
each
Leucippus bit re read as Democritical atom,
bouncing in picometer hops
in picosecond times
spanning all the years since one, the number,
was the onliest number
that you never see,
being as
you are later, after ever began, you began.

You continue, after I am gone.
But, don't forget your lines, your cue, you know
the reason you read.
My angel told you, no excuses, read or end up,
famous for your ignorance.

-- note: I read that the Donald Trump, as seen on TV,
claims a real bond to the Bible that binds him
and his base spiritua/financial
constituency, that which constitutes the
aberration being bid by mobs to become great, once more
swell up into an epluribal us being
under a
boss, the man on the horse LBJ wished to be,
the sky pilot Bush two boasted of being,
from the backseat, screaming Mission Accomplished,
while the BeeGees signal once more,
we started a joke...
that has the whole world laughing
at our grovelling
under the man we witnessed rising on the Obaman ashes
in Afghanistan, prophesied from Hollywood when Jack Reacher
was fit to that little guy, who stars in the Scientology
story. Jack Reacher is a myth, from my youth,
a type - like Marshall Dillon, but un civilized, and
able to accomplish any less than Supermanic impossible mission,
with pure Horton hearing, and Little Red Hen persistence.
But this was not my knack, I rest my case,

Once we are aware, you are the point of balance,
my point is made.
-- buried deep behind the guilt and shame and blame
wait, while seeing

Nothing doing is nothing done and
never imagined impossible again
(Peter Graves was Marshall Dillon's brother,
and both were Jack Reacher sized men, once sent on
Missions Impossible, as messages embodied, like
messianic hope some say
has always been a lie, heros always empower Tyrants
history claims, after all,
look around,
see...
past why or how, reasoning now,

it is true,
some wise of our kind, wandered to the edge
of the civilized state, believing as they walkt away
fore warned, each had a vision, a
knowing for some unseen reason, next is solid,
now is not,
take one step toward all you wish were true,
do
not lie to you
and you will never
lie to anyone regarding self
being me, not I,
we
see.
there was always a way to get by,
any damming thing,
and if you can not handle that truth,
you are fired,
go to hell and wait, end of story,
time out
test me, I am an American,
claiming this grew from seed Ben Franklin sowed,
I chuckle. You underestimated life,
witnessed from so great a cloud as commonly
contains reasons for having been,
stacked neatly in examined lives, lived. Read or be
ignorant, actively ig nor ing if nition.

Behold how great a fire...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

don’t pretend you have seen what i carry inside of me there is a wildfire between my ribs i am afire with thoughts whose intensity would burn you alive maybe i am just a girl but if you had seen the things i’ve seen you’d understand why i am the way i am i don’t mean to be sad but i am done damming up my tears for you i am finished with self-restraint i will bleed rivers & watch myself ignite because i know what i am & i will hurt if i have to i will not pretend i am okay just you wait i am not your dream i am a nightmare

I’m constantly being ****** by the ******. Trapped in a pitiful existence believing things blindly since birth. Normalized and Christian born ****** people, exclaiming, proclaiming, spiteful ****** people damming heathens to hell. Hell is for the living, the dead don’t go there.

shaking, i'm shaking, i'm told.
like i can stop it somehow
one second i'm in class
the next
i'm on a stretcher
being asked by my principal
if i'm alright?
seizing, you're seizing, you're having a seizure
i'm told as i
puzzle together my surroundings
and as i do i begin to cry
why me? i ask
what did i do to deserve this?
even now, my memories of that day have been tampered
as if some omnipotent force doesn't want me to remember
the horrors of that day.
my friends tell me i walked out of class
no explanation as to why
maybe i thought it looked nice outside
the white clouds painted across the cool ocean sky

the doctors tell me my nerves are misfiring
but so are the thoughts in my head
for whatever reason i end up again
in some unknown hospital bed.
i close my eyes and count to ten
hoping for this to all just end,
but the stress disagrees with me
and leaves my weak head penned.

the last time it happened was in the bleak december
when the skies were gray with the sun's last ember
i am scared of the odds i won't make it to september
because of some unfair episode i can't even remember

Thursday, April 19th
forever imprinted on my inaccurate brain
the day my grandfather died.
the day my mother was diagnosed with cancer.
the day my life changed forever

people say high school was
the greatest four years of their life
that i should cherish and remember forever
for i will never be able to grab a hold of time
and wish to be back
but how should i remember high school
when memories are being deleted
in my brain's system files
and the only memories i have
are of my family falling apart;
my tears' perpetual flowing down my soggy cheeks?

my friends tell me i'm not alone in this,
but how could i be anything else.
they don't know how i feel,
they joke about it now like it's okay
watch out, they say,
don't have a seizure about it, they joke
by now my eyes are hoover dams
damming the tears from
showing the outside world
my true feelings.

and now i conclude,
as i am no longer in the mood
to sit here in deep introspection
because after all, everyone has imperfections
mine are just more unique.

Minuscule oceans signal
The sun plays on the run
The equality of night , music of-
confused songbirds an brushing pine
Evening teardrops collect their prize
Damming the lame as well as the chastised
Whirlpools , swift green spirals
Charming the aware , the compliant ,
the mesmerized and the medicated , a
breathless survivor