this world

does it see the feel need
(as a child does



                                         )flowers?


and does it see them?
the stems by coloures eloquent
bobbling tiny thousands

each a poem silked in light
each a vast array of smell


and does it feel them?
the curving hollow
of rushing soft

to gather in a fisted plume
the tease and romp of hue


and does it need them?
the sigh and quake of fragile dying
the least living
the most loving

and does this world
(as a child does

a flower )?

and does it?



























and does it?

One too many.
Maybe it was one too many.
At least that's what the unicorn said
but then again,
what does he know
of the hardships of life
and the means necessary to avoid them.
It is easy to preach when
your only worry in the world is being magical.

When I was a kid,
I wished to be one
and look how far I got;
I sometimes talk to one.
So it's not one too many.
Not now.
Now, it's one too little

Three seventy-five. At my current muscle weight, that’s the amount of force, in pounds, with which my fist smashes into my opponent’s face. Flesh molds against my knuckles, vessels rupture under the impact; I am that unstoppable object, that destruction you can only watch. I am that confused, hurt, angry child. I channel it through my arms, conduct it through my knuckles, watch it spark and jump from fist to cheekbone. This is the therapy I so wantonly crave, so needed. The only place I can vent the full wrath of my frustration upon the world; or…at least, a single member of it….

Jump back three days.

     Why can’t I see you more? I text her. Because I don’t want a relationship. She says. I don’t need a relationship. I just want to see more of you. I tell her. I’m afraid I’ll invest too much. She says. I don’t understand. Is that a bad thing? Seven years of friendship, two of off-on dates and rendezvous. How could you get more invested? What else can you spill after your hearts in a pool at my feet?
I drank a lot that night.

Jump back four days.

     I’m coming out that way. What are you doing tonight? I always initiate…everything. Always the first question, the first proposal, the first, the first, the first. Am I that threatening? Going out with friends. Homework and going out is all this woman seems to do. Maybe one less night with friends, one more with me wouldn’t hurt? Cool. Celebrating a birthday with friends, we’ll be out and about. Maybe we should meet up? If I’m here, she’s got no reason to refuse me…right? I thought distance was our only problem. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me stupid drunk. What a stupid excuse. I actually want to see you stupid drunk. I will at some point if we keep things up.

     Long story short, a guy she sometimes fucks is going to be wherever it is they’re going, and she doesn’t want to have two guys she’s seeing in the same vicinity. What does that make me? I’m getting frustrated with all this confusion and sideways talking. My group incidentally ends up at the same place they are. I don’t even talk to her face-to-face. I’m such a sporting guy. She goes home...alone, to my relief. I get stupid drunk with friends. But never forget to message her back and act like everything’s cool.

Jump ahead a week.

     More conversations to clear up why I fill only one void in her life lead to more confusion. I’m frothing with it. It’ll be in my mouth soon. Wait…I taste it already.

     “Let’s drink and pick fights,” I say to a couple buds. Two hours out, we’re sloshed and trading licks in a back alley. The guy that had taunted and jostled me in the bar follows us out and picks a fight. Says I’m too drunk. Not worth it. I hide a smile, raise my arms, “Let’s see.”

     Shirts are off. Left hook to my ribs, I pivot an elbow, deflect with forearm. This leaves his side open. I duck his wild right-hand and drive a straight hit into his open spleen. He hits the alley wall. “Still want to take a drunk?” I taunt from my knee. He comes back, still sure of himself. I’ll show you what confidence does to us, my friend. He puts up a boxer’s guard and comes back, more cautious. Friends and enemies cheer and joan around me. I don’t hear a thing. There are thoughts. Dark, confused, smashed together, waiting to be dealt with. I focus on all of it. I focus on his face. I listen to the conversations that leave me more hurt and alone than they should. I lean into a false waltz stance, he doesn’t notice the feet. I notice his. He’s more drunk, on less, than I. Every time you breathe, I hope you think of me. The mass in my mind flows through my arms and legs. I charge and he punches straight where my head should go. I dodge right, grab his wrist, snap in and pull out, stringing him in an invisible flaying bed; my left elbow crosses his solar plexus, throwing him to the ground. Knees pin his arms. The hate, and anger, and confusion, and helplessness dissolve between fist and flesh, arc across the pain in my heart and the bruises and blood flowing freely from a fool....

Never entice a man with a need to portray his problems upon a heedless world.

     His friend steps in and plants a well-thought-out fist against my jaw. The one on the ground is down for the count. My friends don’t step in. They know me. I roll off him before his friend’s hit can follow through. Now I have physical pain to channel, too. I grin and my assailant isn’t comforted. This is the release I need. This is my way out. This is what will help. Fuck you, world. Fuck you girl. Damn all of you for your games and your feelings and your mysteries. To hell with why you think you need to hide your heart. Wear it on your goddamn sleeves. Fuck your dishonesty and your insincerity. Fuck your exes. May you all drowned in your lies and guilt and shame. Damn you for assuming I’d ever judge any of you, for not taking my love at face-value, for thinking I had anywhere near the ulterior motives you all harbored. My left hand grabs his left elbow, simultaneously blocking a right jab and flipping his arm out of the way for the full force of my right arm into his ribs. A cacophony of bone and flesh giving way to my wrath meets my ears. He yelps. Never yelp when you’re trying to be strong for a friend. Keep your damned lips closed, asshole. He recovers only slightly before my right meets his face. My arc is perfect: the momentum of muscle as it curves the natural twist of a muscled arm, the darkness of my life gathering on knuckle-tips like obsidian gems glinting in the dirty hallway between worlds of vice and vindication, the cording muscle releasing the pent-up rage of a thousand lives gathered in one body.

     Connection shatters worlds. The horror of life bleeds across his broken window to the world. The reflection of my jeweled nirvana wink across his eyes. See the world I live in, failed rescuer. See the hopeless honor I hold in my bosom. Sleep with the knowledge that even when you try, someone will always be there to flash the dark, jaded realities across your eyes…and bring you to my level.

     The other friends won’t budge ‘till I’ve stepped past. They part like the Red Sea for me. My ark is empty until I interact with the world tomorrow.

Brief peace is better than none.

-###-

You don't know how I'm feeling.
So why do you look at me like you
Can feel what I am going through ?
I walked alone all my life asking
Myself Why ?
I have yet to vocalize my desire deep
Inside me.
Can you see it in my eyes? I hold all
My pains within ; Know love had I ever
Known , and know place I could ever
Call home ,
I tremble when I'm near love you see
What does love have with me ?
Heat travels up my thighs in the deep
Heated up wind that blows on me
Day's within ,
I have been a lost child all my life ; With
Out a father and mother by my side telling
Me I will be alright !
I want you Jehovah with an urgency to hear
My cry's that I just can't describe.
I reach out to touch you with a heart of truth ,
How much I want and need you ?
Can you see it in my eyes? Can you see I can
Know longer go on with my life with out you
In it ? I long to say, "I love you,"
But am scared of your reply , Terrified like a child
Of long ago , Living a life with an empty soul;
I've become paralyzed within with out a father or
Mother to hold , They left all alone .
The camouflaged emotions that came to me like rain ;
My heart was holding so much pain of heartbreaks of the past;
The pains of silent cries in the rain of a child that no one wanted
To clam ; All my sad lonely nights I had cried like I wanted to
Die ,
I would gases about my life ,always asking why is my life thise way  ?
And yet I just can't tell a soul the right way to go ,
Don't you see it in my eyes? I am lost a lost sheep needing you to
Love me ''Please !
Confessing and don't know what to do ,
So I write a poem of thoughts and truth  of all my dilemma summarized
To you , Then I head a voice with love and said to me come home You
Had been lost long time ago , But know I have you to hold .

Lilly Emery

if the stars are the past
to us
what does that make us
to the stars?

"You are beautiful."
That is what they say,
and you reply,
"Thanks, you too."
A compliment, received and courteously relayed.

But what is really meant by this statement?

"You are beautiful."
Implies the speaker has identified that you exist—nothing out of the ordinary, but important nonetheless.

"You are beautiful."
Implies something much more—that the speaker not only acknowledges you, but understands you. It implies they have access to the real you, the one beneath the surface, and that they are capable of evaluating it. Notice that "You look beautiful." is not what has been said. No, what has been said is much more than that.

"You are beautiful."
This is their evaluation. Through the lens of their own perception, what they see when they observe who you are is best described by the word "beautiful". From my perspective, this can only be taken as a sign of deep appreciation, of recognition from one soul to another that on some level, they share the same substance.

Yet, knowing all of this raises a great suspicion. Do those who make this statement truly understand what they are saying? Do they mean it? Did they mean to say, instead, "You look beautiful."? Did they even mean anything at all? Did they give this compliment for the mere sake of giving it, or did they give it with the expectation of receiving something in return?

Do they know of the tension behind your smile? Do they know of the fear residing in the dark pools of your eyes? Do they know that the way you present yourself is often done in spite of how you truly feel?

Do they know, deeper still, of the tiny, yet unwavering flame that burns inside of you? Do they know that underneath the layers of frost that guard your soul is a core of warmth that craves release? Do they know that deep down, you don't believe the horrible things you tell yourself—you can't believe them—, but that it's much easier to pretend otherwise? Do they know that you numb yourself to escape unrelenting pain, often at the cost of escaping joy?

When they say you are beautiful, is it this you they speak of, or is it the you they see but do not understand?

Does their statement stand against who you are by trying to convince you of a self-image you do not have? Does it attempt to ignore, and by ignoring, negate the fact that you possess flaws, insecurities, and imperfections? Does it try desperately to project an image of perfection upon you, as if to acknowledge the truth would be too difficult?

Do they really think you are beautiful, or do they merely want to think it, blindly and without commitment?

Of the answers to those questions I am not certain. But, if I were one of those speakers who dared to make such a bold statement, I would be very careful. For if they are not truly ready to admit with full honesty that they understand exactly the meaning of what they are saying, then they do not deserve to say it.

And if they do not deserve to say it, then they ought to be careful of another thing, too. For if their compliment is not genuine, then the response they receive in return might not be genuine, either.

"Thanks. You, too."
Oh, really,
I am beautiful, you say?
Thanks. You, too.

what does it mean
when the dreams you dream
years later, in waking find you?

in response it replied:

material things one weds
will need to be shed
for purpose and light to be true...

It sort of just sits there
Vacant – perhaps a little smirk,
I don’t know.

It does, however,
show some age,
-This is what I’m getting at-
And peeling paint,
Up it’s left side.

Those people that lived there,
With scruffy bonnets,
Who worked seven till eleven,
Who would sit around the fire,
Why cast our minds back that far?

Oh I wouldn’t call it
Dainty, rather…
Irritable.

An irritable
Home that should be demolished.

When I join something
Or get motivated to do something
You are there

To tell me that I am bad at this
Bad at that

You don't control me, SIR.
No one ever does,
No one ever did.....

Not until I started falling..
Falling into an infinite abyss
Of darkness and loneliness

It was horrible
It still is.
Because i am still falling
and failing to grab to anything.
I keep falling..
Having thoughts to end it for myself
But can I do it??
Whilst in an abyss??
Can I?

Sometimes i cry...
And i don't even know why...
Then later i conclude,
I cried because i was confused.

DOES THAT EVEN MAKE SENSE?