carve my body into
your wooden canoe
sail me
like a makeshift craft
into the center of
the storm
i want to chip and fall apart
to the crack of thunder
and your syrupy voice
peeling apart
my insides

tell my something I don't already know
like what is inside
the thousands of books
archived and lost
in the libraries
of your head

gut my organs
with your sharp
unforgiving words
like no matter how much
shit i smother onto my face
I will never be pretty
enough
No matter how much I
starve and throw up
I will never be good enough
and how my writing is too
mediocre.

and when I finally decide
that enough is enough
i'll realize it's never enough
it's never enough for you
taking portions of
my sanity
until there is insanity
holding my hand
with your acid
fingerprints
ghost recollections
of 1 year ago when
instead of you
it was him
and it was ok.

And instead of you it's me
it's always been me
devilish chants
over and over
trudging through thick
hot tar to arrive at
the finish line
but you
I
have bounded my ankles
to the start

I can never forgive you
(me)
for that.

You have to go through It,
To finally know,
What it's like,
When ink comes to life.
Punch drunk love,
Intoxicated confusion.
You consider regret,
Try to tear the walls apart,
To break the windows,  
And sledgehammer the terrace steps.
Try to erase a permanent tattoo,
Nails scouring skin,
Bleeding raw, yet,
Unable to compete,
With the bleeding,
Behind your ribcage.
You are empty,
Of words,
To describe and dissect,
Pain.
And you still can't, can't regret,
You feed yourself the lie,  
Over and over again,
Darling, you whisper,
Give it time.

It has been said that religion is a crutch. Well then my friends, let us praise those who only need one crutch to get around!

I fear that even two crutches would not suffice for me. Even standing still or walking, the result would be an unceremonious fall. Although walking is a hallmark of humanities' ancestors, I myself would need the aid of a wheelchair.

Let us also not forget those who have no help at all. For some, this means they can walk tall. For others not so gifted by fate, fortune or heritage, it means they must crawl.

So I, from my perspective of low-position and station, whether in need of the wheelchair or the rough ground to crawl upon, find it relatively inane and banal to critique my fellow invalids, cripples, and broken souls. Alas this wheelchair is no mean platform to sit in judgement from; excepting for hypocrisy, that acquaintance to us all.

So should we all point at each others infirmities, shortcomings, and private tragedies, waving our crutches in accusation at the prosthetic limbed protagonist before us? Or should we silently be thankful if we have enough to get by, - crutches, chairs, slings and all?

Perhaps I miss the subtle verve and nuance of these careful considerations, but is the bottle, the pill, the embrace of another, the painter in rapt repose, the musician playing away, no more than a diversion of differences from sling to crutch to chair? Who is the least crippled seems a game most perverse to play with a crowd looking for a cure.

Perhaps my betters can explain how to judge others so swiftly, truly, and justly? Pointing out so and so's prior sins and what's wrong with them. I am but a poor soul who simply resorts to love, lacking the telepathy to read the hearts and minds and know the travails and tribulations of the unknown cripple we castigate.

So please, weary traveler,  let me give you the wheelchair and I will keep the crutch in return, but do not fret, I only carry the crutch to give to the first person I find crawling.

Only then, needing to walk but having no aid, will I finally learn how to choose love over fear and strive for truth as I am unmoved, slowly wasting away.

Behind this little curtain, I hide.
I do not lie, but I do not tell the truth either.
I do not flash it in your face,
but I'm afraid you may know my

secret.

If this happens, everything will turn upside down
and I need to find a paper bag,
where I'll readily stuff my face in and hide under a rock
Until maybe all magically is forgotten.

I am ready to tell you the truth, however,
although my paper is transparent, a see-through glass,
piles of white lies may start to stain it and soon,
it will be so opaque you have to dig deep into there
To finally see the face that's hiding behind.

I am not desperate or a stalker,
or you know,
the one that sends you long text messages
and waits eagerly for a short reply.
Whenever I try to forget you,
you pop into my memory and tempt me into no bounds
of imagination. It's necessary I try not to follow,
but I always end up falling in the same hole.

So please understand, that if I suddenly reveal my identity,
do not be taken aback because this is what I have to do,
for you have caused me to be slightly obsessive and
longing for even a slight bit of communication between
us. The us that I dream of, the us that happened, what of it is left?

To start anew? This is rather painful. I don't want to forget, you see.
You were so lovely and sweet. How can I erase you from my memory?

People come and go, but you stay, longer than I thought you would.
This attachment is detrimental to my being. If any longer your existence influences me,
I will stop living in the present and reality and just dream on about non-existent parallels,
wasting so much time and feelings.

Okay. So this is why I'm being so secret there. You would only talk to me that way.

Because,

you wouldn't want to talk to me.

Thank you, dear, though, for that sweet little message.

I had a dream
To live in the mountains,
With a dog,
A black border collie to be exact,
Become an author,
Write a book
But still
Hang out in that mountain.

I had a dream,
That one day
I'd go on a road trip,
Just me and my best buds,
Snapping photos,
Chatting,
Just living a life
with no worries at all.

I had a dream
That I'd grow up happy
Don't care about the money,
Don't care about the stress,
Just happiness.

I had a dream,
And you?

You crushed it with a
All your
Might.

The author?
That's never gonna happen
Because you're gonna spend
Seven years studying
Architecture
Designing buildings,
Being all techy,
You won't have time for your
Stupid little dog,
Or your mountains,
None of that would

Exist.

Your road trip?
You'll be spending time on the road
In congestions
Towards the city,
Where you'll go to work
Where you'll suffer
For the rest of your life.

Until
You
Die.

Your worst idea
Is growing up being
Happy.

Happiness is when you finally become
Successful,
But that ain't never gonna happen to you,
Success isn't for lazy pigs
Who cause parents to split apart,
Who ruin lives,
Who dream of stupid dreams
Like living on mountains
With a dog.

You're gonna stay this way,
Forever,
Perhaps be my little servant one day.
You wanna talk about dreams?
Well my dream
Is to
See
You
Suffer.

I have one last dream,
It still lives on
It grows bigger and bigger
Every night.
It's the only one left,
That I still hold onto
Dearly:
To save someone
From a car accident,
I pray it's soon,
I pray it's now.

Then finally,
I'll prove you wrong,
And I'll finally die

Happy.

I have finally found
my passion for the piano
that was once
lost
amidst the business of life

What was once a chore
is now something
I indulge in

To be able to make the keys
dance for me
and the music
envelop me
and take me into another world

Im still learning
and its not easy

I still long to be able to play
as well as you do
but alas
I lack the talent

So I play
for my ears only
and not for others

I am a warrior of sort
Art in ceramic, paint, clay,even tape
Whatever I can shape, words
I try to recreate a world
That stigmatizes creativity
And I laugh because they will need me
We live in a place full of hate
Corporate hands that are heavy
And a mother that is sick
From the evils we invent
Earth evolving, at an alarming rate
To soon emanate the overshoot
Of our population, that has overtaken her health
And wealth is still only measured by paper
Intelligence by our ability to be intellectual
I create, and soon enough they will see
They need me.
And I will be part of a powerful force
That has been overlooked
A warrior, single soldiers
Marching along with all the other creators
And problem solvers of the world
Now stand there and stigmatize
Hide behind a degree
Tell me my dreams mean nothing
I am an artist, why is that so funny?
Will it still be when we are all running?
From the re-precautions of out today
Will what I do still seem like play
Or will we see it a different way
Creations and good ideas embraced
And when creators try to save the world
When they are finally heard
Will things stay the same?
Art be the bottom
Of the shoes successful people walk on
The socks of corporate stature
Will they still overlook the power of creation?
Power
Don’t forget about the people
We do more than math
We can heal, just like we have harmed
Time to be alarmed, time to listen
New generation, faced with this new condition
Said the artist
As no one listened