I want you to take as long as you need to decide what you really really want.
I want you to make your decisions without pressure from me .
I want you to know that you don't have to fit in your size zero anymore.
You will always be special to me and I will love you unconditionally.
I will love you to my dying day and I've never cared what others thought of me.
I know you know that but I wanted the one who wrote a nasty poem to know.
Not a poet and know it and know what's in your pure and unprejudiced heart.
You are sweetest and the most interesting lady I've ever met and you still are the
only one I want to read to, have snowball fights with and sit by a warm fire to
to stop the chills, spend endless hours talking to, the one with the gorgeous
smile that brightens my day, the one who I love seeing walking in without an
appointment, the one I always put calls on hold for, the one who's voice makes
my heart race when I always answer your calls, the one with the musical laugh
that I can't get enough of. You are the one I want to be in my life even if we are
just friends. You gorgeous one are worth waiting for and growing old waiting for.
All I want for Christmas is your happiness now and forever Betty Ponder.
Never ever forget this, you are the only one I'd eat tofu with and for.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to, I had to do it, you made me, made me want you, need you, it wasn’t my fault, he just, wouldn’t let me have what I need.
There she is my angel, my sweet, sweet woman. I wouldn’t hurt her you know, I’d never hurt her, I’d kill anyone that tried to hurt her, I swear it, I’d have their throats within my grasp and I’d squeeze, more and more, tighter and tighter. Until every inch of hurt they caused her was paid back, in triplicate.
italicNO! Why, why did you do it? Why do that to him, he didn’t do anything. He didn’t touch you, he told you to go away, he told you to leave us alone, you should have, you should have just went away, far away.
There he is, he’s really creepy, I mean seriously, he just stands there, staring at me. What does he want? Well, I guess that’s a stupid question really, it’s obvious. But why is it, when he stands there staring, he looks angry and sad all at once?italic
I’m sorry! italicWhy!?italic
boldHe’ll pay for that, I’ll make him pay. He shouldn’t have tried messing with me, he shouldn’t have touched me, and he shouldn’t have grabbed that knife. It was his mistake messing with people who he should fear, he’ll realise that soon enough.
I swear if he doesn’t stop looking at us I’ll kill him. He’s just stood there, fists clenched, staring at her, she’s not his and I make sure to remind him of that every day. She’s my girlfriend, and they both know it, I make sure of that, I make sure there’s no question of what is mine.bold
I’m sorry! italicWhy!?italicboldHe’ll pay!bold
bolditalicYou’re under arrest; you do not have to say anything… You made quite a mess in there kid, I don’t remember the last time I saw something that bad outside of the cinema. Tell me son, what drove you to do it? Why would someone as hopeful as you ruin your life by ending another’s? Straight A’s, plenty of social groups, hell you could have been anything you wanted to be, but. You chose murder. Sweet Jesus, I’ve seen nothing like it in my life. They say it was only that lad, poor boy doesn’t realise what’s gonna happen. They’ll see him hung for this, that fella he killed, son of one of the richest families I know. Looks like a blind fit of rage, if we can get a reason, it could save that kids life.italicbold
I’m sorry! italicWhy!?italicboldHe’ll pay!bold
bolditalicYou’re under arrest.italicbold
We gather here, to bury he who killed another.
They destroyed his home, they broke his heart, and they eviscerated his body.
Justice served. In triplicate.
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and dirty dishes,
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
waiting to be caught, just as long
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such lines from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.
Love's a master, rich but cruel.
I know, I was her slave.
Doing work you should of knew
It will dig yourself a grave.
Love's a poet, I've herd her songs.
Her words are gentle. Her words are wise.
But naked, blind and naive as such
I never noticed that they were lies.
Love's a friend you call at night
To wipe those problems off your neck.
But such close friends you have to watch
Not to stab you in the back.
As love is lovely, but harsh sometimes.
It makes you cry. It makes you dance.
It's scary, at first, but you learn in time
She's always worth a second chance.
Anne crutches herself into Sister Paul's office. The nun is sitting in a chair behind a desk, hands folded on the table, eyes stern, lips a straight line. Anne stands before the desk, taking in the huge crucifix on the wall above the nun's head.
- You can sit down, Anne, the nun says, eyeing her firmly, watching the 12 year old girl, as she manoeuvres herself with one crutch onto the chair.
Anne sits down and puts the crutch beside the chair and pulls her red skirt over her knees, covering the stump where her leg had been.
- Do you know why you're here? Sister Paul asks, unfolding her hands, and laying them flat on the desk top.
- No, Anne says, looking at the nun's black and white headdress, the thin features of the face, hawk-like nose.
-There has been complaints made about you, the nun says. She watches as the girl fidgets in the chair, lifts herself with her hands, back further, on the chair. - Are you not comfortable? She asks.
- No, Anne says, My knickers are too tight.
The nun sighs, looks at the wooden ruler on her desk, wishes she could, but knows she can't.
- Complaints made by other children here and staff members, the nun says, toying with the ruler with her fingers.
-What sort of complaints? Anne asks.
-The worse sort: bad language, insolence, rudeness. It has to stop, Anne, do you understand? The voice sounded like grit poured into a bucket.
Anne fingered at her backside. -Ah, that's better, sorted it out now, she says, putting her hands together in her lap. - I can't recall any rudeness, she says, acting miss innocence, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, kind of expression and pose.
The nun looks at the girl and inwardly is glad she never married and had children, especially if one had been like this.
- Sister Bridget says you called her a dried up prune, the nun says, looking at the dark hair and eyes of the child, the insolent way she sits and looks.
Anne frowns.- Me? To Sister Bridget?
-Yes, to Sister Bridget, and Sister Mary says, you exposed your bottom to her when she asked you to take your afternoon sleep. The nun looks at the girl's expression, her frown of brow.
- No, not me, Sister Paul, must have been some other kid's backside she'd seen.
-Are you calling these two nuns, liars?
The girl looks at her hands in her lap, raises two fingers upwards, out of the nun's sight.- No, not liars, just mistaken. We all make mistakes, Anne says, we're all human, after all.
Sister Paul's eyes darken, she grips the ruler tighter, pushes her toes to the end of her sandals.
- And some of the children have made complaints, too, the nun says, the words hard as nails from her lips.
-Ah, you know what liars kids can be, Sister. They couldn't tell the truth if it came wrapped in yellow paper saying, TRUTH. She smiles at her wit.
Sister Paul doesn't smile; her lips tighten, her eyes scan the child, if the girl at been at one of the schools, rather than the nursing home, she'd be well on her way to a sound caning.
- I know children, Anne, and liars, the nun says, eyeing the girl firmly, tapping the ruler on her palm. - You are a liar, and I know you. I have read the reports on you before you came. I was reluctant to take you in, but had little choice. You will behave yourself or be expelled from the nursing home. Is that understood?
Anne senses a fart coming on, but holds it in. - Yes, Sister, sorry Sister. It's my leg you see, it gives me pain, and keeps me awake at nights, and I get tired and I get irritable. She puts on a hurt expression.
The nun sits upright and stiff, an expression of dislike etched on her features.
-We are given pain, by God, for a purpose, Sister Paul says, it is a gift we ought to shoulder and bear with gratitude.
-Like haemorrhoids, you mean? Anne says, fiddling with her fingers, a blank look on her face.
- You know what I mean, young lady, pain in general, not in particular. At that moment the nun feels a great urge to inflict pain on the girl sitting in front of her. She can picture it, the whole scene, the satisfaction.
Anne shifts in the chair, steadying herself. - Can I go now?
The nun sits back in the chair, eyes focusing on the girl, her face straight and stiff as a board.- Your leg has been amputated, so how can it give you pain? the nun says, her words pushed from her mouth as if they were sour.
- Nerve endings, they don't realise the fucking legs gone, oops sorry, about that it kind of slipped out while I was engaged in thoughts, Anne says, looking at the nun's reddening face. - Didn't mean to, it's my leg you see, it gets me all uptight, and wound up like a clock, and then ping! Out it comes.
The nun sighs deeply. The word hammers inside her ears and brain. - I won't have such language, do you hear me, not another rude word or expression.
Anne clenches, the cheeks of her buttocks tightly, to hold in the the coming wind. She nods, gives an expression of remorse, allows her eyes to water, takes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wipes her nose. - Sorry about that, don't mean to be such a bad girl, my apologises to all. She wipes her eyes, lets herself go, does her acting bit, slumps her shoulders, weeps softly.
The nun is confused, sits up, feels an urge to go around to the girl and embrace her, say, there, there, dear child, but she doesn't, instead she stares at the girl, at the slumped shoulders, at the dark hair, the sight of neck, and wonders what kind of mother she would have made had she married, would she have coped with the nappies and sickness and foul smells and dressing and undressing a baby and the disturbed nights, and a man touching her, and doing things to her. No, she couldn't have married, nor had a child. She sighs and softens, -OK, Anne, lets say no more about it, and she gets out of the chair and walks around to the child weeping, in the chair, and puts an arm about her, feeling the shallow shakes, the sobs, the sight of the one leg, knowing a stump was beneath the skirt. - There, there, calm down, it is all too much for you after losing your leg, I'll have a word with the children and staff and explain about your pain. She holds the girl close to her breast, feeling her there, the catching of breath, the sobs, the shaking shoulders, and plants a kiss on the girl's black hair and head.
- Sorry, Sister Paul, Anne says, between her acted sobs, sniffing, wiping her nose, feeling the fart go away silently, like sneaky hound, all without sound.
The nun feels her heart open and close. - All right, Anne, you may go and rest your leg or stump, she says, going back to her chair and sitting there, watery eyed.
Anne lifts her head, pushes her hair from her eyes, sniffs and wipes her nose. -Thank you, Sister, you're like a mother to me. She pulls herself up from the chair with the crutch, feels the pain shoot through the stump, rubs it, pulls a face. - I'll go and rest it, she says, soft voiced, sobs held in check, head lowered. She crutches herself from the room slowly, sensing the nun's eyes on her, feeling a sense of fulfilment, like passing an audition, and lets the door click gently behind her.
Sister Paul sits and fingers the ruler. Sniffs and coughs softly. Feeling the girl's shoulders in her hands, the gentlest of touches, the sense, momentarily, of being a mother, compassion, concern, yes, it is there, she says inwardly, maybe I might have made a good mother after all had it been God's wishes, even if I had to put up with a man's touch for the duration. Thank God, she says softly inwardly, for my vocation .
My heart is warm,
My heart is ill.
My heart loves against my will.
Is that good?
Is that bad?
Please tell me, I'm becoming mad!
Should I be scared?
Should I stay brave?
I'm becoming my love's slave.
Should I be stiff,
Or should I sway?
I never felt love this way.
It's amazing what this love is.
It's just mine,
It's not his!
I don't wear those tears I wore.
I don't love him anymore!
And now it's my turn to make amends
And give some new love a chance.
Through out the years, humans evolve to something better,
Someone among us will eventually tap even further...
Beyond all that is normal to a human body will change,
Look deeper and from beneath one's able to reach something out of range...
The sense of sight where we see the physical world and all its beauty,
Sometimes became a curse for all their lives, they only seen all that is ugly
We make use of our eyes to see things with appreciation before judging clearly,
That in our minds will be etched, painted picture of the meaning of all things we see...
The sense of hearing where we listen to the world and all that surrounds us,
That is sometimes dreadful where only what one hears are all other's lies
For the world whispers the truth more often than the lies being constantly yelled,
Schemes and plots are the same, only gets worst when being told not asked from what is being said...
The sense of smell and taste where we scent and savour the world's natural resources
The smell of the polluted air that's killing the environment that ends the life of withering trees and roses.
The taste of the food we eat everyday, so satisfying keeps us alive keeps us going,
Only that everyday is a slaughter, and the belly became a graveyard just in order to survive to end the craving...
The sense of touch where we feel the world with our flesh and bones to communicate,
The lust that the body craves is the strongest feeling that makes us grow and replicate,
Where the saddest form is pain which one feels from all the torments and torture,
A reminder that the world is unfair full of tyranny causing' all kinds of terror!!!
The sixth sense where we see the beyond of what this world have left behind...
We see things we don't understand yet some see them clearly the ghost where they stand,
The ability to communicate with the dead... An astral projection,
ones who have crossed the realm of the other world...A misconception ,
that it change faith and beliefs that changes life how it cycles and revolves...
The seventh sense... It is said that one who are able to tap and awakens it, can see the world's future,
The ability that one can bend time and space, a walk through time that changes the course of nature...
Flashing forward centuries and back again, To witness and prevent changes of things that might happen
Playing God became a taboo even before the beginning, so what's the message? For all this ability one is having?
Is God speaking to ask providing us potentials, a chance to see the world through his eyes?
How are we going to make use of the free will he bestowed unto us to see no more lies!
Only the truth that disrupts the balance mankind has made! Like rules a government planned
Or it will remain a mystery that only God knows and understand... The questions that are in our minds...
“Yes, of course, I’ll do that for you.”
That’s how it started, that’s how it always starts. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I never gave them no as an answer, always yes, always how high, always please.
You know, I used to thank them for telling me what to do, that’s what they had me think I should be doing, thanking them for giving me something to do but hang around with druggies and alcoholics, thank them for making sure I stay on the right track.
I don’t remember when I started, but it felt good, it felt so good. The only thing about myself I knew was right, the only thing that looked right, felt right, how could it be wrong? I know people say it is…but it really isn’t, trust me.
Tire tracks, I think that’s what people call them anyway; I can’t remember the last time I really talked to someone else. I hid my wrists from them, they might tell me not to do it, and I’d have to thank them for taking away the last of myself.
They said it again, and I thanked them again. They’re right of course, they’re always right. There are those worthless, good for nothing idiots out there who’d rather cover themselves with god knows what than admit who they really are. I wasn’t allowed to hide it.
NO! WHY! They found out, they saw the marks on my wrists while I did their washing, I’ve got nothing sharp, nothing blunt, just this stupid length of rope in the basement, I wonder, would that do?
He was only a child, 15. We found him in your basement, swinging limp, lifeless. We found a note you know, yeah.
I know what you think of me, it’s what you made me think of myself. But I’ll tell you now, because it’s my last chance.
I’m not worthless,
I’m not pathetic,
I’m not ugly,
I’m not disgusting,
I’m not wrong,
And I’m no longer YOUR accident.
The Toadstool Man
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But sucked them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
Do not fall in love with the boy with an acidic tongue.
If you do, you will never be the same again.
You will find yourself sneaking out at four in the morning for just one kiss.
You will never stop thinking about him.
You will always want more.
He will burn holes in your skin with his mouth and heal each and every one of your wounds with his fingertips.
You will get addicted to him.
But he will drain every ounce of life out of you.
And it will be a slow and painful process.
But it's sure to happen.
So again, I warn you,
Do not fall in love with the boy with an acidic tongue.