If i could take my sewing machine and sew you a song,
it would tell of old tales of girls sat by rivers crying their tears in to a river of wrong.
There would be a loud crescendo as time came to pass,
and love would be gentle, and not lost and profound,  
as much as it would tell you how to make it last.
It would tell the tale of two lovers, who struggled to survive, their love.
They made hope for each other, prayed for help from above.
Two lovers who had burns on their hearts from being burnt alive.
From being burnt by some other burnt heart.
From some other love whose love had dearly left and was depart.
The two lovers would be lost in each other, they would console and it would be suffit.
It would be enough.
It would not be enough, they would fear.
And this they held tight to their chest, next to the heart, and they held it dear.
They would long for the day when they would overflow from each other like a tap drips into a hole.
And from this sink, they would drink a mouthful of love everyday,
and this is enough,
they would, say, as their hurt became sewn into their soul.
If i could sew you a life in a pattern of cloth,
I would sew you a life that was love and that was loss.
I would sew you how people were lost from each other and had gone to war,
how they would cut their heart out, purely just because it was sore,
how these people would find themselves in each other but not in themselves anymore,
and how i would sew with cotton and silk,
and how you would see lovers crying, blood mixed with milk.
How you would see the colour of the sky that came from their eyes,
and the hate,
and the fame that came from their despise.
If i had some cotton i would sew you a tale.
I would would sew you a story,
but that would make no sense to someone with the universe in their hands,
and they would feel the love leaving between their fingers like fine pieces of sands,
and how they would not see hate but see the hearts of ten lost men,
who died in a coma of love,
and tore their muscles and shaved their hair for the lament,
of the ten girls who sat and cried to the lord above.
Oh if how i could sew you this tale,
if i could write and weave a song into life from these words,
how i could give you all of that which you deserve,
my love.
I could show you the heavens in your palms,
and the hell you construct that lays in your arms.
I would show you that we lose and we gain,
and that learning to let go, is never an ill gotten game.
For we lust, we love, and we let it all go,
and oh, my, god, doesn't it hurt so?
For you i would sew this with my sewing machine with a red letter and a gold pen,
and it would be a magnificent tale of way back when,
men were men,
and women stayed at home,
and the dog sat in front of the fire with a juicy bone.
There would be no jealousy,
no in-trepidation of fear that someone would steal thy love,
that someone would make you question yourself,
and that you are less worthy than thought from above.
And so with delicate fingertips, i weave and i sew,
for all of this my love,
for all of this you should know,
that love is never easy, and love comes, and love shall go,
and i am not forever, but i am here right now,
and i shall be here for a long time, if you were to take this vow,
sign me here with my cotton, and my lace,
let me give you a second look in the mirror at your face,
for is this you, for whom i sew this song,
is this for everything you lost, and everything that went wrong,
is this for your forefathers who loved and hated and cried and slaved away,
is this for your lovers, who changed when the night became the day?
Or is this for you,
who i see so very clearly,
for who i cannot but see,
and for who i would fight for with my hands, my fingers, my tongue,
bent, broken and down begging on one knee.
For i love so dearly.
For this is a song sewn in to the fabric of time,
i sew,
and it is for you,
for you are for me,
and it is mine.

I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that *******  heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus

Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis

I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren

So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems  enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body

I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too



Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.

The proudest thing I think I've ever done,
Such artistry, such skill I have attained!
The semi-glaze reflecting of the sun,
The richness of the blue, so lightly stained;
So perfect is the pointed pouring spout
That sits upon a rim of gold emboss,
And proudly do the handles both stick out,
Exquisite is the painted Celtic cross;
I toiled and slaved for oh so many years,
My fingers ever wet and moist with clay,
But now at last I'm free of all the fears
And doubts that clouded me until this day;
        I know you'll all be very pleased for me,
        So thanks, my friends, on Hello Pottery!

A slave to hate is free from love,
a slave to mediocrity- free from passion.

A slave to confinement is free from wandering,
a slave to blindness- free from seeing.

We are all slaves,
all free,
all a contradiction.

Growing up at a young age with ADHD can be a lot of fun. Everything just becomes that much more interesting. The sky seems so vast and every single blade of grass looks just as interesting as the one right next to it. My mind raced with questions every single second. I felt the only way to express it at times was relentlessly running around, as if every step I took gave me a satisfactory answer to each question I thought about; which was ultimately a lot of steps. It would be enough to drive most people into a state of madness. Not me though, I swore to the heavens I’d have every question answered. Because believe me, the seconds would feel like hours for every moment I didn’t know just how much wood a woodchuck could chuck.

Here’s my perspective; Thoughts in general are like the light from the stars that always shine the same brightness throughout the day. They are always there. Existing, even when you can’t see them. At least that’s how it is for normal people, you get the grace of day to nullify the shining of the light from those stars at times when it can be overbearing. You get a break. If I could describe what it’s like to have ADHD, picture your mind never turning off. It is always bright for me, and there is no dawn or day to alleviate my eyes from the galaxy of lights I see. It’s a beautiful disaster. You’re always thinking out loud to yourself about everything around you. When thinking about the concept of having a conscious and subconscious, you don’t even believe in the separation of the two. You think so much because of the energy flowing through your nerves, that there could be no way another part of your brain retains knowledge you don’t already consciously know. There’s so many questions every single second, that there needs to be some sort of way to express it. Mine would come through continuos questions and obviously, a lot of running around.

I guess I didn’t understand much about people back then, though. I was too busy exploring my mind and all the ideas that sprouted within it every second. I never thought it could be a bad thing. My father seemed to think differently at times.

The worst part about having an overactive thought process, is not being able to express it. Those thoughts have to go somewhere; and if they don’t, they build up  in a *** on a back burner until the lid finally blows off and explodes as some type of extreme emotion, from anger to sadness.  

As a kid, I have too many memories of confrontations with my father when I said something he didn’t agree with. Almost as if he thought I was overstepping my bounds as a male in his house by only talking about what was on my mind. If he didn’t like what I said, or if he didn’t agree with it, “I was an idiot.” It didn’t stop there either.

Conversations about things I’ve learned had to be defended with the words, “But dad, my teacher just taught us this today in class!”

“Well then, your teachers an idiot.” he would respond. It seemed like he knew the answer to everything. Even after I went to school and got an education that his tax dollars were paying for, it wasn’t enough to get him to agree quickly with things I said. It seemed everybody was an idiot, and as a kid, I almost thought it was normal to be one at a point. Everybody seemed to be doing it.

But even the innocence of a kid knows when something feels wrong. It didn’t take much of looking at his gritting teeth and clenched jaw to know either. I would watch the muscles in his cheeks and forehead pulsate with blood every time he squeezed his fist in stubbornness; as if his fists were his heart in that moment

I guess what hurt the most about the confrontations, was the awareness that he was not always this kind of man. I’ve seen him in different lights before. Brighter lights, where his happiness rained in a room and brought joy to everyone. Times where you’d never think the same man was consumed by a darkness that made him blind to reason. The pain came with knowing I was fighting to express myself to the same man that would make me laugh till my ribs felt weak. The person who I loved seeing happy, that much more because I saw how the shadows of the clouds he carried with him, darkened his spirit.

His alcoholism and addictions didn’t help aid his perspectives for the better either. Bottle after bottle I would watch get consumed, all the while his fuse grew shorter in those moments as his BAC grew higher. Cigarettes on the daily, pills and ***. Anything to escape the pain he harbored like a shipyard.

I started keeping my thoughts to myself more. At that age, I was innocent enough to believe I was wrong for having an opinion, or speaking my mind. I thought it was wrong to think the way I thought, so I maliciously put those thoughts on a back burner; And that’s when it started.

The silence, or I guess people would say, “the introvert,” found its way into my life. It’s such a tragedy of irony. The person who always thought a mile a minute, and still does, now barely says a word. Keeping himself locked away in his brain because there’s no key that could unlock him from the darkness of judgement. I was told I was an idiot and that I was wrong so many times that I never wanted to be those things again. If I never spoke, I never had to worry about hearing it.

For years I stayed quiet about the things that went on inside my brain, and it literally killed me. I felt like I was being robbed of my imagination, or rather I was robbing other people in this world of my imagination. Simple and plain, my thoughts weren’t being put out there. They continued to boil on my back burner, occasionally exploding every now and then into anger and depression. All of those amazing thoughts I used to have, now felt like fire burning through my veins for every pulse that kept them there to never be released.

I resented my dad, and won’t forget the day I told myself I wouldn't become him. I never would of imagined that that would be the day I put an invisible blind-fold on. Because I had swore to myself I would never act like my dad, my foggy eyes would never catch the times that I did. There was just no way I would or could be like him because he character caused me too much pain.

Conversations with other people started becoming more debate-like, I was always quick to defend my point because I didn’t want to be wrong. I talked more than I listened. If you didn’t know what I was saying, you just didn’t understand where I was coming from. I kept and thought to myself all the time. So much, that when I finally did release what was on my mind, it had to be right because I spent enough time to myself analyzing it. Other people just couldn’t understand that. They couldn’t.

Remember that boiling *** on the back burner; that occasionally explodes? Well, now it was now on the verge of imploding. I was so fixated on never being wrong, it was almost like I was never wrong. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Yeah it did to me too. When I noticed it, that’s when I imploded.

I couldn't believe I became exactly what I told myself I would never become. All of those past thoughts and hatred imploded in my brain and trickled down the inside of my body, burning me. I burned, but not with anger, I burned with depression and more silence. It was a vicious cycle. Speaking, especially to other people, almost became taboo to me. It seemed weird and out of place because it involved more emotions. I was kind of tired of feeling at that point. I had already felt enough through all of the episodes I would have from my explosions. Not to mention, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I was my dad spitting image when I talked to other people. Depression can really be a vicious cycle, and I remember how much it would recycle itself in my life.

I would spend hours in school, with a million thoughts to say, but never spoke out. I hated myself for it, which would get me depressed. Which would then get me depressed for knowing I was depressed; making me depressed because I was depressed I was depressed. There seemed to be no escape.

I started abusing substance, from alcohol to ****. My abuse, came from the justification that I told myself I was doing it to understand perspective. I wanted to explore the same world of addiction that my dad did. I wanted to come to understand what it’s like to live in a world of dependency and escape. Boy did that backfire on me. I went into it thinking I could just jump right back out of it; that’s not what happened. I was quickly consumed with darkness, escape and depression. Anxiety got the best of me now, because I felt trapped in this world of rumination and hopelessness.

What was depression for me? Its was being stuck in a dark room, separated from the light of happiness by a cruel lock door. A locked door that had a small viewing glass for you to see what lies on the other side of it, within your reach. It was having what seemed like an entire ring of keys to open the door with, yet they’re all the same key. Depression was refusing to stand up, to take advantage of the little bit of light that shined through the viewing glass for me. The little bit of light that would of shown me I was recycling the same key, over and over again. All because I tried to use the dark to see.

I felt that my voice was unheard and I finally got to the point where I didn’t want to live anymore. I used to wish and pray that I’d contract a horrible disease or illness cause I thought it’d be the only way for people to truly hear the words I had to say. It’s a shame that I would even think this. But what even more shameful than that, is how much more words really are cherished after someone has died, or is dying. I had a one track mind for sacrifice, and was hell bent making it happen. I smoked **** by myself; occasionally drank in my lonesome; compulsively ate more than I should; anchored myself to be a sloth in my bed, slaved away to TV and constantly stressed myself over the little things I did. Anything that would speed up the process of my downfall, I did.

I still felt empty though, my collapse wasn’t happening as instantaneous as I hoped, which gave my relentless mind more time to think about it. I did want to live, I didn’t want to have to be this sacrifice to get my point across. “It’s such a cop out," my mind would occasionally blurt out to get my attention. “So what if I’m like my dad? Shouldn’t that be more of a reason to be able to empathize with him when he gets the way he does?"

It wasn’t until the day I got the brilliant idea that maybe I should speak what’s on my mind, that I saw how powerful I could feel. I’ll tell you something though, fighting through the agita you get in the back of your throat is hard. It literally stops you from talking. You know what you want to say, and exactly how you want to express it, but you overthink it and think you’re going to mess up expressing something you know is simple. That agita is the fear in the back of your throat that reminds you of why you feel that way. I didn’t want to result to the back burner again though, so I fought through the pain no matter how bad my chest hurt.

Eventually, I stopped resenting my father. I took it upon myself to sit down and throughly write him a letter, expressing the way I felt about our relationship. About how all I wanted was to see him happy, I was very blunt about how I felt. This is a part of that letter:

"When I think about how long it took me to write this, it’s pretty sad really. And it’s not even because my writing skills we’re slacking, the sad part is what I thought I had to do in order to write this to you. Every day that I would try and write this, I would put alcohol and drugs into my body because I thought it would aid me in my creative writing. But instead, pretty much the opposite happened. I sat staring at a computer screen ruminating about my own troubling thoughts and personal anger. So I sat even longer staring at that screen thinking I needed more substance in my body to awaken the thoughts that I so longed to express. I used and abused until I just got too tired of trying to write and passed out. My point is, I made excuses to take in substances for my own personal benefit because the whole time I was really trying to run away from the problem instead of facing it. When I really sit back and analyze myself as well as you, I see a huge correlation between us. And to be honest, I think it’s a big contributing factor to my depression. Not because me and you are similar, but because we’re similar and you think you’re so different. Do you want in on something I’ve never directly told you? Growing up, I’ve always had persistent urge to make you a happier person. Ever since I noticed how depressed and upset you were, I told myself I would stop at nothing until you saw the good that life has to offer. I didn’t realize how high I set my expectations until they were ripped out from under my feet. My interventions got me nowhere but further into a rut with you, not to mention they were labeled as girlish emotions to have. It’s funny how fast you can go from being helpful to being angry, which is exactly what happened to me. I became so obsessed with trying to make you a happier person that I started becoming angrier that nothing was working. My anger turned into depression and I started smoking **** significantly more to run away from the fact that it seemed like there was nothing I could do to help you out. I started seeing all the negative aspects of life and didn’t want to go out and have fun anymore, so I started compulsively eating and religiously watching TV. Not to mention, I would spend an abnormal amount of time on my computer. I went to the doctor 2 weeks ago, and since the last time I went there which was less than a year ago, I put on 20 pounds. I feel like ****, but I lie to everyone because I don’t want them to see how much I’m suffering on the inside. You know, there was a point a few months ago where I didn’t care if I died or got extremely sick, I actually hoped for it. I looked at my life as a sacrifice for the well being of other people, as well as for my own benefit. If I had gotten really sick or diagnosed with a horrible disease, I knew people would pay more attention to me. I knew that people would listen to my opinion more because it was more “influential” on them because of the fact I was probably going to die. I kind of counted on pity to be an influencing factor on me being influential to others, which is kind of like giving up. It’s kind of strange that you hear that coming from me, huh?"

I took the burden of my father off my shoulders, and I must say we get along a lot better today. He never thought I'd be able to relate to him in the ways that I did in the letter I wrote, and he broke down in tears to me. I never chose to give up on the thoughts that went on in my mind. I still struggle with expressing how I feel at times, but it’s not stopping me from trying to fight past it. I know I can relate to him if I allow him into my life instead of shutting him out indefinitely.

I have this belief that traumatic experiences can be the gateway to self-change. Trauma happens to us all, and it can be the very foundation of a person’s character. It can be what shapes your fears, develops strengths or weaknesses to certain situations and can overall can be a burden-like thought that you carry with for the rest of your life. Trauma’s have their ranges of impact and can even go as far as sending a person over the edge to end their own life. One that has stuck with me my whole life, which most people wouldn’t guess to be, was disguised in silence. People that go through traumatic experiences don’t always have crazy superficial cuts and bruises, a lot of the scars of their traumas remain on the inside, hidden away from plain view.

Words briskly picked
from the fruits of your memoirs,
galloping air you forcibly breathe
the music you hear, the colours you see.
the hymns you appreciate,
shows traces of wonderland,
the hints and pieces
ah, superficial paradise.
Now you tell me stories
I'd ought to focus and listen,
As I see the snap of your fingers
Loud words and Whispers,
vines and wrapped my heart
without any given reasons,
you provoke and attest,
Your hideous mission.
to capture and get,
Slaved by your intentions,
with peace and love,
through your life lessons.
You've given grip
through friendship and company.
I will raise this glass
for our uncharted destiny.

ACT I

Scene 1

Scene: A fleet of small boats on a open sea, carrying a flock of poets, actors, and musicians. They row into the distance, searching for land.

fool

Oh, the horror, the horror! The deadly locked eyes, the motionless limbs, the gray lips, telling me it is the end, no more, horror or else. I felt it too, at moments, though something else; what I felt was the sudden fear of death, what might come afterward, and the loneliness of this solitary journey. I had to escape.

Benedict

Yes, those lost half-lives of inevitable and unrecoverable tragedy, the guilt, unable to close in, and so moving away from the sorrow. Turning eyes away from the horror, no, get away from them entirely, let none of them escape with us. The tragedy, the grotesque demons.

FOOL

Yes, let them not chase us toward the end of the vast and endless voyage, and if we die so, let it be quick.

BENEDICT

Quick, by the thundering strike of heavenly signs, let us be at peace.

Virginia

Oh, no more, no more. Leave those thoughts behind, send them to exile as we have been for our refusal of "high tragedy."

Fool

So, it shall-(The Fool stands up, squinting to the distance.) Look! Is that a patch of dry land?

BENEDICT

Yes, our salvation of isolation, our comedic Garden of Eden!(A roar of cheers from all, though each voice distinct on its own.)

Scene 2

The troop have landed on the unnamed island.

Argorn

Here we shall be settled.

VIRGINIA

What a handsome little place!

Katty

Then we shall make it our home!

northworth

Home, yes, but home of what? A wild circus of cowards?

BENEDICT

No, cowards of tragedies but advocate of joy, happiness, and comedy.

Fool

Comedy! We are the Comedians!

NORTHWORTH

Very well, so we are.

VIRGINIA

Yes, laughter and happiness.

Argorn

We shall not only avoid tears, anguish, and sorrow, we shall make them crimes of criminals, we shall uphold only the Highest Order of Comedy!(In the distance, a ship carrying the mimes arrives.)

NORTHWORTH

Oh, look, so the mutes are here as well.

ARGORN

(To the mimes as they arrive.)

Wipe your black tears off your faces! Leave only the red smiles, we are a tribe of comedy not tragedy. (They do as they have been told.) There, better.

NORTHWORTH

Ah, here comes the musicians. (A band of cheerful flute, drums, and violin players arrived.)

Argorn

(To the Band)

Yes, very well, you shall never again play any sad little tune and lure me to anger!

VIRGINIA

Be gentle, Argorn, for only peace shall visit you.

NORTHWORTH

Yes, criminal, anguish, and sorrow, are the horror! They are criminal, criminal!

The band

We promise you only tunes of celebration will be heard on this lovely paradise!

argorn

Very well.

Scene 3

The band plays a cheerful little song while the mimes dances silent to the music. The actors and poets are reading poems of merry endings.

Fool

Oh, her tears, like blossom petals, have fallen and are gone forever.

ARGORN

The sun approves of our sanctum! Look, how the minions of clouds take flee!

NORTHWORTH

Yes, presently they do.

VIRGINIA

Only when morrow comes, shall we be certain of our well-being.

ARGORN

WE WILL BE WELL! FROM DAY TO THE NEXT, THE VILLAINOUS DARKNESS WILL NOT REACH US HERE, I WILL NOT ALLOW IT.

katty

Keep calm, keep calm.

NORTHWORTH

Yes, settle, joy will only come when you are unaware of its flaws and when you take no notice of the hidden misery.

ARGORN

No! Tragedy is horror, tragedy is criminal, it should only be fought, contained and send to exile.


Scene 4

The cheerful tune of the band have slowed with weary into a lingering sad tune, the mime have slowed their dance, and the drawn smiles drips down into a frown.

Argorn nails a notice to a tree. It says, Laws of Comedians.

Argorn

Stand up, you slothful infidels! You have once again turned what could have been joyous and merry into despair!

NORTHWORTH and Virginia

Argorn, you have burdened and slaved them with works of oppression, they are not happy!

The band and the Mimes

Yes, we beg you. Please let us rest, or the music will only be sadder.

ARGORN

No! Rest and what? Allow tragedy to intrude! No, be alarmed, be on guard. We will battle sorrow to the end.

fool

Argorn, only you are the advocate of pain and tragedy!!! You are fighting yourself!

Argorn

WHAT DID YOU DARE SAY?

fool

I dare say, you are what drowns us with slaving pain!

(Argorn advance toward The Fool with a hammer, and knocks him dead.)

Virginia

No, he is dead! Argorn have slain Fool.

ARGORN

Say more, and death or exile awaits you!

NORTHWORTH AND VIRGINIA

(In fear and deviance.)

No, we will send ourselves to exile.

Argorn

And the music!

(The band and mimes quickens their pace, the music and dance does not sound joyful however, but in a rushed mess, it rings of fear. )


Scene 5

The Band and Mimes are lying on the ground, being worked to death by extreme exhaustion trying to bring joy and music for Argorn.

Argorn

Play! Your fools! Why have you all stopped!

(Argorn rushes to where the bodies lay, and stops.)

Oh, are you dead already? Someone else, come and take their place! Don't let the little tune expire!

Katty

(In tears.)

No, I rather be dead to be mocked by your horror! You are a monster!

ARGORN

How dare you cry?

(Argorn kills Katty with the hammer.)

What do you say Benedict, keep the joy alive?

BENEDICT

No, you fool, what do you say is the most horrendous of a tragedy?

ARGORN

Death, I fear.

BENEDICT

Then, who is most foul of a tragedy?

ARGORN

The tyrant of a villain, champion of bloodshed, and one without conscience.

BENEDICT

Then, please, find your conscience, and see around you, the blood, and decaying bodies. What have you done?

ARGORN

NO! NO! I killed them for comedy!

BENEDICT

Yet, what you brought is tyranny, bloodshed, and death.

Argorn

Do you mean I am the villain? Then, please, in the Law of Comedian, execute my execution.

BENEDICT

No, I shall only take my exile now, and leave.

ARGORN

Then, I shall bring peace to this inferno once and for all. (Argorn kills himself, and falls. )

Curtain

Every morning I greet the sun smelling like jasmine and spice
the rays roll through my window
bend nicely and tip their hats like good gentlemen
Only to figure out that I am a man

Surprised and Bent waves stiffen up in their stride
as they switch between reaching down to kiss my hand
something they subconsciously planned to do
ever since that smell of sensual perfume heated up
even the hottest, and the coolest
made them too woozy to stand
to giving an improvised hand shake
A clumsy dance between the fingertips of the prejudged
And the disappointed
As if the swirls in their palms anointed my unexpected presence
Uncomfortably appealing

Their mothers told them not to place judgment on a first impression
that they made, drowned in a sensual stupor
Of pretty scents distributed into the atmosphere
but then my personality
my mannerisms
And the way I walk and talk
WAFTED into their nostrils
like some woman dolled up before a date
with no one
to sit alone and wait
for some wreck of a man to pay a visit
It’s a chauvinistic *******
This scent is
Until they see that this jaw line
Is what it clings to
their nostrils and their eyes
seem to not agree
on what is
me

I tell you I wake up smelling like jasmine and spices
like a woman who spent all night in sin
taking pleasure from her vices
With sweet smelling oils contained in florally adorned vials,
and i waft into every man and woman’s nostrils

and eyes say man
but noses always seem to quarrel with eyes
Because to nostrils sensory surprise
It smells woman so it seems
the only logical compromise must be something in between
these sensory organs so caught up in stereotypes
Eyes bicker with ears and noses
And fingertips
Quick judgments followed by
Categories
trying to
make the puzzle piece
make sense Or
make do with what
makes people feel at ease
To make the absolutely effeminate straight male
Fit
With all the other puzzle pieces

It seems I’m a scratch and sniff
Where you scratch the picture of cinnamon
And smell jasmine
So was I packaged wrong?
No I was manufactured just right
The smell was an add-on
That was added one night
where i spent an entire evening in love
with someone I lost the next day
and in our own way
I slaved her body with oils
That smelt of jasmine and spice
And I wasn’t ashamed of it
they caressed us
and gave every motion an unstoppable velocity
every situation was slippery
and things that shouldn’t have been
almost came to be

as we slept the oils clocked out
and slid down our still interlocked bodies and into the bedspread
where it opened up its homestead
buried its dead, started families and grew in number
until the population of the smell was too strong
too strong and the one I shared the smell with
was gone

but i hold that night fondly
i hold it above my head in all its glory
and when i am judged by my scent and
questioned of my sexuality
i just tell them
I am being the scent i smelled when i discovered my masculinity
and that smell sank into my bed sheets
As an non-removable reminder
Of days past embracing my own tendencies
And a girl who I waved farewell to
And never gave that part of myself to
i am 100% man until i find the right person
a beautiful sight in the sunlight
and when night falls and i can’t see them at all
i can find even more things i like
to take that from me
and i will give it up gladly
and find what it really means to be truly in-between

I’ve found
no one is in-between because of their scent
There is no in-between except
In between man and woman
Man and man
Woman and woman
a subtle in between that you can only find
When you gaze into another’s eyes
And read three letter words imprinted on their iris
Only written for you
And discover what can really exist between two
So let’s all realize that whoever we are
We all strive to be in-between

a slave to sleep
a slave today
slaved to dream.

I couldn’t help myself.
Digging my nails into myself wasn’t enough.

I didn’t want to bite my lip because in a few  days,
I’d be swapping spit with a stranger and I would have
No idea where he’d have been.

I squeezed down on my fingers,
And for a second
I thought I might snap one.

In my head, I was falling.
Even though he walked over
Placed his hand on my thigh,
Even though part of me wanted
To melt
And
Dissolve into his arms,
My mind was a million miles away.

Even as he bent over to look at me,
My eyes would not…
Could not...
Make contact.

He was just a blur.

I knew I was somehow holding my breath
And hyperventilating at the same time.

Was it really such a big deal?
So he woke me up and said some choice words.

Was he even yelling at me?

It felt like he was.

Ripped from nightmare to awaken into another.

It was everything I had not to lock myself in the bathroom,
And by lock, I mean...
Stuffing a towel into the hole where the doorknob was supposed to be, Pushing my back against the door
In a feeble attempt
To create some distance between me and the monster.

But besides the fact he could easily push the door open,
I wasn’t sure if the monster I was referring to was him.
Or within me.

The tissues piled up as I discreetly wiped my tears.
Don’t give him the pleasure of knowing he broke you.
But he knew
I stared blankly at the laptop in front of me,
Tabs open to self-harm help sites.
But I was just absent-mindedly scrolling,
The words barely sinking in.

Was I waiting for the moment to pass?
Or for him to leave me alone for a few seconds?

Somewhere in the distance an exasperated sigh
Signaled he’d grown weary of caring.
Or pretending to care.

My mind raced back and forth
Between demonizing him
And demonizing myself.

I heard the footsteps go down the stairs,
A fridge door open…
Then close.

And when the smell of food wafted up to where I sat, shaking..
I realized I’d be going hungry today.

But it didn’t seem to matter.

What mattered was the space I now had.

He had said I was bright red,
But  I could feel the color draining out of my face
As I held the lit lighter at an angle.

In this position,
The flames licked the metal,
Heating it to a purposeful degree.

Time slowed down.
As I lowered the cheap 7-11 Bic to my skin,
I made the conscious decision to choose an area I could cover.

Contact!
Chills suddenly trickled down my spine,
Every neuron ablaze,
And for a brief second:
Bliss.
Relief.
Release
Relapse.
.
It was nowhere near as good as a blade.
But I couldn’t afford more scars.
At least not the kind that would take weeks to heal.

I pulled the blanket
The one I had made before my grandmothers death,
Around my shoulders.
Lit the green trinket again,
Kissed it to the skin of my ankle.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

By the fourth I knew I had to stop.
Not because I’d be caught.
No he was downstairs
Enjoying the food I slaved away to make yesterday.
I was convinced none would be saved for me....

I had to stop because I could feel myself ramping up and the goal was discretion.
Lest I be accused of trying to manipulate him.
The pain radiated upwards, a warm stab against chilled skin.

Suddenly, I was exhausted.
I wanted to close my eyes and sleep.
Instead, I took a swig from the bottle
Nestled against the foot of the bed.
Silence fell over the house, and even though
At the edges of my consciousness
I could pick up on the low tones of conversation,
The buzzing in my ears drowned out those nuances.

“Maybe I should just lay down for a second.”

Time passed, and once again he was in the room.
Despite hearing him come in, I still jumped when he touched me.
I forced myself to direct my gaze, but it all felt empty.
Words were coming out of his mouth.
Where they questions?
He was calling me weird.
Telling me how I was bringing down the energy in the room with my depression.

He asked me  something and I nodded.
Once.
Twice.

Suddenly he disappeared.

He seemed happy.
Like in some twisted way, my brokenness brought him joy.
Squirreled himself away
In the bathroom I had original wanted to esape to.

I wondered...
If he was ******* to the idea of my wanting to **** myself.

I shook the thought off.
It wouldn’t be surprising.
It didn’t make a difference.

I couldn’t tell how many minutes bled away, but I eventually arose.
Tossed off the covers.
Lit a cigarette.
And allowed the numbness to take over.

As badly as I wanted to sleep, I knew dreams would offer no respite.
My mind merely cycled
Through suicidal scenarios I could not give into.

This is reality.
The last few days were an illusion.
I wish I was brave enough to draw a last breath,
but knew I had no option but to keep living.

Holding me firm, I can feel it incarcerating me.
With my ankles bruised from carrying the same heavy chains, day by day.
Chains, that will keep hurting my ankles with every step I take.
I can hear them squeak, tearing my tympanum with every drag.
Reminding me remorselessness that I am one more slave.
Working under its rules, shaping my life with my every breath.
Punishing me with all my memories and rewarding me with an unknown future.
At night it laughs spitefully seeing that it has caught me in its timeless web of an insomniac hex.
And in the morning it plays the same joke seeing that it has caught me in an eternal doze.
I wake up , following the ritual it has for me, slapping me in the back with its whip declaring its power over me, as my owner.
At 7:00 am  I wake up indoctrinated by a false faith" Thank You 'God' for this new day ( I thank a 'God' I do not know a 'God' I do not follow)" I suddenly feel confuse.  
7:30 am; I shower.
7:40am; I choose my outfit, one in particular that will disguise my insecurities.
7:50am; I  have breakfast. My palate already knows the taste, and it protests intensely for a new tang.
8:00am; I walk out of my house, feeling the wind through my body silencing the cacophony of the chains and the beeping of the time clock they hold.
With every beep, I realize I can be late. I rush.
9:00am; I start my ritual, managing papers in an office full of sick people, just like me.  Moored by their own chains to their own sorrows, with different time clocks and slaved by the same owner.
4:00pm; I plead it to go faster, to show me mercy. It laughs.
7:00pm; It frees me from my work routine, I thank it before it slaps me in the back again.
8:00 pm; I'm home the chains feel looser now, and I have a break.
9:00pm; I eat dinner same flavor, my palate prepares to taste the same.
10;00pm; It orders me to go to bed, to laugh again about by insomnia and wake me up with no pity.
It doesn't care about what I need, I go under its rules.
It threatens me everyday with my memories and it frightens me with an unknown tomorrow.
And, I only have 24 hours each day,60 minutes in each hour and 60 seconds in each minute to do what the calendar of life has for me .
I was convicted with a human felony, and I am currently serving a life sentence in this time machine.
I am cursed by time and my challenge is to defeat procrastination and monotony.

I had thanksgiving with my St. Lucian family, my
loud, unapologetic,
laughs-too-loud, generation-gap
homemade ***, heads in phones,
blasting dancehall music
old ladies dancing
clap-back
talk-back
family.
"Play us a song",
my cousin and I sent to my room to play jazz chords, I
finger along clumsily. He's in college and his dark eyes close, fingers
sliding up and down the frets,
frowning in concentration, cursing quietly at a missed note.
My islander family comes over and prompts impromptu drinking games,
"I'm not looking, I saw nothing",
I lick a bit of vanilla ***** from my mother's shot glass,
alcohol becomes a family affair, it
takes away the danger and the stigma and throws a friendly, lovely
light on a vice.
It's raining, it's cold,
islanders do not belong on a Kansas porch smoking cigarettes in the dark rain.
I light candles on the wall.
They all outlast their welcome, between four and a half hours of transition
from uncomfortable "i don't remember your name", put on the spot,
only-child-becomes-one-of-several to
discussing baby names and family gossip, they
all wrap up their food slaved over at nine am, they
all troop out the door, they
take their coats, they
leave their wide smiles with us until next time.

A square, white, four bedroom, one bath country home
With fourteen kids, parents and much family love
We didn’t have abundance:  fiscally poor
But we had each other:  banked on our family
We shared our victories and or trying pain
We were a modest Scottish Catholic Clan

Isolated, we were not to our immediate clan
Our uncle’s lived within a trot, fifteen in his home
We kids worked and played on the farm without pain
It was an adventurous labor of extended family love
We worked, laughed, cried, and played as a family
In the early years, we young ones were anything but poor

However, in grammar school, we learned the meaning of poor
And materialism and envy, outside our cloistered clan
But together we lived and loved as a close nit family
Sure we had disagreements, not material goods, but a solid home
White paint peeled on the outside, yet inside was painted love
Still, there were poverty jokes, ridicule and masked pain

Every family has strife, baggage, and superfluous pain
Our parents didn’t drink; we had faith, yet fiscally poor
Ole Dad plumbed toilets; Mom slaved in the house, both with love
So we wouldn’t trade riches for our impoverished meager clan
Summer berries to pick, winter sledding, spring kites, and forever home
Kickball games, splashing  in ponds, nature hikes and family

We were not taught to show emotions, hug, not an “I love you family,”
Albeit, an honest, polite, and proud Scottish Clan
The old house was eternally warm; it was our forever home
Until 1999. Dad passed from cancer still money poor
Yet rich in the knowledge of family and that his true pain
Was never saying that word; on his deathbed he whispered “Love”

Though our patriarch was laid to rest, we rose with the word “Love”
Eventually, the house was sold, but always one huge family
Mom spends her days in a retirement home remembering her clan
As time passes and memories fades, it lessens the pain
Of the loss of a noble father, economically poor
Yet with a strong work ethic, church, and love, built a home

Fourteen children now forged fourteen homes on love
Many, still, financially poor, but rich in forever family
Correcting mistakes that caused pain, while perpetuating our clan

A man and his brother set on a task
An undertaking attempted many times by others
To no avail nothing and no one could succeed
But their vision was to them possible
It seemed that this feat was not meant to be
The world told them to quit
If God wanted it to be he would have giving you the tools
Yet they were undeterred in this goal
They toiled and worked
They  slaved and sweated
Failed many times in their task
But together they crawled toward their aim
One day they finally did it
They climbed aboard their creation
And started a new era in the modern world
Finally these brothers did the impossible
Their names were Wilbur and orville wright

Stubbornness is perhaps the greatest gift God has given man
Those who have it are mocked and berated by their clan
Undeterred they continue toward their mission
Never swayed by words blinded by their ambition
When the dust settles everyone sees
The answer to success is this disease
More things have been done
By unrelenting men seeking the long run
Stubbornness may in fact be wrong
Alas anyone can see this burden is carried only by the strong

In nature
speaking
lotus tea
((All Him))
coffee
((All Her))
Messaging
Texting
Managing
Breathtaking
Massaging
Palm read
guessing
Ancient footprints
reader
confessing
He needed to see her
Feet walk this earth
Meet talk Bliss Worth

Infused me

We speak the
highest form
of feet lecture

To bring love
closer
Movie feet feature
Invincible but
lovable
But the lover of

It's her lightness
guiltless
Her weight felt
like a
Hippopotamus
Her feet were
heavy duty
Rhinoceros
bag of dirt grime
That foot scrub
Love cant wait
***** Himalayas
Speak of  him 
 hearted
He started to  love
Her he stirred to be
shaved

Like the hub slaved
over candy relish

We became the
creatures
All unwanted hair
Finger waves
with flair
His baby blue eyes
wearing a bib
Women's love rib
Hand tip foot
lip to lip
The night owl
bait
like foot robbed
Please no
Tarantula
On my tip
Penisula
Her recital
In her mighty
jungle
((Coca-Cola))
Christmas foot
jingle
Paw Prints fax
me hints

Inside him
those love stunts
Viola
The best blueberry
bundt cake

Her foot pedal
all fueled
The mysterious
environment
She felt haunted by
the beast
ruled
The child
wildflowers
Arabian sea
Lovers tent Bea
Himalayas
broad-minded

"Mountain man"

Doing footsy
Tootsy
Her expedition
narrow-minded
Seeing her
marriage hand
Open loaded
Reproduction
From her feet
Pulp fiction
"Godly Holyland"
The footprint Yeti
the "Lochness"
monster swamps
(Loveland lizard)

Geico mountain
Insured foothill
Roco
Milestones the hills
whistle
Meeting the French
monsieur
Rivers of the heart
glaciers

The bear rocky crystal
The stars like
a movie
Billy Crystal
Beyond life
Above eternity
Below our love sanity

The natural estate holds

tight like a magnet

The Himalayas
needing a
craving so fit for
laughing like
Hyenas
Stepped dainty
Ballerina's
The relationship
Biggest-foot heights
The Himalayas Oh!
What a
night garden
of gardenias
What will forever
Bee
Petunia's
Do Wire the call
Your foot said
Climb but don't
Fall foothill
In my mouth

Charmed by
ankle bracelet
The sunset bare feet
all naked
Amazon jungle
my foot massage
Southern belle mirage
Having a hell twin feet
ball laughing like
hyenas
the moment in time
The sun going down
Sunset how it hit
my face waken lit
So like something
I never felt
Two heart's of the
finest soil
Starting over
indescribable
heat

We start  over
feet to feet
We were difficult but
we met
We were so ready like
Tight fitting Moms hairnet

But yet like no other
foot from the
left to her right foot
The rabbit foot
Head over someone else's
Heels of a foot  
Didn't catch her heart to the
right beat
Something in the way she knows
Whether human or creature type
We are all in heat_

Stuck inside the maze of life, were material value keeps the people slaved. You get so caught up with the distractions around, you fail to realize the price you pay.

It's time to disconnect the computer wires and step outside the captive frame. To no longer be dependent on, the software society's programmed in your brain.

I know the plan the hidden hand, keeps in play to keep us slaves. Keep the people dumb and in constant fear, they are easier to control this way.

The plan calls for mindless drones with mounting debt, so you continue to work and pay interest for the rest of your life. Living pay check to pay debt, in a vicious cycle until you die.

Credit is a weapon used in the separation of the masses. The goal is to collapse the middle class forcing them to join the poor. They give out loans and extend out credit, so people can live a life they can't afford.

Make no mistakes about the truth. From birth your programmed and trained to live this way. It's sad to say a credit score determines your wealth now a day.

why does it touch you deeper
when i say what i write
is based on a true story?

here and now i use no capitalized word
here and now it's him i remember
for it's him who said:
"small letters are more humble"
you know, this is based on a true story;
i met him but not really
my longhands reached him
far, far away from here
surpassed lands and seas
o, how large is my country --
his equals plus one to my gmt
here foods are sweet and there are spicy
he hated and still hates the food here;
it reminds him of the tyrant
who'd only cared about
the west but not that west
and made the east poor and slaved --
he was one of those who
yelled reformation when i was
only nearly two

i am seventeen and so was he --
when i was born.
i love how thirteen connects
our birthdates;
mine is twelve and his fourteen
and i said to him thirteen was my
favorite number
and purple was my favorite color
for his was blue but
i thought of him as red --
red not of the lust but
red of the color of tomatoes --
his mother was a tomato seller
and since i had known that,
tomatoes began to taste sweeter
sweeter than ever

when i said i liked purple
i didn't know it was the color of
the rain,
his first love ever --
when he was just a kid
he wanted to marry her
but then he learnt at school
the rain is not a girl at all
not even alive
he couldn't marry her but
he still loves the rain
so i do too

you know,
i once was an anti-coffee
i used to drink only and only tea but
he loves coffee
so i do too
i once sent him
my favorite coffee along with
a ta-ta-for-now letter
and he replied to me electronically
with a stabbing sad emoticon
:(
it still stabs
but then he said
the coffee was good
and i smiled
but he didn't know it

do you know
what's better
than a cup of coffee in the morning?
"it's two cups of coffee"
he'd say something like that
so this morning i decided to
have a super sweet tea,
sugar so much it
almost tasted like soda --
every gulp was
painful
to my soul.
i almost found the
god in me if i had drank the second cup but
i made coffee instead
no sugar like i always had
not because i like bitterness
it's because every drop of coffee is him
and he is sweet enough already --
but i broke the rule of two
this morning i had
three cups of coffee
three cups of him
and it wrenched me --
la douleur exquise
-- the heart wrenching pain
of wanting someone you can't have

i don't even have a single autograph
of him
i hoped that he would write me letters
with that pretty handwriting of his
but at the same time
i was afraid that he wouldn't
so i sent him bunch
without an address to reply to --
you know, this is based on a true story;
he is a writer
but he doesn't really like
to be called a writer
because a writer will be jealous
of another great writer so
he calls himself a reader instead
and he embraces his thirst of great books
he is a librarian
he lives around the books
he lives for and from the books
he has three cats
and seems like he will
have more cats and more
like his mother,
his mother loves cats too
it's prophet muhammad's favorite pet
or so he said
on the radio

he is a poet
a broadcaster on a local radio
every friday and saturday
and at the end of the broadcast
he will read poems
sent by emails
even you can send your poem
but not all poems can be read
there are so many, you know
here we really love writing poetry
but few like reading it
like me
i read his poems
not because i loved reading poetry
it was because
it's his, it's him

but now
he has done what he should do
he has completed his role
he has made me believe in poetry
he saved me from the disbelief of poetry
he taught me that poetry
could heal
he said that writing poetry
is hugging
and reading it
is returning the
hug
he would read a lot of poems
when he is sick
and now
that's what i do too

he was the one who kept
my feet on the ground
every time i felt down
i sang silently a7x's m.i.a.
lend me your courage to stand up and fight
so he lent me his courage
so i could stand up and fight
and every time this life
felt so wrong, lacked meaning
i remembered his name
and a promise i promised
to him
on my own mind
"don't die before we meet"
yeah, i wouldn't die
i would never die

there was no other way for us
than being yinyang
and that's why i decided to
hate what he loves
he loves coffee
but i couldn't hate it
he loves poetry
but i couldn't hate it
he loves rain
but i couldn't hate it
he loves sylvia plath
but i couldn't hate sylvia
i can't ever hate sylvia
i can't stay away from his sylvia
i love her
and she loves me back
sylvia is my earth
and that's how i realize
he and i can't ever be --

you know, this is based on a true story;
because i say so.

Born into a house of red hair
soulless people and
beer

my great grandmother is 101 and four months
and she has contracted Alzheimer’s
which means she sees those who have died before her
like her husband
two of her sisters and
four of her nine children

Her sister died just yesterday at 100 and 17 days sleeping in her bed

I was named after dead relatives

Moira for a cousin who died at 20,
before I was ever even born,
a cousin who sang like a bird
and could have been a mermaid
a beauty with straight white teeth and blonde hair
who found death after struggling with anorexia

Katherine for my great aunt who I never met
but my mother told me of her wearing sunglasses and
her sleek black car and
silky hair always tied back in red ribbons and
how she would sneak cookies to the children
holding her legs in the kitchen

I was born into an Irish house
I was born to people who have slaved their life away to make it

My great grandmother was born in Ireland in 1912
and came to America with her family when she was 10

my great grandfather was a French Canadian born in Quebec
who I was told was gentle and quiet
who smoked when he was happy or sad
and worked on houses and cars and a large family

I was born into the legacy
I was born with their blood in my veins

You made a cage out of
your rules and your ideals.
You picked me up
and you locked me in it.
I’m caged.
I’m slaved.
And I’m lost.

BUT

You can cage my body,
not my thoughts.
You can dictate my actions,
but you can’t manipulate my mind.
You can exert harass my body,
but you can’t compel my soul.


Your cage can’t tame this free spirit.
Your cage is too small for these huge wings.
So, I will break free
and fly into the open.
And I will Fly high
as high my dreams go.
And before you know,
I would already be flying way high for you to reach.

Finally, the cage is broken.
I’m free.
I’m alive.
*And I’m Un-Caged

Trembles commence beneath the exterior
An eruption blacker than a hollow wails superior

All light alienates,
Obscured by manifested immorality
Only spared by vast vitality

Virtuousness defended,
Intended to liberate slaved maliciousness

Autonomy of the anima was the consequence
A union through yielded yin and panged yang existence

I sold my intimacy
for sake of publicity,
*** sells in democracy,
Lord Dollar, please set me free!

I see now - hipocrisy
takes over things I believed.

I'm naked, they look at me,
they buy me, they make me free,
but Freedom is what I seek.

Oh, Freedom is all I need
in times of Great Slavery,
when each day's a robbery.
I'm poorer than younger me,
I'm richer than older me.

I sold my intimacy
for sake of modernity
and shameless society
without any dignity.

My body's all they can see,
my body is all they need
to make them happy and free,

but, they, in reality
unhappy are, slaved for keeps,
so am I, and I can see
mistakes I've done, idiot me,
for sake of publicity,
I worship idiocracy,
****-riding pussocracy,
like war with Intimacy.

Half-naked girls in the street
and women ****** on the screen
by dumb masculinity.
Life-saving *******,
no, *******, you can't save me.

Where is my intimacy?
I've sold it, oh stupid me,
for sake of publicity,
*** sells in democracy.

it's unfair that i helped build this home
just for you to knock it down
i slaved for this
and look how i wound

a dead horse isn't beaten as bad as me
for i haven't been put out of my misery
i have been left
to feel like an outcast for eternity

how did you do it
how did you make my place
my sanctuary
into such a disgrace

You can not grasp the concepts I speak,
I accept gay people for who they are,
You hold on to your dreams and weep,
Then shop the avenue with tacky stores,
You are the one who breaks into song
When there was a villain who died,
You are always there ready to go to war,
Blank faced death as you boldly stride,
You were a pillow that I would lay my
Head on, now I run from you for my life,
You were a rainbow I had wished upon,
Now there is nothing but shame all the time.

*I was the one who had a childhood to explore and dream,
Now if I am not eternally busy, work restless 8 hour days,
I fall upon my sofa and knock out after I get home,
Finally find a little time and space, there you are
To tell me I'm nothing but a complete waste,
For I'll never work out in this world until I have
Lived up to becoming a slaved out tool for money's pay.
Perhaps on the outside I seem like a disgrace, but in truth
More like a dog who never learned the tricks of the trade.

I was stripped of my freedom
Brought to this bearing land
With a glass of water and an open plain,
Left to die.

But I shall rise again.

I have been beaten with horse whips,
Handles of hoes, rakes, and shovels,
But I revealed no pain
When I was left to die,

Oh yeah, I shall rise again.

I’ve slaved upon many fields
Picking cotton, beans, potatoes and tomatoes
While being washed by the rain.
My spirit was left to die.

But I shall rise again.

I was tooken away from my mother
Like one takes a pig from a sow.
I screamed like I was insane,
My heart left to die,

But I shall rise again.

I witnessed my brother being hung from ropes,
My father getting shot many times over.
With their blood, the ground was stained,
Alone, I was left to die,

But I shall rise again.

It is as unpleasant as a nail in a your tire
or getting burned by fire
it is sometimes better to think twice
like before stepping onto the lake's ice
it came at us full speed
& with no warning label first to read
it disgusted me in every way
a party favor I wished that hadn't shown up to play
it wasn't at all like the rest
unwillingly I was given insomnia to give a trial test
mistaken for something we assumed was STILL there
but instantly after letting go of the black swan
we knew something really odd started going on
the usual way was UNusually strong
still we shrugged it off like nothing was wrong
dancing, picture posing, shot taking & celebrating
...looking at that time now, **** what a first impression it was creating
a night oh so memorable
definitely did we make it extremely unforgettable
we attempted to call it a night & get some shut eye
wide awake hour after hour sleep never joined, only failed attempts to try
so questions we're asked, "WHAT THE **** DID WE DO?!"
this whole time they thought we already knew
thank goodness we only had that one
could you only imagine what any  more of it may have done??
.....Sadly though, it gained itself another follower & it didn't take much
that mind just couldn't control the urge & resist, got ****** into its clutch
while passing the time, since the sandman missed our eyes
in the stillness of the room...there was countless clicks & flashes of us trying to "SMIZE"
Top Model had nothing on how awesome we pose
SHOOOOOOT, we at this point, are do it yourself picture pros!!!

....Now after some months have gone by & it's the New Year
& I knew it...the time had come, something I had too fear
...following it had returned & continued
tagging along was a ****** ******* attitude
fighting & arguments began
I wanted it to stop, trying so hard to end it was my plan
nights of wet cheeks & swollen eyes, tears dripping
it seemed the further & further away defeating it was slipping
I knew after that night
Winning the battle wasn't near in sight
the ONE party favor that just continued having an endless after party going
it's break obsolete, it just kept on flowing
with unsuccessful outcomes every time I was offered to join in
I STILL REFUSED to just let this monster win
&..... ONE DAY.... with help from my best, it all came to an end
into the toilet & flushed was what we did recommend
it was finally disposed of & far away
....A year or two passed & people didn't stay

....Summertime, when troubles are being destroyed daily & forgotten
of those who treated us quite horribly rotten
road trips to enjoy, nights out dancing & drinking
not a care to bother with, at least that is what we were thinking
new favors had graced our presence in our new party scene
& for once, our company was drama less & far from mean
Thizz was the past feel good choice we'd chose
when along came Molly, she showed us how feeling GOOOOOD realllly goes
Well **** it girl, you weren't lying now were you??
You're a whole new experience that I could get used to
"I JUST WANT TO DANCE"
"OHH YESSS, COME ON, they're playing 'Bad Romance' "
at first I needed some good old fashion peer pressure
I was nervous, scared, & kind of unsure
But I was easy to convince
& so thankful for each & every experience
Very, Very glad it was a risk I didn't miss
there's just nothing that compares to this....
.....Well along came that wicked, wicked party animal
who hadn't changed at all
single now, with a new attitude & mind set
....I risked it & decided to put it all in & place my bet
"WINNER, WINNER CHICKEN DINNER"
..........months later, " Hmmmm, have you gotten thinner?"
Where our weight had gone
was all we were questioned on
pretty soon rumors began to spread
so much dumb **** was accused & said
Oh please, give me a ******* break
Soon they were smashed & proven all to be obviously FAKE
jealousy & nosey that's all
haters will always be hating but will never be my downfall

...We found ourselves, the ones that got lost & abused
broken down, scarred, voiceless & confused
We were only off our fates course
disoriented from a toxic source
Our souls found their center again &
it's only fueled with peace
With high hopes to keep it continuing to increase
peace is what we needed to be saved
no savior with his crucifix could've changed our souls that were slaved
Peace is all you need & it exists, just believe
don't be fooled or tricked by those who try to deceive
peace is all about respect, love  & unity
a positive sense of mentality
being an optimist is pretty ******* dope
....Never giving up & always having some kind of hope!!

‘You’ve come to the end, it’s sad, my friend
But there’s nothing more we can do,
Your kidneys have malfunctioned, and
You’re at the end of the queue.
You’d best be making your Will out now
Or you may run out of time,
There’s just a question of fifteen thou’
You owe for our work, just sign!’

‘I’ll not be signing my life away
Just now, though it’s almost done,
I may be taking a walk someday
But not ‘til I’ve had some fun.
You say I’ve only a week or two
To spend, and that’s at the best,
I’ll cram the rest of my living in
With the help of a Prescient Vest.’

The Prescient Vest, the brainchild of
A Silicone Valley clone,
It calculated the path of life
From the life already known,
It fed its images through a brain
That would never live to see
The normal span of the life of man
Through some abnormality.

So Kevin fronted the Institute
And was strapped into a chair,
Fitted with Vest and Headpiece
And was virtually aware,
It drained the memories of his life
That flashed on past his sight,
And stored them into a tiny file
Just less than a Gigabyte.

And then it started to calculate
Beginning with his wife,
It showed her having a sweet affair
With the boarder, Stanley Smythe,
They both attended his funeral
And she leant upon his arm,
And held the wake with a Currant cake
At Stanley’s father’s farm.

Then Kevin struggled within his bonds
And tried to say, ‘Not true!’
But then his favourite daughter came
Quite suddenly into view,
She stole the funeral money he’d
Been keeping in a jar,
Then jumped on into his Thunderbird
And drove off with his car.

She let her idiot boyfriend in
To sit behind the wheel,
But all he could see were dollar signs
And a car he’d like to steal,
He dropped her off at a candy shop
Drove off and left his Pam,
While only a half a mile away
He ended under a tram.

Kevin suffered a minor fit
At the wreck of his pride and joy,
But didn’t suffer a single qualm
At the death of the stupid boy,
His job had gone to a minor clerk,
Dumped records in the bin,
The careful working of twenty years
That he’d spent compiling them.

Then Stanley got at his savings and
He frittered them away,
His wife was clueless, she let him sell
The house he’d slaved to pay,
The future, once he had gone was not
The thing he’d visualised,
He strained and screamed at the Techs,
‘Just get this thing from off my eyes!’

He staggered home in a mood and took
Some gas from out the car,
Splashed it around the house, and took
The cash from the funeral jar,
He threw a match and it all went up
Though he didn’t know or care,
That his wife and Stan were up above
When the flames went up the stair.

He jumped on into the Thunderbird
And went for a long, last ride,
Along the Beachside Boulevard,
And once he had stopped, he died!
They’ve banned the use of the Prescient Vest
With a raft of bills and laws,
‘The future needs to be locked,’ they said,
‘For the damage it might cause!’

David Lewis Paget

The first time he came into the light
He thought that his eyes had gone,
The sun was shining, ever so bright
With nothing to focus on,
They led him out to sit on a rock
And hacked off his ball and chain,
It took a week of his ticket of leave
Before he could see again.

Richard Dawson, a broken man
Had finally done his time,
He’d spent three years in shovelling coal
In the colony’s first coal mine,
They said it was only his just desserts
For a pocket, picked in the Strand,
And sent him out on a convict ship
To the hell of Van Diemen’s Land.

At first they set him to breaking rocks
For laying the first rough roads,
He worked while tethered in iron chains
That chafed his skin and his bones,
He wasn’t allowed to take a rest
From swinging the pick or axe,
For the guards would follow the line of men
And lay the whip on their backs.

He lost his God and he lost his soul
Or he thought that he had, out there,
Where men were hung as a matter of fact
And nobody seemed to care,
He slaved four years with the other men
But his future was looking bleak,
When he hit a man who was guarding them
He was sent to Saltwater Creek.

If ever there was a hell on earth
It was called Saltwater Creek,
The devil had got in the minds of men
And they formed a barbaric clique.
The cells were buried, were underground,
There wasn’t a spark of light,
And the men were taken out of the mine
When it was dark, at night.

They started before the sun was up,
They finished when it was gone,
Were locked and chained in their pitch dark cells
In a terror that just went on,
And while they were buried and mining coal
They’d think of the old country,
While their judge sat cool in his stately robes
And finished his morning tea.

A man turns into a surly brute
When he’s kicked and cursed, and beat,
But take the sun from his daily run
And his soul admits defeat.
Richard Dawson, later in life
At night, would take to the street,
And never could quite explain to his wife
The Hell of Saltwater Creek.

David Lewis Paget

There was a time...
The first rhyme
You ever read to me
That time when I,
Once unappreciative,
But that night...
Fell in love with it.
You recited your hurt like art,
A delicate voice,
But with trembling heart.

During those early days of early love.
I always wanted to read along as you read aloud.

And I would've died to be the page you'd slaved upon.
Tears, blood, passion unrivaled like a daring dawn
That fights the night till the day is gone.
Perhaps it was to feel connected to you,
But I began to write my stories too.
I threaded them together painstakingly,
Usually in the lonesome limbos I felt achingly,
Anxiously,
And it took so long to share myself with you.

Did you know you were the first to ever see them?
You always thought I was beautiful.

Once again, you encouraged the fire free.
And this isn't the only sea
You've taught me to sail.
Now I place my work here
With the sheer raw emotion I so dearly make clear.
It is one of the few things I've made mine.
I never said I had talent, but at least I can rhyme!
And now?

Now I write for me.

I’d known Dionne since her coming out
In a dress of tulle, in cream,
And held my breath when she took the floor
To glide like an autumn dream.
My eyes had followed her, all that night
As she danced from hand to hand,
I knew from then I would be in thrall,
She became my promised land.

She married badly the first time, and
I thought that she’d come to me,
She leapt from the fat of the frying pan
To the fire of the Presbytery,
Her husband Sol gave his sermons on
The fires in the pit of Hell,
Eternal moans in a fire of bones
With a terrible brimstone smell.

She seemed subdued, in a sullen mood
When I went to tea one day,
I asked her if she was happy now
But she simply looked away.
I saw a tear on her dainty cheek
And it took me by surprise,
‘I’m such a fool,’ she revealed to me,
‘I should have been more than wise.’

She said she wished she had never wed
For the first had made her cry,
He’d come home drunk for a solid month
And she said, she’d wondered why.
‘I loved him then, and I slaved for him
For I thought that he loved me too,
But then I heard about Annabelle,
And she, just one of a few.’

She married, after a swift divorce
A man with a flinty soul,
‘So much different to Adam, he
Is true, but his love is cold.
He tortures me with his tales of Hell,
Of sin in this earthly place,
And threatens that I might meet him there
If I don’t live in God’s Grace.’

She told me about a yellow doll
That she’d had since she was four,
She’d lavished love and affection on
But she didn’t, anymore.
He’d burnt its hands and he’d burnt its feet
When he’d been annoyed with her,
And said that she was the yellow doll,
The devil was waiting for.

I told her that she should leave him
That the man must be insane,
And told her that I would take her home,
That I would bear the blame.
She smiled at me with her sad blue eyes
And she said, ‘You’re really sweet,
But he has threatened to hunt me down
If he sees me in the street.’

She said he’d threatened to burn her feet
As he’d done, the yellow doll,
She’d not be able to walk again
And leave him, like a trull.
I left that day with a heavy heart
But at least, I knew the score,
Though when I tried to return again
I found that he’d barred the door.

The months went by and I thought of her
For she never left my head,
But then one day came the welcome news,
It seemed that he was dead.
I stood well back at the funeral
And I watched the widow’s face,
Under the flimsy widow’s veil
She shone with an inner grace.

We kept apart for a month or two
But I knew that she was mine,
We tried to avoid a scandal, it
Was just a question of time,
We married after a year had gone
He’d long been in the ground,
We couldn’t believe the harmony
And the love that we had found.

But then on a cold, black winter’s day
Dionne cried out aloud,
For beating ******* the cedar door
There was someone in a shroud,
And lying there on the welcome mat
Lay the little yellow doll,
Its feet were totally charred and black
And Dionne cried out, ‘It’s Sol!’

She clung to me and was petrified
And I tried to calm her down,
‘It can’t be Sol, for you saw him planted
Six feet under the ground.’
The shroud continued to beat the door
And Dionne, her voice was grim,
She pointed to the doll on the floor,
‘I buried the doll with him!’

David Lewis Paget