Do you only touch in anger?
Do you have the habit of hugging your kid?
Or do you prefer not to
Just like the parents of criminals did?
Do you think hugging
Will make your child turn out to be soft?
With nobody home to turn to
Would your child then be better off?

Does your son or daughter
Go without being touched in love for years?
Is the only emotion allowed
Obedience and silence, never any tears?
Does your perfect child idea
Amount to something like a stuffed toy?
Does your list not involve
Things that are normal for a girl or boy?

Is everything else important,
But not the issue of your child’s happiness?
When your child asks questions
Do you treat it as just smart-mouthedness?
If your child questions bad ideas
Do you take that as a personal attack?
Do you find yourself thinking,
And saying, you want your freedom back?

If any of the above is true
You are not being a loving kind of parent.
If your child’s image of you
Is of an angry person given to swearing
And calling them names
That should be reserved for enemy,
Then wake up and realize
That’s not the right behavior to use on family.

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

Preeminent excursion
I need to feel sustenance,
Accessible I want
Not a vegetable stunt-
Closeness seems close
Though so far off.

Other's cry
I've
Learned to
Laugh and cough
Out all the diseases
That try to ruin me.

I'm worthy
More than
I'm hopeful
Of a life with
No demand.

I'm a one girl band
Her legs upon the window sill,
My eyes peak to the farthest neighbor,
Though seems only I am real,
To numb out what is the average.
To overcome would be real
But what's real? Sénor? Sénora?

There may be a heaven
And maybe a hell
But there is one thing
I know **** well;
There are devils around
And they do their worst
To put the working man
Into a poor man’s hearse.
They hate poor people
And kiss the royal ***
Of those who they think
Represents real class.

And real class to devils
Is money beyond belief
So they side with the creeps
That hate welfare and relief.
They know what they are doing
And they do it every time.
They gleefully participate
In global-scale crime.
They pump up bank accounts
Of the obscenely rich
And call the working a man
A loser sonofabitch.

They buy the politicians,
Who are devils themselves,
And push helpful programs
Onto a dusty back shelf.
If it doesn’t make money
For the greedy one percent
Then any such bill proposed
On the floor is never even sent.
So, I do believe in Devils
Not so much of the rest of the book.
If you don’t believe in Devils
Turn around and take a good look.

how can I be a poet,
when I have,
**Dysgraphia.