It's gettin' good ol' girl,
the same ****-storm as always,
check out the new store on the main strip
could it be one way to get our kicks,
I highly doubt it.
It's all
the
same
old
*******
Ohwell,
Might as well take a look at it!

In my younger years I followed the word of God,
Blindly, because my mother said he was truth. The only truth.
I knew the non-believers go to hell,
and the good church goers to Heaven.
Obviously, I wanted to go to heaven,
hell sounded rather unpleasant.
But as I grew older I started to question the existence of God, Hell, and Heaven.
I'm now at a crossroads, where I simply don't know.
And when I question the reality of a God in our midst my gut starts to churn and my brains in a twist,
how could logic and Heaven co-exist?

I write for the child in mine,
the girl whose thoughts were unkind,
who sat wild in wind and grew older again
with more questions than answers each time.
Sought out the advice from great writers of strife
hoping they'd help unwind,
that they'd answer the questions in her hopeless young mind,
but now she's concluded
each man is deluded and believes he is God of our time,
the only king master, the main story line.
As for I, the servant of delusion of the man thought as wise.

Crab mentality, sometimes referred to as ***** in a barrel, is a way of thinking best described by the phrase, "if I can't have it, neither can you."[1] The metaphor refers to a bucket or barrel of *****. Individually, the ***** could easily escape from the bucket, but instead they grab at each other in a useless "king of the hill" competition which prevents any from escaping and ensures their collective demise.The analogy in human behavior is claimed to be that members of a group will attempt to negate or diminish the importance of any member who achieves success beyond the others, out of envy, spite, conspiracy, or competitive feelings, to halt their progress.

It's a wild white nest
in the true North.
All life's memory
of all existence.
It is the night that is
their natural habitat.
Blind birds singing
in glass fields,
among hallucinatory
moons, moons, moons.
They bare fish and
every paper letter.
In white electric vision
refined itself, still mad
and unfed.
One of those paintings
that would not hide.
Wherein each bed a grave,
for lovers and sleepers,
and those who forget.
Where they would be naked
as they always are,
because it is suppose to be
a painting of their souls.

You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attacks
drowning in your own period blood,
or some intense ****** action
in a local library lesbian bathroom stall,
or maybe months go by
with no action at all
and your mechanic sober S.O. buys coasters
and you stop getting parking tickets
and you envision him suddenly leaving you
out of realization
that he
and we
are becoming exactly
what we
set out to destroy, in a
heteronormative scandalized relationship built by
secret shredded library books,
scraps of meaningless
faintly relevant
love poems and sarcastic deceit.
Or he cooks an egg for you
after borrowing the only sinless skin you have,
but you don’t eat single celled foods.
Or he picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park,
or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street
that faintly smelled like you after you got home
from whatever ***** bus stop entertainment you thrived off of.
                    
And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend
in lost Chicago, or Seattle.
Mile high clubs,
train stops,
never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison,
at least that is what he would always tell you.
Then soon after his fourth weekend away
he painted his nails black  
and listened to reggae
and wore sandals that exposed his feet
and pasty soul to the planet,
****** skin,
vain,
pale,
untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals
a strict converse only policy
he made up for himself
in fifth grade after joining his first band named,
The Roadies,
The Pits,
The Sirs,
And finally he leaves you
the same week
you two were suppose to
fly back to your hometown
to visit your family and your teenage year friends,
half of which are married
or engaged
or pregnant,
or something of the sort,
and the other half are still puking up yesterday's
gas station sushi
lunch break,
9-5,
because all they do is go home and drink
or go out and smoke
or if they're trying to be super ******
they might hunt for a ****** needle,
a freshly ****** needle,
but really  
any old ***** would do.