If these walls could speak,
They'd tell you all about Art;
Whispers from spray cans.*

- (A.F)

"Oh, yes. That hurt.
That hurt like a thousand slaps from a
Thousand teachers each. Like

Dragon claws dripping with bile and
Venom into male ego exposed. Ego
And pride and the nature of the bottles

Of labelled **** that you threw back,
Chickening out on cold, hard reality.
Once again.

Friends and lovers lost, some long,
Some not. All gone with the wine. You
Could have written volumes by now.

Recorded legendary albums, created
Art like few others.
Yet, every millidrop of your

Blood screams for someone, or
Something rather, to take you
Away from all that's everyday.

Be it even war." Well,
I want peace, now.
Battleworn and

Empty from facing all the same
Demons. Chainmail shredded,
Body worn on the inside from

Aqua Vitae and ale.
It hurts. It hurts like a thousand
Freshly sharpened pencils carving

Into the exposed areas of my love
For bad nostalgic habits and
Days after days with drink, laughter

And inhaling
The air of temporary excitement,
Picking at scabs and naming myself

Surgeon, letting the hearts of others
Pick up my tab when one of us
Inevetably leaves;  

Those freshly sharpened pencils
Carving mantras to keep me alive
And wake me the Hell up, like:

"The people I
Need do not
Need me like

This," and
*"I have
Pride."

You were like a natural disaster to our lives.

While we played in a field.

No warning.

You appeared...

You struck and we lay scattered on that field...

In tears.

Confused.

In pain.

Broken inside out.

No longer just children.

Victims to young to understand that we were forever changed.

To young to understand why we felt ***** and guilty.

The threats and fear, made us silent...

Fear and interrogation made me lie.

You left us in that open space forever, no matter where we went.

And our lives were taken...

Our parents were broken, because parents break when thier children are hurt.

And my lie...

My lie forever changed my protectors life.

My fear made me hurt another.

We were so young...

Some not old enough for school.

Our fear allowed the disaster to strike others...

Now as adults we know a new guilt.

But we were so young.

This very unnatural disaster still walks the earth...

Somebody gives this pervert comfort...

But we are forever changed.

Stronger today, yes...

But never again as free as before he stole our innocence.

This disaster turned our world upside down, and revisited us for years taking more of us each time he put his disgusting hands on us.

I'm not to religious, but I believe in God.

I have yet to know the reason for this, except that we are great protective parents...

And as I believe there's a God...

I know there is also a hell.

And while God tells us to forgive...

I have yet to forgive even myself for being so full of fear, because it allowed him to walk free and hurt us again and again, and others through time.

There is no part of us sacred or untouched by that evil...

No matter who knows our story, there's no person not even eachother who understands the depth of our individual torment.

The unfair torture of feeling an isolated, unexplainable, personal  taste of evil.

Like a natural disaster, he struck us down...

Children at play made victims of a child molester.

Survivor's!

Of a sick family member's distgusting taste for extremely young children.

We can't say we are ok.

We refuse to say you are anything more then a creature that has not yet met God's wrath.

And dare not say, you to know abuse...

Dare not say you found God...

God and abuse will find you when your six feet under.

I know I sin as I write this...

But to forgive...

As a mother myself...

Well that's it's not in me.

Do unto others...

Do unto others, that's how I live.

i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.

Scarecrows dance in violet sun rays
in time best broken over my wrists

I steal magic from chalk bones on the sidewalk
and learn to read where children left their roots to become fossils

Clouds sinking into my skin as rainwater floods
my blood and turns my steady heart stream into livid rapids

Fate tapped on my window at 2a.m. last night
and informed me that I still am a poet and I still write to injure gods

Jealous frost infested the soil and trailed kisses of death on earth's cheek
but oh how pretty envy sparkles in hues of first light

But as I beckon stars to lean from their thrones in heaven,
I have realized that it's useless to continue watering a dead flower.

lazily lost
to crony capitalism
corporate cobwebs
hunger
unsatisfied
first come served
rich get richer
walls get bigger
the river deeper
the gap is wider
the poor get
poorer
the black get blacker
the rift grows wider
the police get narrower
shootings
more common
more people dying
politicians
appear more frequent
on the TV
and nothing gets better
solved
are the next elections
nothing more