How can you not hate me
even if you don't know who I am
there is a chance that you should
since I am male and
we've been bred in a way
making people say "where the ****"
are my brother's decency.

Because when I speak to them
it's idolizing women
then damning those girls for
having the same ideas as my brothers--
they hurl insults
and call them compliments
telling girls to be objects
treating females as plastic
when they are humans made of blood.

She is not barbie
you do not get to change her clothes
and dress her down to
make yourself feel more like Ken--
her accessories and personality
are not defined by your hands
men can not force
themselves onto women
and tell them they dressed
as a ***-doll does.

I'll be ****** for your
lack of decency, people will treat me
as a "man", but in reality--
those are not men they are devils
trying to stay hidden in the dark
and one day feminism will bring equality
for humans, and then we'll have to
deal with the devils hiding
beneath our skin.

I am told that I am down to Earth
and that makes me wonder
that if we were to get onto our bellies
scouring the forest floor
would we find pieces of my personality.

Would you find my laugh
hidden amongst rabbits in their burrows,
mistaking their animal talk
for the hiccup caught in my throat laugh
that I do when I am nervous.  

Would the scraping of bear claws against trees
be the clitter clatter of me rushing to brush my teeth--
the morning/midnight/everyday gust
that I have to put into each part
of my day to keep up with the world.

Would the change of seasons:
cold and determined, young and lively,
warm and strong, regrowth and understanding--
be the change of perspective I share
with each talk we have,
you come to see the seasons change
and with them you want to grow--
inside me you find the same
willingness to cherish
all the world.

"Do you want to be with me"
sorry I don't know what to say--
as I hold their hand, it ripples
it is the rush of anxiety
but feels like water combing through my hands
as I get shampoo out of my hair; in the shower.  

There is a tremble in their breath
reminding me of catching droplets of water
in the canal of my ear
and having to tilt my head
for them to drop back into obscurity.

Their smell is fresh an aroma so soothing
feeling the clean scent of oranges and apples
a flourishing sample I briefly enjoy
when I pour a quarter sized dollop of shower gel.

Their eyes are watery
while they struggle to hide the parchness of their smile
is a somber reflection of hot water running out
and not having any heat left to turn towards
so the only option
is to get out of the shower.  

Their words are mumbled, but I can understand "why"
trying to hide the shakiness in their hands and breath
I can't help but imagine the endorphin's frantically
trying to take control; to fight or flight--  
A similar feeling I have when rushing
to get warm after a cold shower.

Slamming doors are our earthquakes
they are the faults that quake
and when they shift
I can feel our world quiver.

The home we've built
is almost shambles
the plaster lining our walls
crumbles and becomes the dust on our shelves.

The fights we share
are the shifting foundation,
where cracks stagger our steps
and cause us to share blows
dancing a silhouette
of arguments.

Pieces of people
that we never used to be--
are the imaginary characters to our fairy tales  
because there is no way
we could see either of as beautiful--
when we are only seeing
an outline of who we used to be.

Caricatures so misshapened
that they are etched into our bedroom
the sleeping place we used to share our dreams
and instead we scream our nightmares

collapsing from exhaustion
only to cuddle with extra pillows
building forts on each side of the bed
to at least have something comfort us.  

Our harmony finally makes it's ******
it is not the smash of earthquakes
but the sickening silence of loneliness
because we've become isolated.

no longer stomping out natural-disastres
instead we accept our indifference
and we quietly leave the door open--
because there's no need to close doors
in a house we no longer live in.

I stand before my classroom
on the first day--
it is Research Methods
a course that I am forced to take
but I am assured it is for the best
even on the first day
I am told that you can use
this course for everything.

But I don't know who
they are trying to convince,
is it me that the course has meaning
or themselves that they are worth something,
because if it's the 2nd
then the professor probably shouldn't
call on me to answer the question.

In my mind the redundancy
is a wax wrapper
to a lollipop that
I don't understand why I need it
as it was already wrapped in paper
and now I struggle
to find purpose for
a flimsy piece of plastic-wax
that I can hardly even see.

Rotating my head around
as if a person waiting in a traffic accident
and wondering if I can see the body
from where I am sitting--
luckily this is a class room
and every body here is
part of collision that they
never intended on having.  

The drought of thought
that I see spilling across the class room
and the formality of facing forward
while actually daydreaming
is sadly part of this necessary course--
where pencil stained desk
are the only things worth
drawing my attention.  

It's our special day
this is only the first meeting
and instead of being here 3 hours
we get to leave here in 1--
now everyone realizes
this traffic will last longer
than originally told
so maybe it's better
to get outside and walk.

Smells like clean clothes
it's always pleasant
at the laundromat
down the street from
my apartment.

The washer and dryer
are currently broken
looks like some teenager
didn't know what they were doing
as the washer is filled with water
and their clothes remain
inside dwelling to smell
of mildew.

The dryer looks like an antique
because it is the slime green of the 70's
mismatched to it's wifley counterpart
that is stainless steel sparkles
so I assume the dryers death
is not the fault of our fresh water culprit
but electrical problems brought on
from existing forever.

They broke a few months ago
and I've never gone to check
if they were brought back to life
as I've found myself
intoxicated with the laundromat.

It's the mechanical hums
an orchestra of ball barrings
with clothes tumbling
through their fabric softeners
to become fresh gentle cottons
the smell of Hugs
is the aroma of heaven.

In his head was the world
an ocean of detail
that even Bob Ross
could never handle the brush.

He was the average bob
a minority amongst an epidemic
sandpaper was meant for wood
instead people wore without grain.

Speciality was unknown
as his art did not lack depth
but appreciation by
those who handed him
minimum wages
and a life of struggles.

Some day he stopped
once there was an ocean
the next there was only
muddy puddles
because without clouds
there was never any rain
so the paint dried.