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When I was born I asked the doctor, how he thought he did?
He recalled,
"Exquisite, it was a perfect delivery."
I rebutted,
"Then why am I still attached to the umbilical chord?"
He snipped me away from the tangling sheathe preventing me from exploration.
I leapt off the crinkling hospital bed paper and onto the goose-bump extracting tile floor.
Playfully bobbing my head as I walked into the world whilst giving the blonde doe-eyed nurse a crumpled note arranging what time I would pick her up for
dinner that night.
--Nurses enjoy being taken care of too.

When I was in preschool my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up.
I told her, "I want to feel the love of a woman who makes me happy everyday and loves me for being me."
She under cut my desired fate, "That's not a something you can work for."
I whispered in her ear, "I know you have never felt love from another person."
She began to cry.
I told her, "That tears are just water for her soul to grow."
She got married later that spring after the rain had stopped,
--Her soul grew enough to show.

When I was seven years old a neighborhood bully stole my bicycle.
I cried for four minutes.
I was angry for about an hour.
Instead of telling him that my dad could beat up his dad
I began to wear my helmet everywhere I went.
I shouted to the other boys in my class,
"I had an invisible superb-deathly speedy-extraordinary-intergalactic- bike."
Two weeks later that same bully gave me my bike back.
As he relentlessly rubbed his knuckles into the top part of my scalp I thought nothing, but that this is the reason why my Grandpa went bald.
Then he muttered through his wheezing breaths of anger,
"My invisible bicycle was much faster than anything your ***** daddy could have bought you."
--Dad's, they love hypothetical fighting.

When I was eleven years old two airplanes hit two buildings in New York City.
I did not understand.
I asked my teacher, "Why would God make evil people?"
Through her tears she explained to me, "Some people are just born evil."
I shouted under my breath, "People are not born evil...
implementing ideas in the sponge of a youth's mind is what is morally corrupt and evil!"

--Corruption is the first cause of terrorism.

When I was fifteen years old I had my first real serious girlfriend.
I did not understand, again.
I exasperated to my father over drinking our first father-son beer,
"How do I know when I love a woman?"
He nostalgically took a drag of his menthol cigarette and as the smoke made it's way through his nose like fog in a canyon he said to me,
"Whenever you look into her eyes and know that there is nothing you wouldn't do for her, that is love."
Before he could reach down and crack another pilsner I told him,
"Dad I look a little lower than her eyes and that is where... everything I would do to her."
--Hormones are a *****.

When I was twenty-one years old my mom told me I couldn't come back home after I graduated college.
I begged her to give me time. I will make it, I promise.
I shouted in the driveway with all my belongings she had neatly placed for me to pack into my car, "How do I know when I am ready to be on my own?"
She didn't have to say anything for there was a brown envelope on top of my neatly folded clothes; that mysterious folding method all mom's know but I
could never seem to figure out,
"Son, you won't know. You won't know until you are poor, hungry, cold and exhausted everyday from trying to make something of your life. The character
you will build will help you later in life when you have a family of your own. I promise. I am not a tyrant, I care too much to see you widdle away here with me
in obscurity and waste all the dreams I know you have. I love you my baby."

--Mom's, even though they don't cut the umbilical chord...they cut the umbilical chord.
the thought is simple
the feeling the same
stealing the rain
that falls from yours eyes
sealing the pain
that spells our demise
look my love
look at the sky as the fish fly by
I would catch one for you
but I broke my pole last time I gave it a try
it made me laugh so hard I started to cry
and scream so loud I shattered the ground
as well as the man
solid like stone
yet hes broken down to the bone

lonely.

but not alone
relying solely on his phone
to spill his thoughts
and keep them his own
the puppet show is the only place
he has ever called home
taking center stage
unleashing hidden rage
she squeezed out the cage
sprend her wings for a few days
flew around the world
just to get lost in the maze
with the turn of a phrase
she reveals their life as a phase
stunned and amazed
he rolls up to blaze
no clouds in his head
just the purple haze
now it all seems so simple
the problem isn't mental
it's a matter of will
can I splatter and ****
what I tried to hold still
I'll do you one better
leave the bird with one feather
and sever the tether
bring destruction to her seduction
and then see how well she can function
flying, running, lying, *******
tell me something
is it simple now will more walls than bridges?
is your life really better as just one of his *******?
come to your senses
you're smarter than this is
giving you credit for
the raven on my shoulder
is squaking simply
*never more.
 Mar 2013 Wolfgang Blacke
Ray
My dreams are slowly crashing down
towards the bullseye on my head;
I don’t want to face reality,
I don’t want to face tomorrow.
I gave the hero of this story trust
issues. So that when his castle fell he
wouldn't worry about the damsel still
calling from the ramparts, where I hold court
in the dust. For this is my battlefield
where the headstones will read like love letters
and the weeds will serve as the royal seal.

I gave the hero of this story hope
a magic bean and two old china cups.
But the china, brittle, the bean rotten
as these once fertile lands lie waterlogged.
You can't grow your crops here, boy, go home.
I'll drown this hero before he can stand
the sight of the muddy bank. A hero's death.

I gave the hero of this story bread
water, and melody. To help him sleep
soundly and noiselessly, still. Arms, pillows
sway to the metronome of the city
beating such a heroic retreat. Stand
with fingers touching, childlike and brave.
Until the next wave comes and holds. It breaks.
Will I ever be the one
who gets to hold you tight
Will I ever be the one
to hear your last goodnight
Will I ever be the one
who’s hand you gladly take
Will I ever be the one
next to whom you wake
Will I ever be the one
that holds you when you cry
Will I ever be the one
that never hears goodbye
Will I ever be the one
to whom you give yourself
Will I ever be the one
in sickness and in health
Will I ever know the reason
that our paths were meant to cross
Will I ever know the gain
that is someone else’s loss

Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
I slide into your eyes, and wonder just how long you will permit me to stay there.
Your pupils trace the bases of
Craving
Braving across my face
And I wonder if you can feel the pace in which the taste of you runs through the recollection section of my dome
And I wonder if the flare behind the glare of your stare is enough to slide you
Home.
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