The stampede hit today
tearing up the green
it'll be sad not to see them grow anymore
     -Goodbye You Wildflowers

I hide half my soul under raps
lock it in my journals
and undisclosed writing sites
Perhaps it is because
in acknowledging  my other half
what already is in view must die
     -Why I'll Never Tell My Parents

I shut my bedroom door
now engulfed by the bindings of paper and pen
and I roll my chair to grey desk
stacked high with Dickinson, Bronte's three, and Alvarez
I pull out my writing tools and begin to contemplate
ideas that dare not be discussed in the public of society
Why is it that God must be a man and
What make the human taught ideal of modesty such a binding force
flow through my brain and I breath again
without measure or discernment I am free
in my freedom i think
back to the conversation my mother and I held this morning
A girl had stood in our line of view her hemline resting mid-thigh
My mother had turned to me
"Ellis look at that girl! I can see her ******!" face aghast
I nodded
"It is disgusting that girls these days dress so provocatively!
Thank God I have a modest girl!"
I nodded again
and I thanked God.
     -Modesty Is A Human Construct

Where to begin?
How to tell a well structured story of a,b,c order
when life reigns in chaos?
I wait for moment to strike
for glorious inspiration to dawn in lightened euphoria,
but I fear it will not come.
How sure am I to be of this moment?
When I can feel the clock drain.
It ticks and ticks       i  n  s  i  s  t  e  n  t  l  y,
counting over the hours and draining of sand.
And while I sit here
watching the arrow round the clock,
what of the billboard plastered behind?
In my fixation for alarm's ring
the flash of neon glow is dull to my senses.
I read not the words.
My moment of finding never goes, never comes.
I       w  a  i  t
and time passed by.
And what now?
Should it all be over?
I have watched the tick of clock,
waited for my time to run bare
with little I can show.
What have I amounted to in my search for meaning?
What have I left plastered, unread to that now pealing board?

Gnarled beast looks back at me.
Its soulless eyes beading down,
my palms slick with anxious, heart-wrenched sweat.
I reach my finger up to meet the squishy, blackened holes.
They sit where eyes should be,
Soully ******* holes in the middle
Flaked, skin flinches at contact,
the action reverberating through my callous finger tips.
I push harder, blood rushes over tawny wrenched flesh,
cracking beneath my nail beds
and thickly seeping to my fingerprints.
Slowly I retract my hand,
moving it to my own snow pale skin.
The blood stains and my wrinkled soul emerges.
      -This Is My Truth

The arrow pierces my heart in abhorrent glow.
It stings against my flesh and cuts me raw.
The arrow of love is one that does me no justice;
It flies hand in hand with that of heartbreak
from which pain pours from me like a sapped tree.
I am but an immobile lump of little intellect
and I have all to blame in that arrow t
hat pierced me with such malicious intent
and softened my heart, now beating much in my chest.
The arrow in its self appears of fluff and excellence;
it is the prize above all men,
but at second snap of bow the hand strikes,
coarse against my being.
That second arrow beats me black and blue
till I can carry on no more
and then it presents the audacity to say "but I love you."
And with that I break
I go flying mad by all accounts.
My heart now drips down my open chest
and tears down my face,
but with eyes of love beading down my soul
the words echo out my own lips.
I say it back, that "I love you"
and I move to gentle, callous embrace
of those love and heartbreak
who stitch me up with arrow and thread
and wrap me secure.
     - I've Never Been One For Love