I watched a woman dying
On the street;
She had a smile on her face
As she had just come
With a great howl
As the bus hit her
Amidships,
Spilling her Marks & Spencer's bag
Full of stolen groceries
As well as her guts
And her birth certificate
Which showed she was actually born male.
We all have our little secrets
You never know what's in a lady's *******
Until you go there to explore.
So you can ******* now.

Number Ten in the terrifying ORLOK series*

A horrid figure is standing on your doorstep,
My mouth spouting freely dread plumes of rancid breath;
Such a noisome stench billows from my rotten maw
As my hate-filled eyes stare at you in the twilight.

You know from my dread expression that I have come,
Come to claim you and to drain your sad poor body
Of all its warm juices from every orifice;
And you can guess just what I intend before you die.

Your soul will scream in terror at what next awaits:
Watch with clammy fear as I removes my cloak
Revealing my scaly nakedness before your eyes
Including the largest **** in eternity.

The bleak evening's feeble rays reflect o'er my face,
As I tear off my Y-Fronts and sodomise you,
With immensely fast and powerful buttock thrusts,
Before you even have a chance to empty your bowels.

And after I have finished with your rear passage,
I shall sink my yellow fangs into your trembling neck,
******* hard enough to empty veins and colon;
O plunge gravewards, ****** in every sense of the word.

We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.

We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.

We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

She takes a seat
not saying much, she tries not to speak
because you'll smell the whiskey
Blacked out eyes of abused innocence
hides a tale of misery
There she sits, way to the right in the third row
as she tries to believe in a power that can save her from below
Her torn and worn jeans have seen many days,
So go on and judge them, the third row sinners
While she sits in a daze
She pulls at her sleeves, so no one will see
Her story carved into her skin of satin ivory
So she watches the preacher with curiosity
wondering if anyone can smell the whiskey
or see her story in ivory
She's a believer, that third row sinner.

He takes a seat
Masked in strength
wondering if you can see that he is weak
His hands shake, maybe from drugs
or maybe from pure anxiety, not just a tweak
There he sits, way to the left on the third row
praying that this isn't all just a show
His face is worn and hardened with sorrow
So go on and judge the third row sinners
While he fights for tomorrow
The visions won't leave him, the whispers
Yet he won't let anyone see his story, as it withers
So he watches the preacher, wondering
Can you guess his weakness
Can anyone see his illness
His story, in the silent stillness
He's a fighter, that third row sinner

I take a seat
My story not one of interest
But yet you judged me from when I walked in the entrance
I have wounds, many scars, and have sinned plenty
Yet it's none of your business, my story
Until I have laid it at your feet gently
In the middle of the third row, with her at my right, and him at my left
I ask you to not judge us, we third row sinners
For our stories will have an ending, just like yours
But many paths leave many doors
So open wisely, and maybe we will all choose the right one
to lead us home.

I have ideas that never seem to stick
Like a spark that falters on a half-lit wick
I think “Eureka! Wow, I've done it again!”
But when I mold my thought-child that’s exactly when
I get booted off for no ticket on this train of thought
And the project derails into an old vacant lot
That lot is a notebook at the foot of my bed
It’s labeled “ideas” but it should read “drop dead”
My ideas are all just orphaned on paper
Their father held interest, but started to taper
“I’ll get to it sometime!” but no clock reads “some”
I just like the feeling of ideas under thumb
Is it arrogance? I hope not, just a stream of dumb luck
Or maybe I’m just afraid of being told that I ****

This is a love letter to the greatest man I have ever known.

You were my first love. The way a young girl adores her father  — you were that for me (and so much more).  From you I learned a quiet, confident love one that attributes words to only carrying half the weight that actions do. You spoiled me with your youthful spirit. If ever I, "Chief Two Ponytails," needed to boss someone around in my play kitchen; you were always there to lovingly accept my misguided culinary decisions to serve you mud pies and plastic fruit.

There is no one who loved me more wholly.

As I grew, you grew with me teaching me endless generosity and to never get too tangled up in the details because as is all too real — life is fleeting. You were my constant and now the only time I get to spend with you is in my head. I see you in everything — the changing of the leaves, the color of red velvet cake, and toy airplanes. I was angry at time for pushing me further from you and angry at the world for spinning in your absence. I wished I could fill a balloon with your breath so that I could float away in hopes of being closer to you.

But, even in death, you have taught me the greatest lesson — that love transcends time, things mend and where you were my sunshine, you are now my stars.

I will forever strive to be a reflection of your gentle heart.
I love you like wildfire.