This child will move a mountain.
Its peak scraping skies that sit
too comfortable in yesterdays.
She will carry it the world over.
No ocean, no border, no man, no,
nothing will stop her travels.
This child will come to her rest
when the skies split like a vein
and tomorrow bleeds into her today.
And It's a day that we may never see.
No terror, no hatred, no blood, no,
nothing but love to flood from the skies.

If the bogey man should come tonight,
When your tucked in safe and tight,
and his cold hands creep so slight,
how would you like to be a baby girl tonight?

Or an unconscious, intoxicated woman?
He slips right in well she isn't moving.

She wakes and she wishes it away,
But still the spinning eyes of his face
turn her sick as mind starts to to race.
How would you like to feel like you have no name?

You're the Unconscious, intoxicated woman,
nameless and shamed, and no longer feel human.

And I think he's taken my wallet too.

There’s a bench in the park across from my house. It sits atop a spiralling path on a hill, and it oversees everything. I would sit there every night watching the bevy of swans take flight at one end of the pound just to come swooping down at the other. Their take off’s just like planes: momentum is gathered until that vital second when they lift, and I would almost feel the sensation in my stomach as they did so. Such beautiful creatures. It baffles me how someone has a claim to them: “ They are mine. All mine”, she says without saying.

One night, with nothing but the moon lit reflecting off the ripples of the pond, I sat there watching the swans. A group of young men dressed in a deathly black appeared, moving swiftly to the pond. I watched them split up and try and round the swans up like they were sheep. They struggled at first, but eventually they grabbed one and bagged it.

I guess that’s the problem with ownership.

We live to watch and are watched as we live.
You would think we would clean up or  hide.
But we lay bare and filthy for our watchers.
Caught up in this old spotlight arousal,
with her **** and his ****, and their new hair-do
or tattoo, or sham marriage, or over-dose.
And you know, we want a taste,
So as long as someone could be out there watching,
we live the horizontal life and watch as we waste.

“ Here’s my everything”, we say without a word.
  Our apathy and acquiescence sing to their tune.
  Sing our digits, our dreams, or sick secrets.
  Sing our pasts, our futures, all for them to see.
'Keep an eye on one another’s', Oz once said.
Though I never paid it any mind at the time.
For he was known to drift to some dystopian scenes.
But Oz knew, and perhaps he knew too early:
We live in public, and the private lives in the screens.

When you find yourself lost,
take them home, tuck them in,
and watch them drift off to sleep.
If they struggles then sing,
or read, or just comfort
them with words of love.
Often we run away
from our true selves because
we do nothing but throw hate,
beat them down, and bury them
under ****** torment
that twists into grotesque
and dark acts of malice.
I’ve beaten myself so
badly before that I
found him laying with tubes
rigged to machines that just
barely kept him alive, and
I tell you, it's taken
years for him to forgive
me, or even look me
in the eye. He would just
avoid my gaze from the
otherside of the mirror.
Sometimes he would even
turn and run away in
to some fading idea,
some place where he could be
alone.
Alone without me.

You won’t find me in an innocent laugh
or in some greying beard’s wise words.
You won’t find me on recoveries roads
or in the gay songs of morning’s birds.
No, you won’t find me in the bluest sea
or on the hills that pucker to kiss the skies.
I’ll never be in true love’s fiery throws ,
or in some sweet and un-jaded eyes.

I’ll be here, in the heap of ****.
On the drunk drivers tongue, in the junkies spit.
In beauty broken by unseen hands,
in the plane that crashes as it lands.
In the crippling fear of the abused,
and in the power that the abuser used.  
I’ll be here, in the heap of ****.
I’ll be here, for I am all of it.  

I am weak, and I am so resolutely.
I am power corrupted absolutely.