Names are funny.

Have you ever wondered what your name would be if your parents didn't name you?

I'm one of the lucky few
that know.

If my parents didn't name me,
my name would be
Timothy.

You see, apparently,
when two people love each other,
Mommy cheats on Donny
with daddy and all three
demonize the baby.

Unfortunately,
abortion isn't an option.
Poor Donny believes
his little Johnson
made a tiny Willie
but really
it's Mike's Rick.
The trick wasn't revealed
until
Donny signed the birth certificate.

Obviously, Karen's husband abandoned their family.
Mike ripped his love from her and gave it to Dominique.

Karen,
twice-scorned,
mid-divorce,
postpartum,
decides a shelter isn't suitable for a nameless infant.

At this point, it's a little too late for abortion.
Nowhere to go,
knowing she can't stay,
Adoption became the practical option.


The noxious auction caused a nauseous reaction to her conscious. Karen picked the option, least pompus, with the most promise. An intuitively honest Christian was brought to her room so she could sign the synopsis.


As she's reviewing the terms of this blood oath, she glances at both of the parents cradling her second baby boy. They turn and ask


"What is his name?"

"I don't know. I thought he was going to be a she so I had the name Sade."


"That's ok, we have a perfect name in mind. Timothy."

I lay in the bathtub soaking
wet with water running
around my silhouette.  Shaking
as the washcloth smeared regrets
over my skin. The bubbles
give my sins a scent.

As I vent I leave the shower
running so my sobs
are the only thing drowning.
The constant tapping on my face
keeps me awake as I sink into
the various stews my mind creates.

Weights are lifted with pruning. Peeling
of dead skin keeps me from
reeling into depression. There is a harmonic
progression between the faucet and my face,
the scrubbing and my disgrace, the steam and
my own embrace.

I need this state. The decompression
from being bottled up, like a coke, with a smile
is worthwhile. It teaches me
that the expression of  weakness
is key in the building of a better Timothy.

To have questions is a blessing
To have no answers is a curse
like a song without music
or a verse
No beat to bob your head
just silence in your headphones
louder than a gospel chorus
Breathing won't cool your porridge
per se
Looming thoughts are howls in the forest
Not day
And your a long way
from home
Hello, Hi, Shalom
barely phase the surface as you roam
inside your mind's cage.
Can't turn the page
cause the book is glued together.
Like feathers
Confidence falls from the sky
as you drip-dry
fresh from a sea of doubts.
You can build a house
with hay
but hey, bricks can be thrown
when the wolves are at bay.

I...
I...
I can't find words
to properly observe
my absurd
feelings.

I'm dealing with
A lack of a fifth
appendage.
I'm missing my thumb

Well...
Well...
Well like an appendix,
I'm useless
for your senses.
Sensing

your numb to me
your like Nestle
chocolate is addicting.
and soothing

But...
But...
But I went to rehab
where I met Ahab
who was on Jihad
cause of some white girl

We realized
were hypnotized                          savages
victimized by
self-reliance
the key word being lie

Now...
Now...
Now were stagnant
spaced on various fragments
adorned with magnets
to the walls

surrounding
counting
drowning
*in cement

I awoke alone,
after a horrid dream.
I turned to your face
to feel something comforting.
In the spot that graced your silhouette
were sheets weighted with regret.
My misdirected inflection
coupled with the misconception,
that 1+1=1 not 2 you see,
when the correct formula
is 1+1≥3


Fact is I lied.
When I pronounced "love"
with greater strength than "as long"
Fact is I lied.
When i said unconditional.
It is the beauty in song.

My regret lies in lack of earlier cognition.
This is not the first time this has happened.
Which means I never learned a lesson
inferring  to my lack of a mission
or understanding,
in a man's mind muddled.
I took the position
of sitting down in the struggle.
My body fatigued, eyes bloodshot and wary
I refused to see your definition
of affection realized in the lines of the abstract.

Fact is I lied.
When I said forever;
Knowing I am temporary.
Fact is I lied.
I never finished my sentence.
A more complete thought is "one of many"


The complete truth is my love was uniform.
Designed to let any woman fill the mold.
I lacked passion.
Which gives direction in a sandstorm.
I gave up my attempts to understand why water is wet.
Returned to my dreadful fantasy
wherein my heart would contort and deform.
As I told the truth to you
in a Scarlett and Rhett fashion;
We caressed in a snowstorm.
The message cut deeper than I could ever myself.

Fact is I lied.
When I said I would be fine,smiled
and drank in the last light you would reflect.
Fact is I lied.
When I said it was me
It was the both of us I wished to confect.

Within myself is a miasma.
Its the reason for my asthma.

It fogs the clarity of my sight
and forces regurgitation despite

shots,pills and Oxford accreditation.
They say it is a virus with"complications."

I already knew there would be no antidote
Its obvious in the way I constantly spat and choked.

I always excuse myself in an outbreak.
Wash the blood off my lips and and cope my heartache.

For a moment I can recollect myself in this disease
between the convulsions and the wheeze.

I begin to find a state of equilibrium.
And ***** myself on the tile podium.

Yet as I stare into the mirror all I can see within
Is the fury writhing underneath my skin.