Life: Noun: Uncountable: Plural: Lives
The ability to have: Abilities
Period of time filled with: Adjectives
With many opportunities to seize

Life as punishment: Contract/prison/love
Life as enjoyment: Contact/comfort/love
Love: Meaning: Affection. Also used above
Love: For idiom see also: Turtledove

Life: Antonym: Death: What comes after life
The leading cause of death on Earth: Neglect
Example: None cared the child had a knife
The leading cause of life on Earth: V-necks

Cheat: Suicide: Lessons on life not learned
Antidote: No cure has yet been confirmed

"Do you believe in global warming?"
they asked me
as though it was something you could choose to believe in
like santa
sitting on the melting polar ice caps

wondering how else he could tickle our fancies
for our momentary pleasure
one sizzling christmas eve

“but”, they said, “but its all circumstantial,
And”, they said,"all natural,
All part of a cycle,
all part of a plan-
And there’s no evidence anyways"
Is santa melting?
Do ice caps exist?
Who knows!

Who knows?

Who is the 'you' that singers sing too?
The 'you' that sends poets diving through vast oceans for poetic pearls?

You're the rain on windows late at night, natures own lullaby.
You're the sun rays in which I bask, you make me feel alive.

You is a collective term.
An indistinguishable figure, a faceless being.
'You' are a silent understanding. Universal.

You hold the promise pleasure and pain of all the bodied 'you's that tarnished your name.
'You' are the silence we scream because the world talks to loud to hear us.

'You' are the nameless, holding up all the 'me's' that aren't strong enough to say this.
'You' are the silence we crave when to speak their names can only pain us.

She checks her wristwatch
Counterclockwise
Against her former expectations
Of the metal
Around her wrist
She checks her digital clock
The one on the stove
That flashes
Flash, flash, flash, flash
Like a silent metronome
When the power goes out
And comes back on
12:31
12:30
12:29
Calm
She is still calm
Breathing
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale
Steady
Like the bobbing of a buoy, bouncing
Brazenly in open sea
You see
She sees
That time can be trickery
That conceptual thoughts
Provoke mystery
Illusions and delusions
Conclusions and intrusions
Seclusion
She has many things
About which
To think

~~~

My memory of grandpa
Was that his hands were red
Showing me some pictures
A kid's book before bed.

The bones were raw and gnarled
The sinews looked all sore
The skin was thickly callused
Spotted, lined and scored.

They showed wear and tear
They echoed his toil
Grandpa was a farmer
A tiller of the soil.

Grandpa couldn't read
But we could laugh and look
His hands delicately turning
The pages of a book.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/12/2015

I still remember that night. I remember how I felt before it happened more vividly than how I felt after. I think I remember it so well because that was the last time I ever felt whole.
My shorts were short
my ******* were wet
my sweet little cherry had yet to be popped.

Your intentions filled the room as I admired the spit drool on the side of your lips. The uneasy smirk on your face. You wanted a lot more than to "just get laid." I was far too young to even begin to understand the parts of my body you knew not to touch.

As you kissed me down my neck and your manhood grew harder, my spine quivered and my fear shook. My mother always told me to follow my gut and when I did you grabbed me and you told me not to listen to it. You told me to ignore what I didn't want for the sake of your temporary pleasure. You disregarded my comfort and put your **** ahead of my feelings.

You yanked my legs open and your ripped me into two pieces, and till this day I have yet to find the other half you stolen from me, and I swear I almost see it everyday when I stand ahead of myself naked infront of my mirror but I can never stare at myself long enough to grab me in and make myself whole again.

Do you see what you have done to me? Was each stroke of stolen pleasure worth every jump I make when the man I love touches me with permission? Was your everlasting ******, sounds of moans and sighs escaping from your lips, echoing in my stomach and spilling out in my tears worth me cutting myself open every night since?

I guess it was because at least I'm giving myself permission opening myself up. At least the pain has consent. At least the blade dragging across my skin silenced the sound of your pleasure inside of me. At least the blood from my wrist dripping onto the bathroom floor isn't mixed with your ***.

At least I have the choice to put just a little more pressure in and I wont have to be reminded of you anymore.