what he is in her life. Just as
the moon doesn’t know what it
it is to the night. After all, the stars

shine their radiant light.  Sometimes
the moon’s just a thin sliver
that gets lost in the sauce of the river.

He doesn’t know
that to cut off his appendage
would destroy her. When
the wind rips the branch off the tree

what happens to the nest full of baby
birdies? Even if it were to survive the fall
hungry predators out there would
core the nest like a pear. And none
would be more for the wise.

When Adam ***** Eve
And calls out Lilith’s name
the slinking Power inside her
Opens one sleepy eye
And uncurls two glistening fangs
Eve wraps her fingers around Adam’s given rib
Hands ****** and covered in blood
Eve plunges bone into sacred heart
Hears him gasp from gospel mouth
Mutters her name like prayer,
Like truth
Winds herself around him in python embrace
Swallows the blessed body whole
And becomes the Garden he dies in

God looks away

As I was out a-riding over pleasant hills of green,
beneath a sky of cornflower blue where larks sang all serene,
I heard some distant hoof beats drumming loudly ‘cross the land,
and I saw a horseman riding with a bow strung in his hand.

Upon a steed as white as snow he galloped like the wind,
and carried awful knowledge of how oft mankind has sinned.
Upon his head he wore a crown that dazzled like the sun,
and he aimed a headless arrow for to conquer and have done.

Behind him came another on a horse of fiery red;
A mighty sword he wielded as along his way he sped.
I shouted “Where is it you ride, and what’s yon great blade for?”
He laughed and answered, “Always, friend, I take the road to war!”

And as I watched him vanish in the blue horizon’s haze,
a black horse trotted by me with its rider’s eyes ablaze.
He carried rusted iron scales that never more would weigh,
and he named the price of famine that humanity must pay.

The day grew bleak as winter and the green hills turned to grey;
As birds fell dying from the sky, I turned and rode away.
My own horse snorted madly, and his steaming breath did writhe;
And I spurred his pale flanks onward as again I swung my scythe.

A cycle of rain and nitrogen
And everything looks a lot like mud
But that's where the stuff grows you know
Where the ancients have fallen
Cause here's a place too sow seeds you see
To spread your wings and fall over and over again
Rest easy
Crash your waves
Flood the sky
Sink into the earth
As here's a place made for no mortal
That's why the sun and stars came to play

It's 12:40 and I can't think
It's 12:40 and I can't speak

November 14, 2016
My friend committed suicide.
He left behind his newlyborn twins.
He left behind his mother, his friends.
I'd just talked to him the day before.
He laughed, we laughed.
12:45 p.m he was pronounced dead.

I have written a song for my friend.
He committed suicide.
Not so long ago.
April 27, 2017.
7:15 pm and he was pronounced dead.
I will forever miss him.
I had just talked to him.
He tried to warn me.

May 7, 2017.
I tried to **** myself.
Went into my bathroom.
Took over 400 ibuprofen.
Was in a coma.
My little brother found me vomiting.
He's nine..

How are these true stories funny?
How do people laugh and joke about it?
Knowing that it literally ruins people's lives?

How do we socially ignore it?
Why don't we at least try to help the problem?
Why don't we talk about the things that need to be discussed?

You can make a difference.

Yeah, YOU.

YOU can start it out.

Someone makes a "joke". Call em out.

Because everyone's worth it.
These people suffered and with people still using it
as a joke while their gone is unfair and disgusting.

But that's not it. THEIR worth it. But so are YOU.

On a path of buttons she did sew upon her patchwork steps,
like silk they were upon this place each one delicately
thread. In a tale of one woven following the footpath
of seamless memories, but one can became untied from
the trail if not watching there untied thoughts instead.

Before silken steps knew any different, a broken button
did fray her stride. Looking around, she spoke in velvet
wording "Hello is there but a voice to guide my way,
But not a woven word did cross stitch upon the air.
All was not as she knew before, a place not quite fastened right.

Trees were torn, branches were hanging by loose thread, the
embroidered leaves tattered and worn like they had been
handled in wrong manners way to much. The road once sewn
in tasteful stitch, now scratched and broken like it had been discarded
without a pattern to weave a safe path, this wasn't as such.

Luckily for this little lady her silken steps were still fresh behind,
patterned in a way to follow her way back.  Noises she heard of
fabric torn, not seeing it she hurried her motions to where the
buttons were polished woven in form, The trees were trimmed
the leaves elaborately stitched, and she sighed with relief.

She had learnt a lesson that was cross stitched into her thoughts.
That when one is walking always know where those silken steps are woven to the right path. For if a path becomes tattered and a place unknown, one was not taking steps to safety get home. Always weave a
thought from here to there, follow you buttons carefully to home instead.