She’s beautiful, the finest rose in the garden. Her hands soft as silk. Her hair as fair as her skin. Those thorns will get you though. So be careful where you pick her. She’ll ***** until you bleed.

I smile the most
When I want to
Cry

I laugh the most
When I want to
Die

I sit here
And I act playful
As we text

But deep down inside
My heart
And my hope
Have failed
And I lay here
Stuck in my head
Unable to leave this bed

I miss having more people
To hold me close
And cuddle
For now everyone
Makes it ******

I miss holding hands
With people
And going on adventures
But now everyone
Assumes that means
I want them

I do want love
And I do want someone to hold
But just because I cuddled you
Or held your hand
Or was goofy with you
It doesn't mean
You're the one I choose

A cuddle
Shouldn't turn
Into a ****

Holding a hand
Shouldn't turn
Into love

So why is that
What I always
Run into?

5                   5
0.                  0
2.                  2
Bad Gateway
5.                  5
0.                  0
2.                  ­2

502 Bad
G.               a
T                  e
W.               a
Y 502 Bad
5
0
2

Desmond Tutu died.
Not left behind in Afghanistan.
He didn't drown in a comet induced Tsunami.
The lava flow from la Palma didn't fry him.
Aids, Corona, measles, small-pox or Enola didn't infect him.
World fires didn't **** the oxygen from his lungs.
He didn't dehydrate in the Sahara.
No plane fell on him, nor did he fall out of one.
His size indicates it wasn't a self-imposed hunger strike.

Desmond Tutu just died.

A two year old with his father's handgun didn't do him in.
He wasn't struck down by a falling tree, or speeding car.
I'm sure he fell lots of times, but he always got back up.
He doesn't hang from a cross; he wasn't tossed overboard.
And he wasn't lynched, electrocuted, injected or shot standing.

He died,
Naturally, on St. Stephen's Day, when stoning is popular.

It's a **** good thing he led such an exemplary, meritorious life, or we wouldn't know
Desmond Tutu died.

I have stared
Far too long
At this blank page.
I've come to the hard realization,
Like a refugee raft,
This poem won't write herself.

Yours isn't gentle lunacy,
It's hammerhead insanity.
Great white crazy.
I'm not even safe walking on
the sand.
You ******* learned to graze on
the land.
Evolution is a *****.

This morning
I woke up late like always and there was almost no time To
Comfort your crying
I thought it was a nice weekend and I wasn’t hungover
So I made you breakfast
Of the breakfast you made me when we were feeling so good
Potatoes and cinnamon rolls
You said the alcohol sugar kept you up all night
Hands in your hair.

It’s a poor paraphrase of I think Maya Angelou
that when people show you themselves, you should believe them the first time.
What if all you know, all they show,
Is what they’re not?

Tomorrow morning if you’re crying
It’ll be the same thing
I’ll wake up late
As I wait for you at 2am to join me in our bed
After coming home to an empty bottle and you
Feeling better