mother was a saint
father her punching bag
sisters were all called *****
when they came home
and failed the ***** check my mother
gave them, mother did nothing wrong
she ruled with brick hard pork chops
and circles of us kids
screaming , a belt in her hand,
who stole my chocolate bar?
No wonder dad had other things to do,
referee in basketball and hockey
an ump in baseball,
a head linesman in football
a devoted Boy Scout mentor,
he mentored so many young men,
but was not there for me.
I grew up not knowing how to tie a knot or survive,
I was lucky mom favored me.
I guess because in that circle of five kids,
me being the youngest , before school age,
to stop the terror I said I had stolen that candy bar.
She was a smart saint, asked me what kind was it?
I failed and was dismissed from the circle of terror.
I went to my room the rest of my days at home
trying to balance the sanity from the insane and withdrew.
I bounced ***** off the wall. Made up fantasy baseball players.
Had all their statistics scribbled in notebooks  
year after year, always my name was there and I was better than Babe Ruth. Somehow , I was smart enough to get the hell out of there.
I got out earlier with mescaline mushrooms *** lsd Quaaludes
alcohol young girls. But, I got out fully when I left to join the Air Force.
I look back and state all this for the purpose of saying it was
all my fault, not mom's or dad's, mine. I was weak.
It took me years and years to figure it out get strong find my voice
consider  my mom as a saint again
and my dad as a martyr!

Happiness is  warm
It spreads through your bones like fire
Warming you, from the inside, out

Happiness is strong
It can pull you out of the dark

It creeps on to your face and reddens your cheeks
It makes your heart thud,  and your head spin  

Happiness is addictive
Like a strong cup of coffee on Sunday morning
Or favorite tune on the radio
It keeps you coming back for more

An empty space looms around
and violence shakes the underground
I search with hope, but none can be found
with voiceless cries I shout without a sound

And every glance that pierces me
reminds me of why I am not free
and every mutter seems like spells
of scrutiny cast from it's wells.

No rhyme no rhythm no symphony
can ease the burden of my agony
and the tales of providence that people see
are nothing compared to the emptiness in me

Oh how each day seems bleak and blue
since the day that I lost You
My hope, my pride, my teardrop burst
That's when I knew that it hurts

as i grow older
   i see things way deeper
   than its meaning
   you see...
  
   home isn't just a home
   some are made
   with body,mind,
   and soul

   happiness isn't just a feeling
   some are choices
   and some are simply made with tiny voices
  
   gifts aren't just things
   some are spent with time
   and some are made with words that rhymes

   that's how we conclude on life
   as we age, we get its value
   may it be
   literal or poetical.

{k.l}

So many hopes have
been laid to rest,
snuggling tight and cozy
where all dead dreams lie.

There wasn't even time to say goodbye.
Oh, my fighting spirit is now a sleeping spirit.
It doesn't wake to sweet smell of fancy,
to the buzzing of bees and all manner of honeys,
no.
It lies dead in the gutter,
or should I say,
asleep.

The only hope I have left, is to lie of the pain.
To wish away the wash of bitter taste
and lie away the bodies of thought and waste.
I have died too many times to count the carnage
and how I massacred myself,
past, present and future,
there is no more potential,
there is now just a rein
lying slack for lack of force,
the beast was too burdened...

There is a constant whispering.
Voices from a place I dare not venture.
My hands are bent and scarred, like twisted puppets.
How can I mend these broken dreams?
I can no longer traverse the seams,
now torn
beyond are the hopes I knew.
How do I mend the horses?

Is it not the hand of God that restores life
to dead things?
Why do his hands look like mine?
If I do not believe in myself,
how might I believe in him?

is watching raindrops easier from heaven?
perhaps if they're still streaming down my cheeks
it'll be easier
from up higher

He pulls me close and holds me tight in his arms.
My body goes rigid with the thought,
Of past lovers who were a little too harsh.
He places a hand on my head,
And runs his fingers softly through my curls.
My body relaxes with a sigh.
Loving him, is like breathing.
When he holds me,
It's like my body could sink into his.
  My fears melt into the warmth of his chest
And my eyes softly drift closed.

The way he holds me
Is soft,
  And secure.
  I hold him close, and pray that he never lets go.