Tonight, those who have power,
Sit on their thrones.
They congregate and discuss and debate.
They make laws that do not tell us what to do,
Rather only that which should not be done.

They forbid our love.
They mock our life.
They scorn at our attempt to live.
They discourage our very existence.

Be that as it may.
We sing, we dance, we protest and above all we continue to say.
They words that some unheard god once said.
“Ye’ were from my hand all fed”

Tonight, is a powerful night,
Not because the powerful own it,
Or buy and sell it.
But because we, the faceless and the nameless

Hope with a chance of hopefulness,
Love with a chance of it being lovely.
Speak with the chance of being head.
But mostly live, with the aspiration that one day having a life

Since I last saw you,
You appear to have joined a motorcycle gang
You have signed a record deal
You have ''come out of the closet''
You are living on some sort of commune
You got engaged to a troglodyte/knuckle dragger
You got married to some sort of inflatable doll
You have gained weight
You have traveled the world
You have lost your appeal
You have done too many drugs
You look older, worn out
You haven't changed at all
You disgust me
You became a nudist
You started selling things ''off the back of a lorry''
You died
You started dating a guy twice your age
You got thrown out of your band
You might as well be a stranger.

Failure is a haunting fear
but fear itself is worse.
A deceitful ghost
like the closed door

keyless

now a wall.

some ghosts roam Heaven dying
to live again
some humans roam Earth dreaming
to die for once

I try to reconsider being bitter,
but you didn't have to hit her.
You're a backstabbing father and a quitter.
And as a parent it was apparent
that you were incoherent.
Your self esteem was barren.
Wearing a mask that's transparent.
I was oblivious.
You told me you were the wittiest.
It's insidious.
Your personality is hideous.
It was ingenious to me, the way you deemed us to be.
Your English was fiendish.
So much that your seamstress couldn't see.
True sense made me feel like I was a nuisance.
Like you didn't need my two cents.
Now I'm gone for good.
Dueces.

A fallen heart set to rise once more
Long ago condemned to her deep oceans floor
Guided by dim hope
that now grows brighter
Eternity has fanned desire
Memories of past forgotten
Absolution now begotten
Seedlings of new inhibitions
Spread thyself for my fruitions

She didn’t want the feelings anymore.

She didn’t want the lingering sadness after a short high of happiness.
She didn’t want the questions eating her up at night.
She didn’t want the worry of what she was and what she wasn’t.
She didn’t want to wonder if she was doing things right or completely wrong.
She didn’t want to be the home to violent hate for herself
but the same home to a vibrant and gentle love for him.
She had to get it all out.
She needed to reach down and take all that was within and put it outside of her.
She needed to **** what was in her.
She needed to purge all of the bad that was disguised as good.
These pretty butterflies fluttering through her belly had to leave.
Her stomach and her throat and her heart were no longer their flying grounds.

First, a few fingers reached
but didn’t get the job done.
Then a forceful full hand with nails full of flesh and blood tried to make its way to the creepy little critters that made her stomach tickle with sadistic love
but to no avail.
Finally, a full hand and half a forearm tore through the esophagus and the stomach lining.
At last, she could get them all out.

She sat hung over the toilet with a satisfying pain
that a pretty devil told her was the only way to get the buggers out,
the feelings out.
Slumped over the toilet,
she noticed there was a sweet and sour twinge of numbness dressed up as happiness running through her mind.
Hundreds of dead, black, sad butterflies floated at the top of the toilet.
They were all out.

She didn’t have the feelings anymore.