I will bring my daughter into this world,
and teach her my ways into surviving.
I will guide her and say, "baby girl,
when you go out in the world,
don't tell them that you were raised by two women.
Don't you dare because you'll get stares,
that will feel like knives trying to rip through your skin,
and you'll hear people speaking how selfish,
that two women could do that to a child with potential.
How wrong your mothers are in the name of God.

Baby girl, if there's one thing I request,
it's that you say you were raised with four eyes,
that could see the disgust in over thousands of faces,
four ears that could hear the ignorance,
when they heard the shouts that God wanted Adam and Eve,
two mouths that couldn't speak up for themselves,
because they were brainwashed into believing,
they had no right to due to all of society's hate,
four arms that made every attempt to be strong for you and fight off the world.

Baby girl don't forget to say that you were raised with four legs,
that your mothers used to runaway from themselves because they were so scared,
that if they caught up with themselves,
they wouldn't meet society's standards.
You say you were raised with two minds,
that thought alike and that is what brought them together,
and how we dreamt of days where our love can be looked upon rather than down.
I am growing tired of all this hatred and ignorance.

Baby girl show the world it is not about if you marry a man or a woman,
but about who you feel comfortable with when you tell them your most embarrassing stories,
who still puts a smile on your face,
and keeps the butterflies in your stomach fluttering around happily like they did on that first date.
Baby girl don't say that we are two women.
Don't disappoint me. "
- a.v.s

Bluebell Lucy danced in fantastic flames, taught by shamanic figures
  when the winter nights grew tiresome
  and lonely boys ran passionately in village streets
She stood on ancient structures and sang her song with uttermost vigor
  even after mild paranoia sets in, she stands statuesque
  breathing harmonic, listening intently to the cloud's chatter
Her cobalt lashes flickered adroitly when she scanned the sky atop her locks
  and let the coming rains wash through that azure mane
  until the kiss of eternal gratitude arrived from a stray bird
On cobble stone paving, her heels were worn and dampened, she nimbly strides
  how beautiful it is to see a spirit so free
  and the obstinate world yields to her alone
Loosely, Lucy with a cerulean aura, gathers the injured and feral in alabaster arms
  she is yagé and the world hallucinates because of her
  a subtle enlightenment she gives to onlookers and thieves
Camu Camu sprouting from the wells she digs with bare hands in midnight moonlight
  her compatriots, the beasts of lost tribes, look onwards
  and she wails a verse on hemerocallis singular sensation
The flower that she is, a wild one that grows sporadically to enhance the beauty of existence
  and everybody incomprehensible in thoughts when she speaks
  because she is love when love had died so many suns ago

I was born on February twenty-third
I was told by my mother that I'm a Pisces
I weigh one hundred twenty-five pounds
I'm five foot eight
And a half.

I have watches and sweaters and things to keep me warm and know when to be home to call my grandmother
I have blankets to tell me nice things
and curtains to keep the branches of my neighbors from entering my room but they don't mind.
They hate the feeling of glass
Even with the Sun piercing their every pane and the Moon blaming them for not being as bright.
The trees whistle through my curtains anyway but I don't mind, I'm a good neighbor
They think I'm a good neighbor.
I block them out to hold tight the thoughts of them just being there.

I have shelves to hold my things the things I hope to last forever but the very same things that will only last a moment.
I try to take care to my alarm clock by not pressing the snooze button
It stiffens my blankets and pushes the branches from my curtains

I'm still learning how to whisper even though...
Even though I don't want anyone to hear me breathe.
I'm afraid of spiders
I'm afraid of the branches waking me up from my 2am turnings
I'm afraid of my caffeine-run smile.
But you make me mesmerize into your eyes and I realize I'm not afraid of waking up or the threads of my sweaters unravelling or my blankets insulting me I'm afraid of what my eyes will do when I wake up and when all I have are threads and my blankets are no longer trying to keep my fingers and toes warm
You remind me of how I'm afraid of not being able to hold my sweater threads
You remind me I'm afraid of how my blankets aren't even able to keep themselves warm.

What will my curtains do without any branches to hold there
What will my blankets ever warm up
They'll be begging for me to light candles but I'll be struggling to find any matches
My battery set of eyes will make me hit the snooze button and the dust will gather on the tip of my finger so I have to wipe it on my blankets.

Hi.
My name is Paul.
I enjoy books and stars and eggs.
I have shaky knees for a girl who likes folded blankets and boxes of things from a shelf
My hobbies include pressing the snooze button lighting matches with no intent and skipping over the terms and conditions.
I stand behind my curtains to hide from my metaphors
And my mother never told me to find an Aquarius to swim in.
I don't have any fins but I do have hands which have fingers who haven't been warmed up in a long time but I know that I can muster enough strength to hold onto your hand just to walk around the block to buy a carton of eggs.
My hands aren't really able to do anything else
except pressing the snooze button and lighting a match for a few seconds of warmth
for only a few fingers
but those are just enough to open my curtains
and fold my blankets.
Those are just enough to press play on our nights away from the sound of a distant wind.
The sound our hearts can make are louder than any whisper I cannot produce
or any crack of an eggshell
or any trinket falling off the shelf and onto our pillow.

In a happy reign there should be no hermits;
The wise and able should consult together....
So you, a man of the eastern mountains,
Gave up your life of picking herbs
And came all the way to the Gate of Gold --
But you found your devotion unavailing.
...To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers,
You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital --
Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood
You will float again toward your own thatch door,
Led along by distant trees
To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
...What though your purpose happened to fail,
Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.

With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.

'I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shall find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.'

Let the words downpour
let the thoughts pour down
when you have found more
there will be more found

give yourself an outlet
a simple way to let out
don't ever doubt sweat
and never sweat doubt

you can reach the shoreline
let your words line shore
you can give them more shine
you can make them shine more

Here is a new form i am working on, and i am posting it here before anywhere. It is called a flip flop because the last two words of each line must switch places. I call this one a compound flip flop because the first line in each stanza ends with a compound word. There's also a normal flip flop. Hope you enjoy.