he scraped his knee once,
when he was young,
and began to weep as
his blood trickled onto the sidewalk

his mother cleaned him up,
rested his head upon her ever-bruised shoulder,
stroked his hair,
and sang

     hush little baby,
     don't you cry
     it'll all hurt much less
     when you die

she scraped her knee once,
when she grew old,
and began to cry as
her blood trickled onto the floor boards

her son cleaned it up,
rested her head on his sturdy shoulder
stroked her hair,
and sang

     *hush now mama,
     don't you weep
     he's long gone now so
     you can sleep

When you'd come to my window while the world was asleep and whisper into my ear, "You're beautiful,"  I believed you.

I don't think I was, though. I don't think I'll ever be.

I think your magic momentarily blinded me from seeing my own distorted reflection.

I'm ugly. I'm twisted. But that's okay. We all are.

We are all desire and desperation held together with illusive morals.

I know now that your whispers were that of lovely lies.

I was not beautiful and you knew it. I am not beautiful and you love it.

My name is my submission to male dominance
     I am somebody's daughter,
     somebody's wife.
I willingly call myself so
     It's because I love my father
     I love my husband
And I am honoured to be called
In his name
Usually

But sometimes
When a ray of anger rushes into my heart
By the feminine idea of self-respect
I wonder
     if my father loves me, why is his love trumping of my mother who bore me inside her body for months of restless ease?
     if my husband loves me, why has he never consider calling himself Mr. Mine, where he my husband and I his wife?

But I tuck these thoughts away
They are too balancing of power, too simply different.
I mustn't let the patriarchy hear, or I will dishonour my worth
As a woman.

his roots are hidden
no one knows where he has been
or what he has been through.
they only know he was elsewhere once-
an elsewhere where experiences are best left hidden

his stem is course
composed of hardening resistance,
stiffened from a difficult childhood.
this is his base, a stability within him.
these lessons hold him up and keep him going

his thorns are soft
they only look rough to give the illusion of being guarded,
but his defenses are easily torn through.
if you touch him, he knows he'll bruise
but he will never make you bleed

his petals are wondrous
their velvet smells of boys' cologne
and are dotted in dewy teardrops.
he flourishes for the hands that dares to stroke him
but the hands only plucks his petals and leave the rest of him behind

heaven is simply a place on earth
and hell is the magma
we'll eventually all fall into

the ground is cracking
and it's not long
until it splits underneath us

our world is breaking apart
from our preoccupied actions
of violence and hatred

while we search to gain
money, power, glory and purpose
we actively lose our minds

this heavenly place is the first world,
full of ease and ignorant bliss
and the fire of the third world is from our firearms

they do not suffer so we don't have
they suffer because we let them
and so the fire blazes on

our craze helps mute their cries
and the sounds of the splitting ground
as the hell-bound rush up to engulf our sins along with us