Why can't I trust
That all you say is true.
I truly can't believe
That the truth could sound this good.
I hate the reservations I have
Toward those who have reservations
To see and feel my emotions.
Appointments with the person
Whose personality is not as personally oriented
As some would like it to be.
But don't assume you know me
Because assuming just creates types
Which I try to undo with these types
That I pour my soul into;
But they somehow only seem to fit perfectly
Under perfected soles of shoes.
And do not try to read between these lines
For I often do not foresee these foretelling's endings.
I perceive that under these pretenses
Which do seem to be a bit false
I may leave a conversation abruptly
Trying to preserve my reputation and not make this situation
Worse.

There was a time before
lies passed through our lips—
before the world tossed us
in all of its muck and mess;
a time when we found redemption
in a bowl of sugary breakfast cereal
and when we thought we were
always one step ahead
of a coyote and his dynamite.
 
There was a time before we
knew how to take advantage of hearts—
when we hid our secrets in glass jars
and buried them in the backyard;
a time when we wouldn’t mind
making the climb, if only to enjoy
the breeze on our way to a crashing halt;
when we thought that sleep
was a punishment
and not a cure for a problem.

There was a time
when living was second nature;
when feeling was as easy
as taking a breath, and
risk was down right,
**** straight,
******* ****.

That time?
It's a figment of a younger imagination.
But that time just may be
my metaphor for you.

They say we need things
like calcium and sunshine;
I think I'd survive

without all that stuff.
Though I may wither away
without pretty words.

I heard somewhere that
public schools are going to stop
teaching kids how to write
in cursive.

Guess that means we the dying breed of fancy, huh?

But seriously, America, let's get real.
Cursive is the unspoken *** of penmanship.
Its stops and starts are infrequent;
one neverending pleasure stroke of
ups and downs,
comely curves,
delectable edges,
all made in one fluid motion.
It's always somewhat satisfying to pen...
                   ...no matter how sloppy the technique.

See, children need to learn
how to make love on paper
before they grow up
and slip between the sheets.

It's important to teach them
that it's not a crime to take the time
to practice a little patience and appreciation.

After all, that's how love is maintained, right?

Forget e-signatures.
Forget convenience.
But don't forget the simple fact that
everyone needs a little John Hancock.

no
one
cares
unless
you've
got that
gun right
up against
your skull.





**(c) 2014 jude rigor

I don't even know you
I've talked to you once
A tiny exchange of words
But I swear
You captivate me
With how you look
In my mind
I picture you being mine
The things I'd do to you
I thought I'd never do
There are other beauties in this world
You are not the only girl
But you're the only one
My eyes choose to see
You're the only one
Who has this great affect on me
I don't know your heart
I don't know your mind
But I do know your body
And I'm in love with it

i think people die because they're all used up. whether they're 18 or 80, something inside them has run out of fuel. something inside them wants to be loved, or idolized, or immortalized or whatever they're after and they've run out of whatever makes it happen. so they die or they **** themselves and they fulfill their greatest desire; to be lost, to be mourned, and to escape the void they've been digging themselves out of their entire lives. six feet under.