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Kathleen M Dec 2018
You're a dumb dude
Secretly filming the ****
You do shady *** **** and write poems about it
35 and writing like your 15
With poems like yours it's not hard to be mean 
Your just a man out of his prime bent on the obsene
The cops coming to your house clearly didn't freak you out
So maybe I'll tell your mom what your all about.

You **** and I hate everything about you. Stop writing poems about me.
A ****** little poem about a creepy guy I was seeing, he did some shady **** and I had to get the cop's involved. I found out the other day that he has been writing poems about me and posting them to social media. So this is my response. I may post this series to his social media depending on how I feel about it, I probably won't but I might.
Kathleen M Mar 2018
The man behind the curtain returns to the unseen after an extended factory tour.
No guests linger.
Kathleen M Mar 2018
There is a light, it's flickering a pale white blue.
The carpet is rough on my face, silence permeates the house. I should get up.
I should pull myself into personhood. My hands tremor, I let my finger tips find the end of the carpet. Skimming the floor boards shaking fingers beginning to tap tap tap out the only sound.
I used to drink the restlessness away, now I am left a craving in its place. Tap tap tap say the fingers.

Violent imagery flashes across my mind, car crashes,  rending metal, glass breaking, bones snapping there are sharp falls and hit and runs and stabbing on the sidewalk,  knife sliding into my flesh. Leaping into oncoming traffic, my heart skipping beats and laughter always my laughter. The final moment of freedom replayed over an over.  I can't tell you why it makes me smile, I don't know why myself.
Tap tap tap tap tap irrattic finger tips might be getting angry. Have your limbs been angry at you before?

Rolling over the popcorn ceiling swirls,
I realized a while back if I pay attention to the patterns they shift, I hallucinate mildly on most days. I think I might miss it if I were being honest. I focus on my skin, the way the air touches it, the way cold feels, if I savour this enough I almost feel high, high is almost always on the other side of sensation.
I might always be a touch high compared to how the average Joe feels. This is not a desirable state, but if you talk to me tomorrow I might say it's a gift.

I slowly stand, my knees cracking fingertips tap tap tapping up the wall. Giving up drinking was like giving up one of my last connections to my dearly  departed. Gin and alcoholism kept a part of him close to me. Medication and therapy take me further and further away from the person who knew him.

I walk barefoot, the texture of the floor boards underfoot, stepping into the kitchen I pull a wine glass from the cupboard. I want to hear it sing, I flick the glass, I hold the opening of the glass near my ear. I can feel the sound touching my ear. Soft ringing until it's quiet again, I've tried to savour the experience by listening in to the sounds of my world.
Listening to the slow crunch of a crisp apple, the sound of the city, the bubbling of the fish tank. Perfect beautiful sounds ripe with happening.
You can hear the happening of what is at all times if you choose to.

There are other ways to savour, I think it helps to be here and now, the savouring it I mean. By "it" I mean everything your senses allow you to perceive, the everything that is your sensory image of the world around you. Your brain built the image of the world, it's a reflection of you. The world is a mirror to your mind.
Often the reflection is not something I'm proud of, other times I'm exploding with pride.

I wish I could share what I've found with him, but I wasn't fast enough, I wasn't paying attention.

Attention to here and now has been the key I keep dropping and picking up.
Kathleen M Mar 2018
So it's been been a few years now
Your memories still scream from underground
Ya mamma tells the world about your sister talking to your ashes
Posts a picture talking your ashes

See me and your sister got something the same
Oh we talk to your ashes
And we cry your name

See I got to know your brothers
and we are the same
We are talking to your ashes
Oh we cry your name

You left to early
gave up on the game
Cut it all too short
I'll never be the same

See I see people like you and I hold on too hard
I'm afraid they'll do like you
And dearly depart
After death
Kathleen M Mar 2018
I am a lake
I am full of turmoil and water
There is thick mud at the bottom
All kinds of things get stuck
There are bodies buried inside me
My chest is full of corpses
I ripple with every disturance
Surface tension broken by those who do not lightly tread
I tend to overflow I tend to spread the bog
Kathleen M Mar 2018
Do you know
The shape of the my mind
The glimpses I catch
Give me a fright
Pretty please tell me
What do you see?
Are the images less frightening
Than I've known them to be

How do I put it together
How does the baggage become the feather
The philosophy tells me
What Will be will be
And acceptance of the facts is the way to be free
Free of expectations
And the following disappointment
An accidental acquisition easily defeated by intention
Kathleen M Feb 2018
My bipolar will make sure I'm alone
It will take all the fun parts of my relationship
It will take the playfulness
It will take away kisses in the kitchen
Stealing the tickles and wrestling
Killing the early morning giggles
It's eating my relationship from the inside out
Its going to eat all the things I loved about being in love
He's gonna hate me
I will be alone before he leaves
I will make him hate me
And I can't turn it off
It's a bad day
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