Makenzie pay attention
This is how to be a lady
Is what I am expected to be.
A Lady who is just a dog on a leash
But I am a storm that has been unleashed
Grandma Lucy I am a person not a dog
I yell.

Now she has sat in the corner
Oh I am so scared
Yet here I stand
Wandering why she sent me to the corner
Like I care if she is my grandma
She tells me that I am going to Hell
Hell doesn't scare, Heaven does
No one knows what will happen to you up there
Yet in Hell you either get tortured or you do the torturing

Yet here I stand
In this stupid corner
Cursing my Grandma
She thinks she is young.
But don't you only get older?
Makenzie you can come out of the corner if you act like a lady.*
I don't act like a lady because I am not weak.
I would yell
Respect my elders my ****
I respect people who respect me
I don't respect someone who tells me that I am going to hell for liking both genders
Last I checked we can't control that
So I will stand in this corner
I will disobey
Because that is what a lady is
A person to do what she wants
I am not a dog
I will not bow down before your will
So good luck

Yet this corner is imprinted in my mind
Because of how many times
I had to stand there
So yes
I have a corner in which my skeletons lie
Not in a closet but in plain sight
Corners are bad
Yet here I stand
Till I get free
But that is just a dream
I will fuel the fire
By completing my desires.
So for now I will Stand in the corner.
Or until I become a *Proper Lady

Romance :)

Walking with you in the realms of night
Where the stars lead the way
And silence is our music

9

In the garden hard with frost
sits an old man with furrowed eyes
staring at old decorations
dangling from branches
overhung with snow.

His forced breath sinks into fog.
He cannot feel
the rising of a warmer wind
or the furrowed ground
beneath his feet
poised to ooze life.

I am afraid of his eyes.
I turn away when he looks up
at the waves of geese returning,
thawing the ground with their shadows.

sacred silence hangs on angel wings
blessing, watching over wakened night
fluttering on the screen, drawn to the light of
consciousness, the truth of darkened mornings.
strong, alone, remotely flipping through the
channels of the restless bar-room soul
charles bukowski, angry, drunk and droll;
pavement wisdom yanked inside, renewed and
resurrected.  rolling stone lays open,
having sprung the latent-night messiahs
preaching to insomniacal choir.
cryptic muse's recipe for coping:
be consumed, entombed, re-wombed by
worshiping and feeding written fire.