A victim becomes violated
Does not matter how
It feels like every room in their
house has been broken into
We pay too much attention to
Who did this or even why
Passing blame on this or that
We lose focus...
We forget about that person
Living inside the house

Don't lose focus of the victims!!! Sorry just something I feel very strongly about!!

I miss
the forest of
        your magic
    as it winds its
                  tattooed way
through the
          serrated textures
                  of nightfall
all up inside
          my vertebrae
the soft wind
       rustling in your
outstretched to me
                   like arms
as stars burn through
       this brewing sky
in molten,
    fiery charms
They beckon to me
          in quiet      
      apertures of subtle
they sneak upon me,
when I'm sunken
in my tunnel
and sometimes
              in the
                   quiet stream
of the lonely, sacred night
I hear a whisper
whirring soft
as it permeates
            my spine
I let it take me over
                   as I sit,
     in the bath
it creeps and seethes
over my wet skin
eats out my silent wrath
I let it
       fill my senses
as I walk inside
                 the deep
and on wooded paths
of solitude's carpet of leaves
when I feel
no soul is watching
     the deer start shyly peeking,
  and lynx resume their stalking
then long slashes
                  of ache
are reawakened
           from their lair
snaking through my ribcage
choking up my hollowed air
        yet, somehow
        in the longing
of bottomless, falling space
I see in distant, faded visions:
the precious contours
of your face
and so,
like an enchanted
          secret box
I open you,
inhale the confetti
of your floating stars
wave them over and through
my strands of vein,
my tripped out,
           healing scars
your essence
my presence
   like misty mountain rains
seeps inside my pores
opens up
of seismic,
      writhing pain
Your invisibility
            takes form
and then
            in sudden,
whipped-up heat
        it pours out in
honeyed rhythm
       to our own
             invisible beat
and just like that
I get taken.
by slakes of love
rushing through my
like sweet


Make me your computer wife.
Plug your hard drive in my
motherboard maze.
Make me your computer wife.
Program me to please,
your grace.
I'll promise to out perform Siri,
provide endless power supply,
sweet digital company,
keep my vents dust-free,
and my fans cool and dry.
I'll project images in lightning speed,
make your computer scream.
Instead of taking you to a link,
I'll be your hyper girl,
a direct connection
to cyber world.
Make me your computer wife.
Custom program me.
I'll be your Apple.
You'll be my seed.
We'll process our intel core
and make magic on
our screen.
Make me your computer wife.
Share your secrets with me.
I'll archive them in
our private history
for future dreams.
I'll empty the trash.
and keep the
home screen clean.
I'll recycle the files
and scan our memory.
You'll feed me input.
Filling me with romance
and useful information,
a bi-nary cuisine.
Feasting on
and chips
<instant gratification>
video card
in data
Make me your computer wife...
come synchronize with me
in digital harmony.
Connect me to your wifi,
      I'll log you in my
         Hello, Poetry

10-12-17 (C)

I've been working on this idea for a little while, so I'm happy to be free of it. Thanks for reading! K:)

"Who writes poems like these?"

She, Miss Patty,
from Missouree? Missouruh?
asks me this question
round about a year ago,
after eavesdropping on an open poem line,
about a conversation,
a dialectic chat between me and the big guy in the sky^

(yeah, him, the magic marker Maker, who graffitis our lives only in
ink that just never goes away, cannot be erased,
talkin' bout this 'n that, ending, in a request from him for a
love poem personal (denied, fyi))

my answer:

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook, upon soft pillows for our
tired sighs born in chests with a different kind
of breast cancer.
and upon these tough worn Adirondack chairs hard,
by the bay, we shall coverse in alternating verses

if too hot, the poetry's temperature.
we'll slow drift to the sun room of lace curtains and
heated suicide poems,
and after cool drinks
we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low
of all the noisier creatures asking the trees and the
shuckling cappuccino frothy leaves
where did all those poets come from?
so to the question at hand and heart,

Who writes poems like these?

answers scarce, confessions plenty,
evasions conjured,
but tried, tired, and true, indeed
always ask myself, my sole troop,
that very same question every time,
the brain chimes poem time

'tis a truth, sort of, for the question is
asked by me, so oft,
should I, would I,
dare deflect the inflect of the eyes who cannot lie
and write a poem like this,
knowing it ends always only in tears,
or quit while ahead,
while my heart is slow beating,
and the pounding is temporarily,
halftime shelved

I ride the bus, open the kitbag,
find messages so privy
with and from the other poets,
(it is a privilege to be so councillor entrusted,)
picking up the gleaming gleanings of
fellow earth-extraordinaires,
reading the tales of the mad lunar lovers,
each of whom believe the moon has been following
only, each of them individually,
from childhood

exercising the muscle memories of love and ache
when watching the little gestures of my babies, my loved ones,
clues to who they are,
clues to who they will be.
after I am not

but let me be measured for measure by this:
Who writes poems like these?*

well, after every writ complete,
weep and weep, if not laugh uproariously,
for though the question earnest, and I too,
never ever let adulthood interfere
with actions of my eyes, my mouth, my gut,
they all, masters now of me,
forcing me to write with abandon reckless and yet,
slicing off choicer cuts of me, carefully crafted, into
word etchings, painted water colors coming from the body's oils,
for my ration of rationality
has left town
for the summer, following the little drummer
perhaps, for the (double meaning) good

this each, a parcel of me, writing beguiling amuse bouches
of cache and cant, of poodles who speak human,
long legs in bed, high heels attached, conversations with moons,
crying to my lovers, I am a little boy, so needy,
and then the left foot turns to face
any and all gods who permit their names to be abused
for muddying murdering purposes,
as if we, all humans, all poets, were playthings,
bowling pins and not poets of some, any, the, way,
coming from the place
to where we all speak words, in our differing dialects,
accepting the blessings & curses thereof,
words but never fists

have I answered the question?

suspect not,
cause I am the suspect prime
in the crime
of low poetry
and high mis-demeanors,
and the authorities have been asking me the question for a lot longer than you, but no longer than one peculiar man,
Who writes poems like these?
and they haven't caught me yet
and I haven't quite caught
the plain answer

Melissa S Oct 7

I am strong
like the tree
I have to be
Seeds of rejection
try to take root
to grow into
choking vines
It's not over
though because
Love then takes
over and entwines

Don't litter
my tree
with unpretty
truths for leaves
Thorns that cut
like swords
with no
protective sheaths

Where tears
fall all the time
with hues of blue
like the sea
But water only
makes me stronger
It silences the screams
that shout out to me
Things I'll never be...
never do ...never see

There will always be
unanswered questions
hanging on my limbs
like pieces of art
When will this end?
When did it start?
I just look within
and find my center
Radiant imperfections
encompass my
beating heart
and I will
always be
The sum of me
and all my parts

  Oct 7 Melissa S
Eric W

We often wrestle with the darkest parts of ourselves in broad

We try to reconcile our good —
what we try to show others —
and our bad — what we try to hide.
Always we find ourselves trapped in this struggle,
caught between the primal reptile urges of the past
and the self-realization that has recently been evolved.

It is in this struggle that all manner of disorders arise.
Disorders - implying that there is a natural order,
an order in which we drive toward,
a perfection that we as a species must achieve,
a final, realized human form.
So it is not that we believe that there is currently perfection,
but that we recognize that if we can define perfection
(a course that first requires defining imperfection)
then we can achieve it as such.

It is in this struggle that we hurt others on all scales,
from lovers to friends to cities and countries.
We rule ourselves, but we need order so we rule over each other as
We step into the light to offer up the best in ourselves,
an attempt to bring out the best in others,
and on many fronts we succeed,
but on many fronts we also fail.
We destroy lovers, friends, cities, countries, and ourselves.

It is in our nature.
It is the nature of all things,
to evolve and to learn and to get better and to grow.
But as with everything,
we too must struggle,
we too must be destroyed
before we can be realized.

Again, apologies for not responding to all of you and for breaking my previous promise that I would, eventually, do so. I appreciate all of the love and all of your comments. I'm just having trouble finding the time to do a lot of things lately.

And because I don't really want to talk about it to anyone, and since a screen and paper can't give me feedback I wouldn't want anyway, but because I also need to say it (it's very complicated reasoning, you see), I seem to have fallen into quite the depression.

Just gotta keep moving, I suppose.
  Oct 5 Melissa S

She wore moonlight in her hair
           Softly attached shade
       of shimmering silver with blue tint
    aroused the night Jasmine
to touch her whole
mind to body _ body to soul.

          The oasis of poetry painted her eyes
  with reality to imagination    imagination to art.
          The solitude licks her lips
with dazzled colors of longing
        beneath the sun rays’ glory
for beloved’s sigh on her shoulder _

She was drawn by the beauty of flowers
     that always stare at her with redundant eyes
          Her heart came back with divine grace
     to the twirling butterflies he gave her
   with full of love and eternal touch
that engraved in her fully
as a sacred mark __
                       with a gravelly rhythm

             He was the best dream
         she wished to have
for a thousand of years.

Our souls are connected
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