New Year's Day and I hope for you a great one.
Mine, was not the beginning I envisioned. My adopted Mom, Marge
I rushed to the hospital at twelve.
She looks like me at 6 am after my binges. Red eyed and a little smile
of I don't care anymore on her 72 year old tired face.
I got back home, not drunk enough,
and found tiny, a sweet little black kitten who strived through thinness and
stumbled around for the 10 weeks of her life, cold and still.
She still lays there.
I guess her suffering has ended.
I am still drinking down the courage and liquor to go dig the hole in the backyard. I will cry, and need the strength I find in a bottle to prepare.

My adopted pops, 82 year old cad who took people all his life, took me into his heart. He is not a red man's father except by heart and caring. He is looking so old and tired. He took me to see Marge in the ICU. And consoled me as a priest would with wisened words of time and need.

If this New Year's day is a sign of what 2015 will be like,
after three more drinks, I think,
I will go out back and dig a  hole big enough for me to crawl into and hide, until next year.

Do you see me,
right here in front of you?

I'm the girl who's not even 115 pounds
but wants to lose twenty.
I'm the girl wearing pale-pink lipstick Monday
and black by Saturday.
I'm the girl who hates how I look in my glasses
but hides behind the glass and frames.
I'm the girl constantly creating picassos on my arms
and books in my mind.
I'm the girl who is constantly daydreaming
because she never sleeps.

I'm waiting on you
Do you see me?

to limit me
embarked on a quest
to mysteriously float above
what I and all was.

With stars as illuminance
as sharks swimming in the dark
I saw a new day
remade my bounds as limitless

and grew oblivious and shrunk me
and swelled all of man and kind and
spoke of difference,
to society, not of man but philosophy.

and drown in the desert
fall from eyes a dry tear and witness
the effects
that spoken words have
between mountains and winds that might be taken
in in sorrow but bless all
are not listened to
when all is golden
and so never
answered when you need help.
It is left to us
to resolve if hypocrisy
is to blame or
are acrid tears
always meant to fall
on deaf ears.
Tears are meant.

And deserts die.
The rain is wet.

My poetic dream has rhythm of a newborn child
with his life so temperate and depending on the
favored winds and season
and continuity of theme worn out and fluid within
happy in its first cries and innocent
and spoken on his mother's breast his first love his nourishment
his quest is to survive like every gnat or fly or
word
that seems to seek what is best for him or her or I
and keeps on throughout this orbs revolving a brand on all living life we share with yellow grass and dogs with creatures we have never seen that
rely on mother natures schemes that feeds with rationality
and sacrifice the weak.
I seek to think man is just a head above, on two limbs, but always get knocked down, to thinking that we aren't much better than wild.