We pray for children
who sneak popsicles before supper,
who erase holes in math workbooks,
who can never find their shoes.

And we pray, for those
who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,
who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
who never "counted potatoes,"
who are born in places where we wouldn't be caught dead,
who never go to the circus,
who live in an ******* world.

We pray for children
who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish,
Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,
Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
Who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those
who never get dessert,
who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,
who watch their parents watch them die,
who can't find any bread to steal,
who don't have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,
whose monsters are real.

We pray for children
who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who shove ***** clothes under the bed,
and never rinse out the tub,
who get visits from the tooth fairy,
who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone,
whose tears we sometimes laugh at
and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those
whose nightmares come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren't spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children
who want to be carried
and for those who must,
for those we never give up on
and for those who don't get a second chance.
For those we smother…
and for those who will grab the hand of anybody
kind enough to offer it.

We pray for children. Amen


-Ina Hughs

The fact of life is that you will change.
The secret to living is knowing you are changing.
And the trick to growing instead of decaying, is taking responsibility for your own personal evolution.

You are not bound to this instant, This moment is at the mercy of your influence.


-Rowan A. Eyzaguirre

It's the chills, the chills that you feel scuttling from the edges of your face toward your nose during the thrill of overstimulated excitement, or release. Brought on by physical speed or sensation, a feeling conjured by something audible, a story or a song, a race or the breath exhaled right before you truly test yourself physically, or maybe it's just the view over the pass that you've been hiking to for countless hours that forces your mind to flood it's body and soul with a substance so euphoric that it hovers between a liquid and a gas.

A sensation that grows and multiplies over the surface of your skin. Like a time lapse of grass encroaching on a patch of fresh soil, reaching up with soft blades, ready soon enough to lie down on under the summer sun.

The rippling shiver that makes the skin on your face feel like flowing sand, like a sound check for the nerves in your face saying: "I don't think you can comprehend this feeling right now. Of being alive. The sort of alive that makes you understand how dead you have been your entire life up until now. The sort of alive that makes you question why people spend their entire lives never waking up from their deathbed. Never wanting to get up to feel the blood rush through their veins and test what being alive could really mean."

-Rowan A. Eyzaguirre

Before then I thought I had felt it all. I thought I had felt the hottest hate and the warmest love, the coldest loneliness and the smoothest sorrow. But in that moment I thought my blood would ignite. Every blood vessel in my body felt the instant pressure of rage, a burning heat of pain with the searing speed of betrayal I thought I could never handle.
Simultaneously my heart froze, my pump couldn't take getting pierced any deeper. So in the moment between a blink and the tear, ice entombed my heart. Making sure nothing would ever cut so deep again. Even the heated rage of my blood doesn't stand a chance to warm my soul in time for the spring melt.

-Rowan A. Eyzaguirre

Excuse me sir, but could you leave her alone. She didn't ask for you here and she's terrified you might look at her with your eyes so self-serving.
Excuse me sir, but please never speak like that again. Your giving men a bad name, a man like you are the reason boys like me never had a chance. It's men like you that taught women how to be terrified. It's men like you that taught them how they should see themselves. It's men like you that make me sick. It's a man like you I wish I could I could see the blood run out of your face, as my boot comes down to close your mouth for the last time. It's men like you who need a knife to separate your body from your soul. Slick with red and never satisfied, that knife I wish I held in my hand. I know what I do with my anger will never change what you've done to the beauty in women. But maybe selfishly, i might feel less embarrassed to be apart of your same gender, If only I could hold the hammer that stopped you in your tracks. Blood trickling down your face while tears stream off mine. My eyes so bloodshot I can't see your pain anymore. Because I don't care how you feel, a man like you doesn't deserve a listening ear or an eye that cares, a man like you deserves to drown in hot oil, so you can feel the blisters rise and pop just like the burn you've left in that girl's spirit. Except your pain cannot compare, so I intend to make you withstand as much as I can give you before I stick a barrel in your mouth and clear your throat with lead. I'll hollow you'r chest so you might finally know what it's like to feel empty because of someone else.

They fit so unnaturally you could swear they were pieces from different puzzles. The one part you have control over, the one piece you can manipulate, might fit alongside someone else's, but you know the color will never match up.
The lines mismatched, ends desperately trying to find each other by any means. Trying to squeeze a connection so tight you might be able to relate.
It's the kind of cosmic joke that makes you cry so seriously that you know you could go the next week without saying a word.
because it's so not funny you would rather sleep for days on end than try to convince yourself it's worth getting up in the morning.

-RÆ

No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn't be the cure of her disease.
Without fail, my pressing reason, trying to grind out the addiction plaguing her life, would bounce right back to remind me that it isn't my sobriety to claim.
She needed her own help, not mine.

Though I know now it was never my job, and I knew all along it was never my fault, it does sting my withered heart to know it was never my responsibility.
That maybe I never did and never could make a difference.

But the saddest page of this story is where I finally come to terms with the jealousy flowing through my veins. Pure unparalleled jealousy and hatred for a chemical that without fail has controlled countless lives.
Jealousy that stems from the realization that I couldn't and won't ever be her drug of choice. I'm not as good as that simple compound.
Everything my life had to offer pales in comparison to an intangible high.
My humor, my laughter, and my smile were worthless compared to the instant satisfaction that her drug gave her. My life becomes secondary to an inanimate chemical.
My heart became a side order to an entree of addiction.

-RÆ

If I was the only reason for you to stay clean, what does that make me?

I feel like I was a rule you wanted to break. A chain for you to pull on.

I wish I could have been the difference I needed in you. But there's no reasonable way for me to hold myself responsible for your change.

Heaven and hell both know you would rather leave than be responsible for mine.

So in what fairness is it that I take charge of your life?

I cannot be the cure for your lifestyle. I cannot be held responsible for your sobriety and your relapse all wrapped up in one resentful package.

I wanted so badly for us to share our growth. But the expectation we both set for each other now seems like it was rooted in desperation and spite.

Wasted life like mine trying to be the splint you use to graft your life together and hold it fast while you grow, feels like a fence trying to stop a tree from expanding.
Stunting your growth and breaking me in the process, to no avail.

Bark engulfing my time-fragile frame of linked cage, hopelessly there to keep you safe. Your strong life breaking and bending my twisted metal body, determined to taste the poisoned stream on the other side of my weathered wire you see so clearly as prison bars. Awaiting my mistake as to justify a sip of the lethal spring so close to your roots.

I so desperately have tried to keep you safe from those toxic waters you are so dedicated to live by. I've tried, and I have failed, to be the source of your change.

My broken and mangled wire will lay to rust on the river bank, while I watch your roots soak up the volatile liquid you so desperately seek. Then shrivel up and rot while my brittle iron oxide body hopelessly decays and cries rust atop your dying trunk. Wishing something had been different.

You didn't choose to live so close to the water, but I chose to make one last stand surrounding your body like a prison of demands. It isn't your fault that your here, but it's my fault for thinking my life could stop you.

-RÆ

Chemical dependency, with a side of intimate conductivity, followed by romantic conspiracy, turned to emotional connectivity.
without for-sought thought, proceed to three years of Hot Love turned to three months of Cold War.

Violent codependence, bandaged by hopeful commitments, failed by unchecked addictions, and annunciated by priceless resentments, punctuated by lost trust and an honest compassion.

Fight tooth and nail for higher ground, feeling faithless and unforeseen worthlessness.

Realized lack of influence, led by justified relapse, a broken heart or two and a few weeks later, loneliness earned and hopelessness learned.

Try to scramble back to the to the idea of the connection once perfect, now weathered and tired, filled with tired resentment, and unresolved disagreement.

Love & Lust, into Trustless Treason.

I will stand tall against the machine of time's toll on love, tears in my eyes and fear in my heart. Why should I back down.

And why should I not.

I would rather be trampled with suffering than choose one and regret either.

One lover's stand off.

One lover's lament.

Stuck in the middle of this heavily trafficked highway, feet shoulder width apart, stuck in concrete, committed to resistance.


-RÆ

And the old Clown demands a sad goodbye in a way you can't deny,
And it turns out your the one who feels bad because you were both young Clowns together.
But now your all grown up and your fear of being dragged into old nonsense is forcing you to say goodbye.
Again.
"Goodbye." not "See you later," because you might not.
And the old Clown emphasizes your departure and your mutual goodbyes because he's not afraid of dealing with the way things are now.
He knows he probably won't ever see you again,
And he's realized it's not his choice even if it is his fault.
So he has a smile on his face and looks you in they eye and says "Goodbye."
You respond with "talk to you later"
And you know why his silent response is so loud in your head only.
And it's because you feel bad.
Not because it's your fault but because you know that he knows you won't risk being a Clown again, at least not with him.
So he looks you in the eyes with warm, comforting, open eyes chilled by remorse.
You try not to look at them again because regardless of how warm they are,
And how comforting they want to be,
The chill in those eyes pierces your heart and makes you feel like bursting at the seams with why's and how's of why your not Clowns together anymore or ever again.
He sees your pain more then you know,
Even tho you don't notice he's looking at your feet when you look up again. Only to make you comfortable.
And he would choose to make you comfortable by averting his warm empathy cooled by years of tolerance rather then force his warmth on you and risk burning you,
But only because he knows he can't comfort you anymore.
So he averts his eyes and doesn't look back.
The old Clown hopes you noticed.
He hopes that you know why he acted the way he did.
But not because he wants you to feel as bad as you do,
But because he wants you to know he's not the same fragile clown he was.
He knows that he wants but does not need your help.
The funny thing is that you were the older clown,
He's not the same young Clown you knew,
And he's just changed the way he perceived his life, and done so without actually changing his environment. And he kinda thinks you did the opposite,
And he feels bad for not helping you.
Just like you feel bad for not helping him now.
But all he really wants at this moment,
Is for you to know he doesn't need help anymore
And he won't ask.
Not because he doesn't want to be your friend again,
But because he knows he only makes you uncomfortable now.

Look me in the eye when you wish to address all of these things we've chosen to press.
Square up to my face and say what you pray to side-step.
Promise, im impressed.
Don't avert my gaze,
Brace against this void and stand strong-lipped.
Don't disgrace your anger by giving it up too quick.
Simmer your objective into the right spit,
Launch it in my face as if I might quit. Tell me off,
Show me how,
I may be loud-mouthed but I can't live Without loving you now,
So show me how.

Don't test these waters,
I'm colder than poisoned ice cream. You may think I'm quiet or misunderstood,
But I'm just observant and there's nothing to miss,
You merely don't understand.
Standing by unnoticed, watching the clowns fool themselves into flaccid conversation and loud misinterpretation.
Sure I believe you,
But you don't believe in anything so why would I listen?
I may not be big,
but I'm heavier than you expect,
once you get me rolling,
no stick stone or concrete embankment can foil my momentum.
Be warned before you flip my lid that you can't flip it back.
It's a promise
a commitment to my affliction that I don't want you to forget.

Potent rage fumigating my body with a ****** sunset orange,
lapping flames at the feet of the audience anticipating a conclusion I can't see fit.
Fumes second-handed to those close and cornered,
feel the ugly crude oils of my livid pain boiling against your pricelessly soft smile.
Heat blistering your lips,
Dulling the love of your flawless frame.
I wish I could love you without melting you down like the last candle there will ever be to keep this old clown warm.

Sweet pink pixie stick of a voice,
laced with a slick oily awful sedative.
Seducing our divine imperfect and organic lives with a painfully unattainable sleek plastic appeal.
Sell me their ideals,
Buy into their thoughtless religion of never ending want with unrealized need.
And explain to me how we are better off.

Have you ever longed for a breath of life so much  it bites through your skin?
Ever looked into someone else's eyes and seen the recognition of your struggle?
I've searched long and hard for a friendly face and eyes that listen to exactly how my face contorts when I say: "please don't go"

I can never express the embarrassing guilt for my need for someone to listen.
It shames me beyond all recognition.
My self image finds itself helplessly trampled by self doubt and indecision,
drowning unconscious face down in a ***** puddle on the corner of an oily intersection in my mind.
Reserved for the worst in me. Sometimes that puddle is a warm comfortable pool of hate saved for the last drop of hope I have left.

I will cover myself in a thick skin of ice.
cold, brittle and uncaring.
Where I might hide unscathed by the churning waves of our battle for emotional high ground.
I would freeze myself looking forward, with the last look of determination I can muster.
Instead of staying free flowing, unshackled and unprotected: free to look back for you and see if you've followed my lead.
But I'm too afraid to see you turn your back on me and smile for someone else.
I'd rather cage myself in an angry form looking forward instead of back,
even though I know full well the way ahead offers neither condolences nor comfort for the fight I've just lost.
Lost not like a failed assault or a sidestepped attack,
Lost like a Boy Scout alone,
abandoned and stranded in the middle of the ocean
with nothing but a pocket knife
to keep him company.

I know I've lost my footing.
I'm falling so hard I can't tell how fast I'm going or when I first lost my grip.
Lead lungs weighing me down,
and a nice cold soul scratching at my skull for a way out of this crippling cage.
Falling for so long,
I can't imagine what the ground feels like.
Please give me strong legs to land on
or the wings to fly away.

Scars are a language branded on your skin.
Just like words, they can and will be misinterpreted,
misrepresented,
misleading and sometimes deceiving.
But a scar always says something.
Just like a word,
a statement,
accusation or declaration,
it never means nothing.
They don't disappear.
Not for the purpose of reminding you why and how it came to be,
but to propose what it says about you now.
Scars shape our lives,
But not because of what made them,
But because of what we have done since they have been there.
THAT translates the old language first carved and printed, into a verse sung by the voice deep in your head.
Mourning or rejoicing,
that voice is always louder than the ancient script stamped in flesh and signed in blood long washed away.

Clawing and scratching at the dirt his eyes could never see,
right in front of his face
he pushed the earth apart and squeezed his small body through this hole inch by inch.
Cold and damp the earth laughed at the energy he wasted.
Breath coming in gasps he screamed silently into the earth
through the ground,
no one would ever hear the voice of desperation scratching it's way in the earths surface.
like a bird trying to bust the shell of it's egg too dense to ever break open and let it's life out.
The more he dug the harder the earth became.
The grittier the clay and the more impossible it became to break through. No light would ever glimpse his eyes
No ear would ever hear his laugh
No hand would ever hold his.
Fingernails long broken off
Knuckles beyond bloodied,
his desperation turned to rage turned to depression turned to silence.
At last he knew he would die.
He lay in the ground and smiled as his eyes closed.
Fingers curled into loose fists.
His lightless eyes closed finally, and he accepted his death in the embrace of the earth.
Knowing even though no one ever knew him or loved him
At least he can lay to rest in the arms of the one who held him the closest.

The pressure pressing against the edges of his teeth,
The dry heat of jealousy pounding against his skull,
in the wake of such sensitive times,
he only wishes he would have gone cold before the wind blew his love in the direction of chance.
The hot needle burrowing through his brow,
searing apart flesh and bone
itching at his thoughts before cauterizing them away with hate he never thought he could feel towards the love he cherished.
The love he once felt so close to his heart he mistook it for his own.
The heart he found so bright and strong, he tried to light his way with the warmth he had found.
But the light only fell on the cold damp cave walls of his memory, reminding him that his path of warmth and comfort ends here and now,
before his journey could ever begin,
he would die here, alone.
In a dark cave, with the flickering light he held in his chest,
dimmer and dimmer.
the flickering finally, flicks  dark.
Cold, silent, black.
Splashing the darkness into every space it could fill.
Every space he thought he had filled with light.
Against his chest his fist pounded, trying so desperately to jump start the pump.
To kick the engine back into gear,
but the spark had left him cold and bare.
Naked in the lightless cavern of his thought,
reminding him that he has always been,
and always will be alone in the dark.