Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

He slumps, grumbling at the air
a grunt, no more
admittance of awareness
minimising risk
of developing interest
grunt

the glow across
his face pale
a reflective pallor
shows us his day
has spent him inside
grunt

nourishment calls
a gutted feeling
deeper than his alienation
as food is not forthcoming
he tries to sing
grunt

in letting go
his newfound voice
an interrupted squawk
so disgusted he uhgs
hiding himself again
grunt

daily untouched
but for lonely nights
when in consolation
he hands himself to the
bounty of the sickened screen
grunt

and gurgles
in unity, at one
with images which champion
his waking hours, forcing him
unconsenting
and confused
grunt

Nostalgia of flying into my dad’s arms when he arrived home,
Nostalgia of decorating the Christmas tree as a family,
Nostalgia of driving around my Barbie jeep,
Nostalgia of wearing my cat costume everywhere,
Nostalgia of being friends with everyone,
Nostalgia of being naïve,
Nostalgia of a healthy family,
Nostalgia of camping,
Nostalgia of pokemon cards,
Nostalgia of insecurity
Nostalgia of blindness of boys,
Nostalgia of playing dress up,
Nostalgia of being with my best friend,
Nostalgia of family get togethers,
Nostalgia of having hope for something better,
Nostalgia of not fighting,
Nostalgia of stress free mornings,
Nostalgia of that one family vacation,
Nostalgia of my innocence,
Nostalgia of those summer runs,
Nostalgia of rebellion nights with new friends,
Nostalgia of a healthier me,
Nostalgia of getting along,
Nostalgia of knowing what I want,
Nostalgia of time.
Let’s see where it goes from here.

She loved art
And she breathed
And ate
And slept art
And she radiated art
And art was her life

And we
All loved her
One hundred percent
And every
Girl
Was her
Best friend

And the priest
Doing the funeral
Hadn't met her.
But her parents
Paid him like he had.

And they told the priest
"She loved art
And she breathed
And ate
And slept art.
And she radiated art.
And art was her life."

And so that was what he
Told the
Congregation.


But when
A quiet person like her
Dies
No one ever finds out
That she
Hated art
But
In fact
She loved Forensic Science.

You tell us to
Spread
The
Word
To
End
The
Word

But you mean the word
"*******"

And you think it's mean
Because of
Mental retardation
And how it hurts
Their feelings.


Stop that word.
I won't mind.

Just don't turn around
And call
Him
A
******