hand on the divine
your curves, like italian marble
body as a work of art

not just a woman but a goddess
and i'm down on my knees

watermelon lingering on your tongue
i lap it up in waves

Here is just another thought
Going down the stream,
Just another thought.

Leaking from a tap
With the label "purity"
Just another trap

　　The obsessive mind gullibly bites the lure,
　　Obscured by clouds connections,
　　Concealing the large picture.

　　　　How every blast creates a reaction!
　　　　Panic attacks to draw the attention.
　　　　Where’s the crack in the grand ****’s wall,
　　　　So we can strike down the reservoir?

Diverting the river that must belong to all
Before our eyes - wider worlds shrinking small;
Cradled by the uniformity of lies that appease,
Those grazing in the dunes still tarry at ease.

It’s no wonder!

Insecurity has grown into a most lucrative market
As danger becomes the currency on which to place the bet;
Release the flow from the control that profits hold fast,
Question the junk food that's become the pasture of our mass.

　　Continuous diversions
　　Feeding everyone’s greed
　　Fulfilling false concerns -
　　So easily believed!

　　　　How every blast creates a reaction!
　　　　Panic attacks to draw the attention.
　　　　Will the facts in knowledge’s downfall
　　　　Let us unshackle the repertoire?

**** of righteousness
built across our life river -
swells pool of merits.

Love and power.
Bodies materialized.
Bodies that matter.
Pariah.

Pariah, on the subway train.
Pariah, speaks in her ugly name.
She is power: Pariah.

She is love.
Pariah.
She is power.
Pariah.
She is this:
Matter.

"If you don't wanna' lick my ****** that's fine, but don't attack my character." Said the lesbian in the reality TV show. !

She's holding a red plastic cup, slurring like a drunk. She is profound. If I called her gay I think she'd say "*******, ***. I'm a ****." I might point out that **** and ***** are gay; she, perhaps, would then remind me that after Katelynn or katelinn or however Bruce spelled his new name for a brief period in 2016 LGBT had a Q added to the tail-end... but 4 letters is the max allotment for tagging a community and the Q simply took the splash and the roll off the LGBT brand...

... and thus the Q was dropped; and thus the order of the world restored; and thus, on the very last minute of the 6th day, the Lord's final gift to man and life in general on planet earth was a raging ******* in the form of a drunk lesbian educating us all on the fine merits of keeping one's ****** wet BECAUSE a dry ****** can only belong to - nay! exist as far as the reality star would have you believe... vaginas exist onto themselves, though science has deduced with unquestionable Puritan certainty - despite the very Words Written by The Very Good Lord's Hand himself in The Holy Bible as Interpreted by the Most Wholly Holy Puritanical preacher preaching from Jerusalem to L.A. itself - Vaginas (cap the V, it's a she and she's a noun) most definitely and defiantly belong to mammals only; However should they be dry then said mammal most-probably has a questionable reputation and a clearly corrupt character.

To the self-harmers, self-haters, the loathers, the detesters,

Our homes were the hiding places of things sharp, pointy and jagged.
Things to take away the pain with more pain,
the fear with control,
the uncertainty with decisiveness.  

Because we did decide,
to take ourselves apart.
Bit by bit.
Like their mutilating stares weren’t enough.
Like their toxic words didn’t burn away our innocence.

What would you know you’re *******.
You’re so fat a cow couldn’t compete with you.
Hey there ***, yeah run to mommy.
Hey ****, did daddy not love you enough?

But how could they know he isn’t *******,
his mind is a beauty you could never compete with.
And that fat girl hasn’t eaten a bite of solid food in eight days,
because the word beautiful has never known how to never stick to her skin.
And the *** doesn’t have a mommy to run to,
she died fighting a battle he would never wish upon anyone, not even you.
And the **** only wants to feel normal,
hoping she will if only she can carve out enough of the bits that feel different.

But if normal is you then normal is the worst thing in this world.
Normal is a bully hiding their truth behind venom.
Casting out into this world all their hatred, all their pain.
Not caring where it lands.
Whom it bruises.
Whom it kills.

The numbers are rising.
Higher than a mountain we can ever climb up to.
There are children on our streets.
We don’t look twice.
Our phones are outdated.
We worry.

What if our self isn’t enough.
Maybe these shiny coins will get us our attention.
Maybe then we will be enough.
Because the person staring back from the mirror is a friend who never was,
a stranger too familiar,
perhaps a ghost with our truths
dangling from the tips of its claws.

Worry about yourself,
because we will learn to be enough.
We already learnt to sleep on the streets.
Under the skies, near blue seas.
They said we wouldn’t make it.
But look at us succeed.

We are already enough.
More so.
So much more.