My pen is a wand. It can write a curse or a powerful charm. My pen is a mirror. It can show you a monster or a beautiful figure. My pen is a key. It can free you from a trapped door or it can lock you inside that door until the oxgen runs out and you can't breath. My pen is a weapon.  It will fight righteous battles or make a gruesome dissection. My pen is a balancing scale.
It is a balancing scale because it tilts when the yin & yang of my being begins to out weight one other.
Nothing is safe from my pen if i choose it not to be, my pen writes freely without filters or censorship.
My pen is a ship in the sea unable to maintain equilibrium set on a course to land. One day it will stay still, but on that day my pen will run out of ink.

Don't fall in love with people who can hold your heart with an iron grip
Who breathe with sunken chests and look with sleepless eyes
With high cheekbones and ***** smirks
Who touch you delicately with soft hands
Who utter the word **** at you when you fight
Until they are then walking back the two miles to show that the word is merely just an action you two complete
People that say they'll make love to you as hard as they say they do
But they don't and probably never will

Be mindful as your thoughts become your shadows...

As I stepped foot on the beach for the first time this weekend, my head was spinning.

This was such a great experience for me, I've always wanted to go to the beach. And I was extremely jealous of everyone who got to go, multiple times in one year.

The sun was beating down on to my sunscreened filled skin.
My toes were submerged in the sand, which was sticking to my feet.

And then it hit me, this is such a normal experience for someone. Walking on to the beach in the blazing heat, splashing in the ocean with their best friends, jumping into waves; it's all normal things.

But to me, this experience was extraordinary.

So remember, be thankful for every little thing you have.

Every experience. Every action.  

Some people would die for things like that.

When I was little
my father took me to an art exhibit
and stood in front a colossal blend
of hues and tinctures and smeared philosophy
that my unadulterated mind could not calculate.
I pondered the painting
and told my father I could not understand
and he said he did not, either
with a musing look on his face
that registered his scrutiny and brainwave.
But I still could not understand how
one can be captivated by something
one does not understand.
Years later, I met you, and
I think about that painting.
And now I understand.

When I was little
and my mother was away,
my immune system battled a cough.
But I was too fragile, my body too brittle,
so I climbed the forbidden cupboard
in our kitchen
and flooded my lungs with cough syrup
and the drug took over my body
as my delicate knees quivered
and I collapsed on the cold linoleum floor.
When my father found out, he told me
not to ever take too much medicine
or anything
because too much of something is never good.
And now I understand why
they told me to stay away from you.

His dead wife used to spit. He tells me this on a hot July day on his porch. “Yeah, a whole fifteen feet,” he boasts. He’ll laugh, but I am noticing his large golden cat with her eyes half closed, dreaming in the summer heat behind the open screened windows of his old house.

He collects newspapers, and they lay in yellowed stacks that I can see beyond his open door within the stillness, still ******* with thick cord. Some of them rustle lightly at the corners, swaying up and down as his electric fan rotates this way and that. I momentarily question how fragile they’ve become with age against the hum of blown summer air, but his slow almost-southern-drawl takes me back in and I shield my eyes from the sun with my arm, keys in my left hand, sweat at the back of my neck.

The roof and trees have offered limited shade, and I’ve leaned against the side of the concrete steps to feel the coolness of the bricks against my knee. I’ve meant to go for an hour now, but he keeps me here with a, “Hey, y’know—” and another story will follow.

About his son sometimes, who he always says is also his best friend. I’ve never met him. He’s like a ghost of someone I think I could know but he remains unnamed and I have never questioned it. He’ll continue on —how he wants a new dog but he doesn’t know how his tired self would keep up with a little pup, and his fat old cat —oh, could I feed her this Friday and Saturday? “I might go out and see my son.”

I say that I will with a small pang of jealousy. She curls around my legs in her eagerness, unaware of her master’s weekend absences, purring at her first few bites of small, orange fish-shaped kibble.

When he is tired and doesn’t feel like driving he’ll take the city bus out for his errands and call me with his “cell-you-lar” to see if I can pick him up. “If it’s no trouble,” he says. It isn’t. I’ve taken him home on several other occasions.

His thank yous are quiet, but I feel them anyway. He is nothing like my father but some part of me hopes that when he looks at me he is seeing his son just as much as I am seeing all the years of neglect and false hope all wrapped up in this lonely man.

They, you and I.
Are?
Interpretations, opinions,
Fears and convictions,
Likes-dislikes,
History and anticipations,
Of life.
All, save the living of it, maybe?

A song heard months back in time
You mused over the major & minor,
I'd pondered over the rhyme.
Each of us
As convinced about its presence.
Winter tastes different in my memory.

Epilogue:
You must choose between
His bespectacled vision
And my retrospective conclusion
But you must know
Which you chose
And why.

I have that indominable  **spirit.

12-
I dated a boy because it made me feel prettier than the rest of the girls,
I didn't want to kiss him because I was afraid I wouldn't know how,
I was eventually pressured into it,

13-
I didn't feel worthy of flirting with boys because I wasn't pretty,
I didn't know how to make boys like me,

14-
I dated a boy because I was insecure,
I thought he could make it better,
I wouldn't make out with him because I didn't know how,
I didn't want to be judged on my ****** experience so I broke up with him,

15-
I still liked that boy,
I often hooked up with him and began getting more comfortable with him,
But I wouldn't go under the belt because I didn't know how,

16-
I finally felt much more comfortable,
I didn't like him anymore but he was patient and I enjoyed being with him,
I opened up to him sexually because I wasn't as afraid anymore,

17-
I lost everything to that boy,
The one on the football team,
I didn't think I was special but I didn't think it would hurt that bad, I then discovered what it's like to be with a man who cares,
I finally felt safe

I was very late doing many things because  I was afraid I could not please a man,
Because  I grew up believing that if you cannot please a man you don't deserve to be pleased yourself,
Because men dominate the earth,
Because men are the all powerful,
But I have yet to find a man who can please *me