Beaten and abused
Used and broken time after time again
Everytime I rupture there is this pain of becoming new again
As soon as I feel I am worthy
As soon as I feel I am sharp
I become broken again
The two sides of me become worn and tattered
As people use me to correct the mistakes they have made.
They are the one who have made the mistake, yet I pay for it.
No matter the bite marks I get, or the hands that have explicitly touch me.
Nobody keeps me for long
I become thrown on the ground
Walked all over
Though one might pick me up, I always end up back on harsh, hard flooring.
Looking up to the heavens
I grow continually weary as more and more use me.
I can feel myself shrinking into this nothingness.
They sometimes try to even disguise me to make me new again
Added accessories to me to cover up my flaws.
But under it all I am fatigued and overworked.
But under it all I still show the burnt yellow and pink top
But under it all I am still myself
For I am just a pencil.
Is there a correct set of words,
To describe my relationship with God?
Because the words I’ve settled on don’t portray the magnitude of my emotions
Those words begin…
God is there
I know this because of the flowers
The way that earth is so balanced
How pinecones, leaves, and petals follow the fibonacci sequence.
How the stars make me feel so…
And never bore me
no matter how many hours I stare into the heavens beautiful eyes
I know God is there
But I often don’t see him.
The funny thing is,
I know how wonderful it is to see
and to know him.
So the times I doubt him the most,
Are the times I serve him the most
the time that I strive to create the most disciples
God is a funny being.
We know nearly nothing about him
Yet so many of us know him
And we know him by different names
And different faces
Isn’t that funny?
Isn’t it all so funny?
When I got lost in Chelsea,
I asked a passerby the way out,
he told me quite politely:
Go fuck yourself, you cunt!
I stopped another person
and told him my sad story:
He listened to the end,
then said No English, sorry.
When I got lost in Chelsea
the area looked like maze.
I asked for help some gentleman,
he said: Get off my face!
When I got lost in Chelsea,
I called the police, I was screwed.
They didn't come, they probably
got stuck in McDonalds' queue.
When I got lost in Chelsea,
I was looking for the way out.
I found myself, eventually:
on Chiswick roundabout.
The universe said "lets fuck with her head" so they sent me two exes in a day
In the same place
I was trying to perform but I saw her and my head got all cloudy
I forget my steps
She smiled at me
I broke up with her because she was boring
But I'd never say that to her face
I saw him through a shop window
His whole head followed me
In ripped skinny jeans
An hour later I said hi to his sister
We broke up because he missed me too much and when I kissed him I thought of his sister
Haven't seen either of you for a while
So I laugh to my friend Nzuki and he punches my arm and says I'm a player
When I don't see a chance at love I disattach
I step back
I saw two exes today
And it didn't hurt
Growing up is growing thicker skin
Shedding old until the body they touched
you no longer are in
It's smiling instead of crying
It's joking instead of dying
The pieces of you they loved
no longer exist
And soon I forget them
For their minds that I loved and their lips that I kissed and their bodies I touched
Don't belong to me
So I keep the memories in a folder in my brain that says:
If I ever do stand up comedy
This is me
It just takes
Who did the dicks?
I'm wanting to know
Was it Chrysta or Alex
Or someone unknown?
27 dicks chilled my spine to the bone
I've seen less dicks on porn sites that I surf when alone
Evidence was prevalent at the High School and the class fool was pinned as the guy
Peter and Sam then planned to document everything to figure out who and why
I won't spoil specifics cause that wouldn't be slick
I'll let you peruse through a plot so thick
Keep your eyes open watch for clues in the mix
And ask yourself this question:
Who Did The Dicks?
The Funny White Stuff©
It is hard to believe
That there is a part of the world
Where no funny white stuff exists at all
This thing that can create great pleasure
Or be seen as a plague or aggravation
Which some will never experience
How something so good can also be so bad
In one moment a plaything
And in another a quagmire to escape
A symbol for the chills and cold
Or that which can bring a warm glow to our hearts
Those that love to slide cherish it
While those that drive oft curse it
Yet it is made of the same thing
You can throw or fling it for fun
Build a fort or igloo too
If need be it’s a water source
And hence a precious resource
Floating from the sky above
It can create quite a scene
Leading people to dream
Especially those that have not seen
The magic and wonder
Of the season and the funny white stuff
I seen heaven in a dream and like all good things
It ends to soon.
Eight hours narrowed down to short memory.
Lopsided sheets tucked comfortably in a discounted comforter.
Just before I waking up I heard a voice call my name.
A soothing voice layered in comfort.
Not once did I move. A place moist in anticipation.
Very rarely do I get to travel.
And good things come to end too soon.
The memory of smiling faces seen on a lukewarm day.
An older man sat at an iron wrought table.
Reading to himself the details of spaghetti and fork.
A slight twirl of long noodles punctuated by a piece of meat.
Next time I come I'll have to eat there.
By the open door with chalk on a board.
Going to sleep watching the food network definitely has it's consequences.
Being woke from one of the best dreams ever.
The sound of a rumbling stomach.
And an empty fridge