Patience is a virtue, she said with a smug smile.
Time holds a tight grip but only for awhile.

For if I can out wait time, all of life can be mine.
Waiting is easy when you can wrinkle your life line.

Past, present, and future have become only words to me...

For you see,
I only exist in the now.
I have learned to be free.

Free of the regret that comes with the past.
Free of the worry that comes with the future.

Waiting can become all we do,
But if you learn to love waiting...
All of life is open to you.
Push me back
Tell me to rest
Kiss my eyes
Rake my breasts

Remove the barriers
Between your skin and mine
Tear the cotton if you must
Stretch the elastic
Til it snaps in two
If that is
What you're compelled to do
Get me naked
Be my dirt
Absorb my roots
Be the secret earth
The only comfortable bed
Moan into my clavicle
Control my head

Lick my ribs
Hold my hips
Give me chokes

Give your grip the weight of feathers
Assure me you're in this for me for the moment at least
Give your time like time has ceased
Secure in chains my memories my ghosts
Put your heart into my pleasure

Take my parts
Inside your mouth
Comb my holiness
Use your holy breath
Relax the nervous squeeze
Devout make me believe
With your art
Summon the whimper shouts
Up from my depths
With one goal
One intent
Offer your thirstiness
Drink of my sins
Prove wrong
My internalized
Shame of my sex

I shall be
Your humble slave
For my life
Long sentence

In this dry
Biting tundra
Burning sea
Endless sand
You have the input to push your efforts over the line
You have done that for years

While you continue to care for and watch your wards
While their efforts set as low as fifty percent
Burn out their boards

You smell plastic as their destinies
Distort into petrol like pools
What do you mean this is for kids?

Living in light and then taking to dreams
Driven with a tank of their shame
Synthesized into nightmare fuel

You have the design to give of yourself and self assess
So what are you to do when the circuits surrounding
Lose touch with the rest and disconnect?

You have the input to push your efforts far
Push while you wait

The energies you expend will replicate and return
To the inherited Earth
She writes her pains
In between the lines
Of the story of her life
Forever stuck in
What could've been
Forever wondering
What should've been
Forever tormented by
What would've been

Never stopping to think
How if she finally
Imprisoned the ghosts
Floating in her future's past
She wouldn't really know
What to do with them
(Some broken parts of a poem I found in one of RH's old novel drafts which I absolutely loved. Happy Writing!~ BM)
It's always two minutes to midnight,
and we're always in the Garden of Gethsemane.  
I don't remember when
moonlight started to burn like this, but
it seems like this is all there is, maybe all
there ever was, ever will be.
The brain has never felt more like
spoiling meat, nor the excoriated soul itself
more reassuringly transient,
as we dance these slow, sad waltzes
with mute, irradiated ghosts
beneath the branches of the doveless olive trees.
The night is sharp with splinters and iodine
and other traumas.  Muffled voices, raised
in song: listen! they are singing inside
the fallout shelters.   Ash drifts like
apple blossom.  Wolf skeletons relearn the
ability to howl.  Everything we fear
is inevitable.  Much of it has
already happened.  And maybe tomorrow
won't bring betrayal, crucifixion or torture, just
something else,
something like agony,
I guess.
Who is all alone?
Solipsism slept with me
Community then rose the sun
The thorned and black roses leapt
To attention when it struck their stems
The difference between self pity and sadness
The black and thorned roses leapt
To attention when it struck their stems
The milk of the mother of the world
Community then rose the sun
While solipsism slept in me
Who is all alone?

(The Suspicious Oracle groaned, the body and the mouth. They came to rest on the line between the poles. No grimace. No grin. No light deep, deep in the eyes. The Suspicious Oracle pushed an object across the table toward the audience. An old coffee tin turned black with paints and oils. Centered in bright yellow, the word TIPS. All around it, simple symbols were scratched out in metal. Fingers. Toes. Currency. A penis.)

Coin for a fortune?

(One of the drifters at The Suspicious Oracle's table gifted a coin to the tin. The Suspicious Oracle smiled, and shifted back into the shadows.)

Thank you.

(The Suspicious Oracle reached into their jacket and produced a card printed on one side with a pair of staring eyes. They slid it toward the drifter with the eyes turned up. The drifter flipped the card and read it to herself.)


I'd like to thank my grandpa, Arnold Gene Evans, for teaching me lessons that no one else could. And if they could, they wouldn't bother. Here's to you, big guy. The memories of smiles, sun, and the cool breeze remind me every day that my gray is gold to some. And that's enough.

~ W.
A bluebird, on my rib. My mom’s handwriting, on my back. A plane ticket, in my hand. More stamps in the passport, in my pocket. A friend by my side, running across the airport with me.
A new destination, a new place to use our education to help those in need.
Maybe this time we’ll be in Nicaragua, rooting out the political corruption.
Or maybe we’ll be in Cairo, negotiating refugee treaties.
Maybe we’ll be on a return flight home, to wherever home may be.  
That very particular scent of airports, on busy nights. Perfume, my own. Laundry detergent, the same one I’ve always used. Also, the scent of two people who have been in the sun all day, helping somewhere.
These scents will become familiar.
The scent of the airport will smell like home.
Dramamine, the taste of rotten oranges.
Airplane food, the butt of so many bad jokes, actually tastes as bad as they say.
Mint gum, to get rid of the taste of the two mixed together.
Tomato juice, the flight attendant tells me how my taste buds change in the air,
I sit back, enjoy my tomato juice, and fall asleep.
At peace, 30,000 feet above the world
Carrying a duffle bag in my hand, fingers turning red and cramping.
The feel of linoleum, or whatever 2028 airport floors are made of, under my feet.
Running to catch my flight. The relief of sitting in those awkwardly carpeted seats.
Shaking hands with the flight attendants, the feel of the plane engine rumbling.
The sound of people chatting before and after takeoff.
The token screaming baby, the parents apologizing.
The flight attendants thanking us for flying whatever airline we were on this week.
Chatting with the people in the seat next to you about what you’re doing in the next place.
Happiness. Pure happiness.
The joy of looking out at the clouds, feeling like I’m on top of the world.
I am at peace with myself, I am fulfilling what I was made to do.
What my soul thrives on.
Who I am as a person has been discovered.
All 30,000 feet above the world.
SD 2/24/18
Magnus 3d
I'm hurt

I'm hurt
I'm hurt

I'm hurt
Because I just realized

You were hurt
By someone that didn't deserve you
By someone that didn't respect you
By someone that didn't see your beauty

By someone that didn't appreciate you

All your grandeur, he didn't see
And that was your cue

I'm hurt because
When you were hurt

The only way you saw healing

Was by masking your hurt
Not caring who you gave yourself to...
What you gave of yourself
To all that fitted the shoe

So you stacked them up
In the hideous name of "not catching feelings"

You let them do as they wish
Touch you as they saw fit
I'm not saying there is one without blemish
But how can this pass without anguish
When one is truly supposed to love you
To see a queen live like a peasant.
And not cry to sleep in anguish,
When they're in awe of the queen within.

So many have grappled
On this emerald
That you became numb.

Can you even feel that?
My warm hand on your heart.

You say it was about keeping Her happy
How true is that?
How happy was Kylie?
How long did you keep her happy for?
How long did your satisfaction last for?

He dug a hole
You tried to fill it with sinking sand
Now whoever dares to tread
Is actually walking on a thin thread
Slowly slipping
Into the hole you didn't make whole

You sing "men are trash"
As if they are the ones you didn't give Kylie to.
I'm sorry if this is coming off too harsh
Because I want to love Kylie too.
But you gave her away
Turned a blind eye

Put conviction in your reason,

Camouflaged the tears,
Like putting sunglasses on blind eyes.

You sing "men are trash"
"Men ain't shit"

Yes, we make the lyrics
But sometimes women play the instruments

And this, some horrific genre

That we play on social media...

And parties

That we enjoy
With a little bit of intoxication
We enjoy the band play
With a few likes and DMs
We enjoy the band play

You sing "men are trash",
You tell me I'm trash.

When all I'm here for is to love you,

To truly love you of a few.

Not for a motel night's crash
But for a home.
Not for a bottle and some musical trash
But for some Shiraz, soulful indie music and romantic dancing in the dark.
Not to take advantage of Kylie

But to love her too.

You tried to heal
But you didn't.
And I see your beauty
I appreciate you
I respect you...
I see how special you are
How magnificent your mind and soul are.
Your glimmering smile
Your astronomical eyes
All that grandeur,
I see it.

I relish it.

I'm hurt
Because you're still hurt.

I feel like I'm sinking
And you're watching me
Like it's fine because this is the farthest anyone has come in this sinking sand

I want to love you.
I'm trying to love you.
But the hurt you let define you.
Is now veiling what I harbour for you

I'm hurt
Because I want you to stop hurting.
And to help you
I must help myself...
So that I can lift this veil.
For together we can take control of the helm;
Enabling what is meant to be,
SoZaka 4d
a translator for humanity
gives a powerful speech
condolences to innocents left behind
as above the clouds
so below the stars
temperatures rising
towards a future on Mars

an advocate for change
preaches a lesson on the past
sympathies to those who stay to the last
as within a dream
so without a vision
temperatures falling
towards a perilous decision
Global warming and the sad inevitability of Earths resources running dry
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