Friday, April 14th ,2017 // 9:37 AM

Here’s the thing with guts.
your guts , my guts.
I hate your guts,
I want you deep inside my guts.
Guts. They make me who I am,
Indecisive.

But who isn’t?
when it comes to the boy you love, you hate him, don’t you?
Don’t tell me you love him, that’s not love.
Love is hating someone with a passion, a burning passion.
Mad at them for taking parts of you little by little,

but they spark a flame in you,
soon the red flame cools down, it’s blue.
and so you melt, you feel the smile aching,
but you can’t.

You built yourself from scratch, how can someone take all that away from you.
guts, they make me who I am.

I hate him,I love him, but I also fear him.
I can’t help but think of the agonising pain I’ll feel once he leaves me.
Don’t shame me for fearing commitment, it’s not illogical.

The amount of love I hold for him can **** once unleashed, once mistreated.
Can you imagine the damage that’ll be done once he leaves?
guts, they make me who I am.

What if I follow my guts?
I’m no longer secure
I’m no longer me
For if I was I in such predicament,
I wouldn’t let a boy infest my mind the way this one has.

So what if my guts are wrong? They make me who I am.

People like someone but secretly
They smile reading their message but secretly
They want to tell their hearts secrets but secretly
They want to cry very hard but secretly
Loving, crying, smile.. But Why secretly?
Open your heart guys and let the world know
Not your secrets but your courage and guts to tell that.
After all secret is your story which everyone wants to considerate
So let them.

In the glow
of some kind of metamorphosis;
brightly lit, gluttonous ego,
Lily came to me in a dream.
Her love
she fashioned into a blade;
I was an enigma
she cut through.
I'm such a bad girl
when I miss her,
spilling ephemera in pavements and lipstick.
I could love her
but I'm always gone.
She knows how I love to be gone -
She knows that I am a slave to freedoms
I've written for myself.

Loads of bubble wrap piled behind

and it crackles like how a stomach

gets twisted on itself after

eons of sleep

decoding it's diaphragm to follow

the blips and beeps and bleeps

encrusted on trusting

a tight gut reaction to

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



Loads of suds creep up

forming in cysts or scabs

upon stomach encasings

all slimy and orange inside

with a stretchy cover all

deep royal purple with

dark pink veins coursing

through it encoding the

rapture of film recording while

the lining inside gets all clammy

with arousal secretly clenching

this yearning and aching just

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but



it is a necessary step to

colloquial banter within

the clustering of organs all

internally arguing while the

overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums

all quiet in the corner

because she knows she runs



the show.



And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to

the actual world of living folks

and climb out of his bundled

fabulous fantasies in order to

make reality plausible.



And in wanting you



and in waiting



I've found myself in visceral shock

to the point where I panic and

all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.



And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch



and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much



I'll collapse under the weight

and never get up.



Loads of words hide beneath me

resting in tubes that resemble

the small intestines in looping

nests of unbridled questions.

Will it be enough to see you

and not touch you?

Will it be enough to talk

with you and not kiss you?

Will it be enough to be chaste

and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?

When all my brain wants to do

is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?

I contend
That I have
Never
Hated the guts
Of another human being

For the guts
Are not
Responsible for
The actions
Taken by their host

Nor are they at fault
For the decisions
Made by the mind
Of a madman

The humble guts
Are only but
Organs with purpose:
Digestion
And continuation
Of life.

I have
Never exclaimed
“The nerve
of some people!”

For the nerves
are merely devices
through which
a person
may harness
the sense of
feeling

But some people
Go on
Through life
Without feeling
Things like
Remorse
Humility
Pain
Emotion of any kind

I pity them
And I ponder
I envy them
At times
And
I am fascinated
By them

Sometimes
Pity crosses with
Envy
And I ponder again
Intrigued –
All three.

I wish to know
How to be
A wretch
A *****
A *******
A criminal
An *******
A licentious *****
A nuisance
A mean *******
But feel nothing at all

I want to know what it’s like to be cold and callous and without regret or remorse
Without a single ******* care in the whole entire world

But all I can do is speculate
That it is
Unlike anything;
Just like nothing at all:

Emptiness without knowing what fulfillment is
The coldness of not knowing the definition of temperature
The hardness of living life as compressed carbon atoms also known as diamond but without knowing I am or feeling like a jewel

I may not quite myself be a gem
But I can feel
I can hear loud and clear
I love to be whole
I love to be warm
I love to love
Because I am not a wretch
I am not a *****
I am not a *******
I am not a criminal
Or an *******
Or a licentious *****
Or a nuisance
Or a mean, cold ******* –
At least for the most part

I am
a human-*******-being
And I will never try
To be anything but.

It was
Never guts
It was always,
Is,
And forever will be
Folks with their heads up their butts
And brains in the drains
Who waste
Our precious air
And time.

One can certainly say
They feel it there
But alas
That is not
Where
The choice is made
Nor is that feeling
What upon
the action is taken.

One should not hate
Another one’s guts and nerves –
It should be
The mind within the brain
Who takes all the blame;
Everyone else is just doing their jobs.

Punched me in the guts
I know that I can't tell you it
You already know
Saying what ever is on your mind
Is saying what ever just whatever?
I showed you the part
Apart of me
A part of me
Part of me isn't going to be
Because what ever I can be
I will be
But what is a matter? I do not.
Punched me in the guts
I tried to say it
But you could not.

It is the moment, when you feel the love of earth!
It is when your steps are dancing with your life...
It is when you see those smiles and eyes firing love and caring...
It is when you feel you are about to lose your guts...
It is when you feel here "where I should end my marsh"...
It is when you feel "I was not dreaming big"...
                  Then the voice of Truth comes and says...
                                             "Smile"!!
Then you feel the **** of your limiting beliefs... The **** of your Saboteurs!
Then you claim your Right Birth that "My Voice is Worth to be Heard!"

i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                        especially when there alone.

maybe it's the scuffed floor or ugly upholstery of the chairs,
             or the doctors half-attention,
             or the way everybody stares,
             or the way i try not to....
             or  the way that one guy just needs to ask me what book i'm reading.
"it's... well, it's a book about these writers who are deceived into isolation
    and they write all  these stories of life and desperation"                              
              (he doesn't actually care)
              i hide in my hair.
              at least we tried to have a conversation....
              and then we just sit there,
              until she calls the next patient.
              i hope i'm next.

i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                       especially when there alone.

maybe it's the stale air up against the smell of warm blankets,
             or being fully clothed but feeling totally naked,
             or being wheeled around to some other location,
             or that being wheeled around kind of feels like
             a ****** up vacation....
             (you just get to lay there)
             ((and be numb))
but i think it's the way she rubbed that gel **** all over my tummy
                                                                     and that when i say tummy,
                                                                     i don't feel like a woman i feel like
                                                                     a baby
             and the way those plasticky tools let her see right through me
             and the way men just do not know what to do when
             women are bleeding
the nurse named jeff asks me, "oooh, which palahniuk?"
  "it's... well, it's the one about twelve writers who fall into the clutches of
      this crazy guy who locks them all up! this story's about guts n stuff,"
              "nice," he weirdly smirks,
and thankfully gets back to work.
jeff touches my arm a little too much,
and i didn't really want him to have my blood,
and maybe that's just vain stuff
but the conversation was... good enough...

and i am reminded again of why i hate hospitals,
                                            especially­ when there alone.

only got mister palahniuk*
trapped in a purple book,
this paper-bound blood work,
to keep me company.
i lay back with the iv drip next to my bed
as i sweetly surrender to his gory head....
this book, it's called haunted.


*i wish i had chuck's guts ~ literally and figuratively,
he has no ****** and incredible creative bravery.

I wish I could suspend that moment in time
Like the image of you longingly gazing through the world material,  your graceful movements light and ethereal,  the way your smile set my life at rest,  the presence of you stands no contest,  a beautiful mind free to explore, every new day something new in store,  a laugh that rings in my ears,  like church bells early in the year.

I know it seems
Like I'm taking it well
But loving you
Is like living in hell