Thank you, but I have vowed
to accept the fact that luck is as good
a chance to take as grace,
no exchange, no earning luck, never was.

Good luck is only good, bad luck is a mistake,
a grasping at things that did occur,
to change
at sudden, certain, central points,
miss the aim as teleos is said to be a mistake,
the act of aiming
definite purpose, ala Napoleon hill, aim to ****,
train the brain to fear no death, not mine,
not the other guys,
I am the weapon,
possessed of the spirit of the bayoneted and bulleted,
points used to ****, flood the ******
Flanders fields, at that time of year, first the blade,
then the ear, then fields sing thanks and bloom
***** scarlet poppies… later in the spring

Aim at nothing, the mind
of the machine
gunner reacts, point and spray, if you pray,
I say,
pray for the man who takes careful aim,
and squeezes, knowing sudden
bang
budges not the aim aimed true and followed
through.

Machine gunner, pray for me.

If you see one snowflake dropping
you don’t have to salt the roads
but if it’s snowing bad enough
then yeah you salt the roads
depending on severity
you might even ask
people stay inside.

i don't recognise the "girl" in the mirror anymore,
is she still there??
maybe crushed inside
the stars still burn bright just too deep for anyone to see them, or for her to see them
if i'm so uncomfortable in this body why am i still in it
i don't want to play the part anymore
i'm lost, i need to find me
however, there's something comforting about no-one seeing you, but when you leave it too long you can't see you either

parts of you can reappear,
like when you buy a new shirt,
it fits unlike the ones that cling,
you can hide in this one
but it's made for someone else
someone they don't expect you to be
and someone no-one wants you to be
but who do i want me to be
i want to be able to look in the mirror and like what i see, or even just accept it and feel safe within that body that isn't just a skin like this

Do you want to see inside?
I'm afraid you can't
It's too messy inside
I need that space to hide
All that useless junk we buy
And I haven't swept up yet
There's the corner where I cried
We had a stinky rat, but it died
That room's for my bride
That door is an illusion
It really leads outside
Circumnavigates our dwelling
There really is no telling
Why that portal lies
That's not a door!
It's a jar!
And it's letting in the flies
And they're buzzing all inside
My hollow head, which I call home
My brain is locked, the key's a comb
Please don't enter
It's not a house
It's a tomb

who the **** knows how an alien would view us

terrified, at the awe inducing power
we've wrestled from the world
and the lack of respect we have for it

mortified, at the sheer opulence
we've dug out from the earth
and that the many shall never see

inside, we all know
that anything makes more sense
than a perspective that rung
even neutral