You are a friend to other people but are You my friend?
You treat them with special care but do you treat me thus?
You give them all: time, love, effort but why do you give me little?
You say you love me truly or do you really love me?
Or do you love me because you want something from me?

I hear 'Dear Lord', 'Please Lord', 'Help me Lord',
'Forgive me Lord', 'I love you Lord';
And yet in reality - honestly you do not really care...
You call me when you are hurt, discouraged, failed -
Yet you do not think of me when you are happy.

Am I just a Genie or a Santa Claus to you?
Do you even like me -the "me" - the real me?
Or do you come to me because I am very rich?
Do you even believe that I am real and alive?

You cry when your friends hurt you
Yet you never recognized that I dry your tears -
You deny my attempts to bring you closer - -
It's ironic that you say I cannot understand what you feel - -
I created you in my own image, my strength, my love, my emotions, my prayers

When you feel that others do not love you
Remember - you turn away from me many times
And the feeling of unrequited love you have from others?
I oftentimes feel this one way love from you ...
It hurts, isn't it? That you love and they give back a little - - ?

I know the feeling....I do know the feeling...
But I love you even if you are like that...

He loves me
a love deeper than anything
a love I can't fully reciprocate
which is a strange feeling
because I'm used to
loving more
loving deeper
loving with everything
and to think
that He
loves me more than I can comprehend?
that is a strange feeling.
to be loved like that

Words can be shallow,
Or they can be deep.
Their meanings may be instant,
Or in your mind they slowly creep.
The expressions meant in the writings,
We don’t always see.
The meanings may be different for you,
Than they are for me.
These words I write and read,
They are the way out.
For all my emotions,
Love, fear, joy, and doubt.
God’s will and way is often,
More than we can understand.
But like the sending of his Son,
He always has a greater plan.
I will keep writing,
Even when there is no one to read.
This is how he works in me,
To fulfill my every need.
Find his spirit,
That inside you already lives.
For there is the key,
To recovery, happiness, love, and all that he gives.

I'm tired of this shit
Seeing screens in all aspects of my life
Wanting internal seductions to be satisfied
Lust is killing me from the inside
God, help me from my own mind
I don't want my mind to be between my own thighs
I want to be liberated from this tie

Til Devil did We part.

can you stand up?

I do believe it's working, good
that'll keep ME going for The Show
yet tonight it, is, -time to go?

I ARE
RECEIVING

or was part of some apparatus?
If He ends up your only contact through
to people who, might know of you?

Then He is all You got.

remember that...son
RE MEM BUR

Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words some significant percentage
may
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed much as one would redeem the time.
One of us.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No shit. Shit happens.
All the damned time, and damn and God get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty.

By my leave, I say, I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers. Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words. Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when shit happens
at just the right moment
in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is
whadayacallit

Vetted.
What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb.
After school and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, we Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,
tax-free.

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF (unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
were meaningless,
unless we knew the faces to match the charicatures.

"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"

Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a damn guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,
intrixically.

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to kill hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
songs,
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary
ref-use.

Referee.
Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not stupid,
you are not powerless. If you are stupid, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not stupid. God knows, right?
Stupid people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.