One boring day in the seventh grade,
Trees seemed more interesting than the English lecture when a sudden paperclip hooked my pupils, like an expert fisherman.
I was twisting, bending, and contorting the paperclip's shape into different things when
It was time to test its conductivity in an outlet.
I slowly put one end of the clip into one slot of the outlet…
Nothing.
The second paperclip under the table was like bait at the top of the water.
Upon attaching the metal, I stuck one end in the outlet and the other end in the outle-SHZSHZSHZ POP.
The outlet was destroyed
Paperclip: disintegrated
My fingers: Charred black

what you leave when you’ve left (mending the tormenting silence^)
 ———————————————————-—————————-


your words rock me, like an old time preacher,
mending, begetting, tormenting,
fire and brimstone you sinner,
if I don’t quit this life of loving words, saloon music,
guitar picking in low down dives,
liquoring and sinning,
choosing to choose poorly,
never and always thinking about the songs
you’ve left behind unplayed, pained

got the sun and the rain and all afternoon,
to contemplating leavings,
the crumbs you let drop,
the missteps took and missed,
drank too much, hurt too hard,
the silence of my history, it’s renting,
unrelenting, tormenting, lamenting and such,
those loves, labors that don’t amounted much,
a slow rush to fall, to count it all

you say, always time to mend what life
has rent, if you spend the time thinking,
‘bout what you gained, what you lost,
the net of both added and subtracted,
what you got, what you gave,
the sum of your begat,
a life’s story, to tell,
of life’s misgiving, unforced errors, and
crimes committed only you know

not sure what the total bill due gonna be,
combining the costs of the here,
the now, what was and wasn’t,
what was said, not believing but yet singing,
so when the check comes,
the summation of your life’s calculations,
get to add on a tip, a good-as-gold saying
it’s time that can mend, but knowing the true costs of time,
maybe, maybe not...

<§>
                         let  them reap what you have sown,
                    for the great designer will surely inquire
       what everybody knows is the forecast standard to be met,
     it is not what, how much you got, but what you begat, when,
                                              you’ve left

Like footsteps that tell of encroachment
you're never
a surprise;
until,
from still
you rise.

The taste of your tongue lingers on me
A taste of honey encrusted in gold
It shines and sparkles even in the dead of the night
Our muffled voices echo in these four walls

The room smelled of animal musk
A mix of heaven and sugar combined
Your taste supressed the heavenly bodies' light
and gave me light brighter than Sun.