missing my comfort
when i was girl of two...
no expectations and nothing to do...

today i am called grown up
and also wise...
can think of my rights and wrong..
and also what to decide...
but will somebody listen to me
that who am i...
and what i want to decide..  

i miss the comfort i had as a kid...
but this doesnt means i want to get rid
i still have person loving me most..
but these expectations makes life as a fear of ghost...

It's elementary, my dear
This bittersweet affection that I feel
From one boy to the next I grew
Ladder rungs of broken hearts

First grade
Blonde hair and disarming smile
Recess games and hallway passes
A note in a diary and minutes spent giggling
Never talking, always watching

Fourth grade
Glasses frame of brown hair and thin shoulders
Curious enigma to come and go
A bit more literate diary entrees
One year of crossed legs and shy smiles

Fifth grade
A growing tree of lean muscle and blue eyes
Short brown hair and a charming grin
Side by side on a rubber track
Gray skies and sweet goodbyes
A bright dance floor and a shattered heart
Miserable nights and heartbreak songs

Seventh grade
Long dark hair and chocolate eyes
This spring has brought a strange surprise
Wiry muscle and soft cheeks
Once admired, then adored
An ongoing thrum of sweet affection
Sidelong glances and gym class stares
New discoveries and quiet realization
Girl can love girl

Tenth grade
A firecracker packed with mysterious boys
And an enigmatic girl
A bomb in the summer sky
Spelling new names, new faces, new hearts
A whisper of 'I love you' at long last returned
Names carved on my ribs and pulling my lips
A tightened chest never felt so good

Wildflowers traced the road’s edges
and danced to the harmonies of Eric Clapton.
My step-father sang to my mother while I peered out the window.
We were almost home.
My step-father motioned for me to sit up front and grab hold of the wheel.
The power of the vehicle drove through my veins
affecting me like Clapton affected the wildflowers.
A quick **** of the wheel sent my family and I off the road
into a world of slow-motion.

Blank images,
vague sounds,
that’s all I remember.
Until I saw my mother
laying motionless, traced by the wildflowers.

let me tell you about a kid I used to know
he always thought it was his time to go
up up and away to a place he didn't even understand
but he knew it was better than his own land

because all the other kids
we're too busy making jokes
to realize the one kid who needed love the most
the one kid that walked home alone
caught his breath as he looked down at his phone
to an empty screen
no texts, no calls
he just wanted to have it all, you see -

you can't force happiness on someone who's depressed
you can't make him wake up, get ready and dressed
just to send him to a school where he stands by himself
he tucks his work of art under a shelf

embarrassed by what he has done
he weeps as he wonders what his dad would've thought of his son
he looks to the sky hoping dads watching down
but the moment is ruined with a loud sound

his mother yells
her voice compelling his sorrows
he apologizes for being a mistake
but really she's the one whos been fake
as she beats him on the head
he falls to his bed
and falls deeply into a sleep he won't remember

because of all the drugs
he feels his dad start to tug him
from down below
to up above

and as his wrists start to bleed
he begins to read the suicide note he has written
and as he stares at the sky
he says his last goodbyes
to a place he has made clear of good riddance

They told me a joke
And I laughed my head off.
They told me about a kid
Who lost his parents in the war
And I shed a tear.
They told me many things actually
And I made appropriate reactions to them.
But when you looked at me
And told me
That you wanted nothing
From me any more,
I didn't cry or laugh or say a word.
And there was more honesty
In my silence
Than in any of my reactions.

F.Z.N

I just want to be a kid again.
Maybe when I was still ten,
life used to be so easy then.
But of course, reality strikes again.

Why can't we be a kid again?
No work, just playing in the play pen.
Play alone or play with a friend.
How I wish that it never ends.

But all is based on the "now".
Hoping to find ways to be a kid, somehow.
Whether it was the time I still looked like an angel.
Or the time I still didn't know anything, and was in a cradle.

in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.

spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.

        [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]

thrum and plum-*** the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.

this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.

dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
        [streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.

poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.

cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.