The way you touch her **** slanted thighs,
Caressing her skin as you hear her moan,
You’ll know what she wants when you see her eyes,
To brand her body, to make her your own.
She saw both good and bad life has to give,
Her body became a cushion for rest,
Her feelings are hidden inside her sieve,
Always in a cycle of being undressed.

Voices
wispering
"hush dear, be safe with us"
Sounds
of whimpering
"liars, don't listen, don't make a fuss"
Creature
talking
"you can't pretend, in your head it's all about us"
...
My reflection
mirrored in a strangers frown
creature creeping
underneath my gown
is it me, sweeping
give to whom it belongs, this heavy crown

In your pictures
the conflict hides
through pretty gestures
beauty subsides
and love with its tiring lectures

I don't give a ****
about your empty phrases
turned down praises
Watch me pull the plug
Your insincerity amazes
as I watch you feast on a deers pluck

You're not a dog
all you do is bark
getting rid of carcasses at the bog
listen closely and hear the lark
we all get lost in the fog
see if you can catch a spark
listen closely and hear the frog
you will see me in the dark

How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.

She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.

You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.

But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”


She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”

Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever

I am writing this using a pen that was oh-so-kindly gifted to me by a kind old lady. She also gave me a cookie, but that’s beside the point. I think she knows that the best way to bribe college students is through food. I’m standing at the table beside a girl who I THINK is in one of my classes, but I still am not quite certain. She is the kind of athletic and strong that screams “this is the confidence that you’ll never have”. We’re both being shown a piece of paper with a minimal amount of writing on it, but an infinite amount of pure heart. The paper says a sweet word about prayer and doing well on finals and all that, but my focus is on the excessive amount of exclamation marks at the end of each sentence. I guess Presbyterians really are the Oprah Winfreys of religion. I forgot to mention that the old lady is Presbyterian. She is advertising a fall bible study led by college students, which, if I were not plagued with the constant assumption that I’ll never know how to socialize or make friends, I would be absolutely enthralled by. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get “plugged in” for a while now, but how can I get plugged in when my wire is frayed and everything I touch seems to smoke and burn at some point? My plug is a circle and the outlet is a square, so I guess it’s like that saying, “A circle can’t fit into a round peg”, or something like that. Anyways, I didn’t mean for this to become an analogy between being disconnected and electrical outlets, but it turned out that way. The old lady at the booth was nice. I hope to someday be that lovely. Although I was around her for a total of thirty seconds, I saw what it’s like to live a life not shrouded in a black cloud of fear. So, thank you, lady.

I peek out my window and see her,
Lady Twilight in her shimmering black gown,
walking up my cobblestone path.
She walks slowly, at ease, looking from side to side
and moving in her flowing stride, up to my doorstep.

I creak open the door and her eyes rise to meet mine
and she grins, a soft smile etching her smooth face.
Her head tilts ever so slightly to the side, her raven hair
hanging from behind.

The warm rays of the day have given way to the enveloping gray,
a hanging light clings to her outline, lit by a hidden source.
Hues of deep blue and violet shades mingle through the air,
suppressed to black as the sun makes it steady retreat.

She takes a step to me and raises her arm slowly,
placing her softly on my shoulder.
I break contact with her eyes and look down,
trying not to see as Lady Twilight quietly fades away.

i am not to be pursued as one your ****** interests,
because i wear clothing that are tight-fitted and lack inches.
refrain from holding on my arm, don't approach me with the famous mating calls; matter of fact don't approach me at all.
"ayo ****",
NO, you cannot text me.
no you cannot take me home, or use slick talk to undress me.
"maybe if you dress more appropriate, with elegance and class"
how about i wear what the **** i want without being harassed.
"act like a lady"
please do not play me.
i will not submit to your labels of what a woman should be,
or how she should dress.
really? what's next?
will i have to wear nun outfits to get a date,
because it's respectable, then will i find a 'mate'?
get the **** up out my face.
maybe i shouldn't use profanity,
maybe it makes me less of a lady.
& maybe words like "****** & hoes" make me look ****** crazy?
*** you're so unlady like.
ok but i sleep great at night!
maybe i should be a lady, so tell me what is a lady like?
sorry, nope, i will NOT shave my legs every night.
i will not wear extra clothing to be pleasing in your sight.