True story used to cause me to remember,
Christmas coming to mean the story told,

I first got the story from a family Bible, yep.
We had one, and my mom must have read it,
because, when I was no older than six,
I asked her where the story of Christmas
came from, and she opened that Bible,
to the very story.

The Good News, surely was then, had been,
since. And now I think I may recall
that child like faith, in a seed
planted as true as can be,

the story came from the tellers of the story.

Why? Curios addiction, pineal primitive will
to know what works and what kills.

Men of letters, let us make up our minds,
in the realm of words, lust is not a factor.

Any vital juices spilt trigger art' official guilt,
mea culpa, my one 8.2 billionth
of all breathers, I caused hope to fail…
falsification
of this sapience capacity- projected
light where Plato had shade,

of course you may now remove earbeans
with no other one the wiser.

and  i pretended to be the air, warm wind gently moving behind his ears,
ruffling his hair, touching his eyelids,
smoothly entering his chest, making him believe that he was breathing,  and i again
pretended to be a flower, a beautiful flower,  calmly waiting,
alluring him with my gaze as you would lure  a bee, or a bird when it flies and hums, and sings, ***** its wings and  looks for its place in the palm,
then he asked me again: - and yet, what is it like to be a woman? and
i  pretended it was raining
and raining

im not trying to cause a riot
but no more nice girl being quiet
im telling my story this time
and its not my fault you commited the crime
i've been hiding in the dark
healing on my own
but im not that same girl anymore
im not going to pick up my phone

it wasn't "one little mistake"
no, you knew i was barely awake
you took away my choice
but you didn't take away my voice
i'm ready to use it now
to speak up for the truth despite
the backlash i know i will inevitably face
when i look you in the eyes tonight

you told me what happened
while your hand was on my thigh
"its embarrassing you got that drunk"
even my friends turned a blind eye
it took me years to process
a simple caress would cause distress
but now i can say
nothing makes it okay
and nothing gave you the right
when i was passed out
6 years ago, midnight

Ziplock tie,
a piece of skin caught in a jean
fabric stained, sticky sweat
under a cool breeze. A little wind in
between; hanging cause
Shaving necessary for release from
pores

Bumps and scrapes
awkward looking, and ingrown hairs
blades of grass—pasture flesh land
Sprints of watered perfume, and
the only time man has a tender hand
Cleanliness; cleanse of appearance
to look and feel good in the end

             ...do play ball in taking care of your *****

England And Germany
Twin sides of the same coin
Light and dark the game's the same
Two soldiers doing the same job
Both would be mortal enemies
Yet their stories are the same
On a certain type of mission
Getting the same result
Like it's a scripted storyline
The hit man and the cop
Telling exactly the same story
Each eradicating the ******
Not a tale I made up but real
Or so they say to me
What do you think?

What is a woman?
She is too much
.
Too much joy, like her heart is a bird which beats wildly against the cage of her chest,
(the cage Adam gave her, keeping her together)
Too much pain to contain alone, a tether
To the hands of those who might abuse her
.
Too unrestrained in love that it spills into the world freely, unknowing of the price
Too free in this jealous world, that seeks to condemn what it cannot consume,
Ex lovers, or demons she dare not exhume
.
Too much place in her skin, too much shine in each tress
Too much space in her limbs, so she must become less
So much beauty and life, to love and to touch
She knows what she wants, a little too much
.
Too tender to be broken, so she must become tough

And what is a man,

But not enough