speaking from the mind

speaking from the truth

i hate everything that includes you

never liked it

never liked the attention

it's hard being like this

with all the confusion

unnecessary thoughts

unnecessary feelings

living life as if i knew what it is

living life as if i knew it was mine

living life as if the whole world belongs to my mind

living life as if everything goes according to how i see

living life as if i know how to be me

it's dumb it's wasted it's ****** up

girls taking clothes off for attention

guys giving out money for some love and affection

ultimately it's love *** and money

ultimately it's just the doomed humanity

where materialistic values replace morality

what's love hatred lust when it's not money?

Maybe men are only good in 15 minute segments.
Good ***,
compassion,
eye contact,
laughter,
conversation.
Maybe that's all we get.
15 minutes of good,
a lifetime of good enough to get us through.

Could it have been the self concious views?
The lack of choice- No room to choose?

Could it have been the need for emotion?
The outbursts? The commotion?
Were the cogs rusting? A lack of motion

The cogs of time rusting...
Time not moving with the speed of light?
Could it have been that one was moving faster, then other-
Timing not right?

Like a Cheetah and a Deer holdings hands,
Could it have been tempting chance?
The chance to be amazed at the beauty of this picture,
Then not be surprised with the outcome- An act of nature.

Mesmerized with lies that are there to charm.
Cheating fate, Causing harm.

Could it have been...
That you left me because I was no more an object of your desire?
Or- Could it had been that all along,
I was *playing with fire?

Sometimes I'm left wondering -
Did you enslave me or did you set me free?
Your selfish actions posed as my best company.
A sense of power is what you gave to me;
In return, I granted you a sense of relief.
It was some kind of silent agreement that we reached.
It was some kind of agreement begging to be breached.
I still think of you sometimes, and I have to ask,
"What was he thinking when he did that?"
It disturbs me that most of it was just an act.
It hurts me that you didn't use more tact.

I fail to notice
Men's eyes outlining my body.
I fail to notice
Men's whistles as I walk by.
I fail to notice
Men's words escaping them with the wind which runs through my hair.

But I do notice
Men's firm grip on my delicate wrists.
I do notice
Men's sweet aroma as they snarl into my ear.
I do notice
Men's ***** fingernails on my soft, milky-coloured waist.

I grew up taking hits from my big brother,
I grew up on "boys' weekend" camping trips,
I grew up with my father calling me a princess but calling my brothers rock stars,
I grew up watching Boy Scout meetings from the back of the room,
I grew up on LEGOs and Hot Wheels and
I still remember the year my brothers got Nerf guns for Christmas
and I got a bracelet,
I remember being shot with foam bullets and having no way to fight back,
but at least I looked pretty.
I remember seeing my dad leave for work every morning
and wondering why my mom never did,
I remember wanting to be an astronaut, but my brother told me
moms have to stay home.
The phrase stop being a girl is branded into my mind
and I still curse myself every day
for the organs I was born with.
I remember the year my brothers went as zombies for Halloween
and I had to go as a princess,
I remember bringing a fake butcher's knife
because a princess is not scary.
I grew up on manhood meaning strength
and manhood meaning confidence
and manhood meaning respect
and I still wear dresses
and my dad still calls me a princess
but I'll be ****** if you tell me I'm not a man.

My mother always said:
“Date someone who loves you more than you love him. That way, he will never leave you”
As if, being alone was worse off than being stuck ******* a man I feel nothing for.
As if, I was expected to trade my happiness for stability.
As if, my love was not strong enough on its own.

As if, my worth was something that could only be measured out in transactions—
in dozens of roses
—I hate roses.

But he who loves me more
believes that I am perfect
so its okay
because perfect girls love perfect things like roses
…which are red.

and passion is red, and **** is red
so he measures out his love for me in vases and bouquets of roses
…which are red

and violets are blue,
but so are bruised egos
and mine is too damaged to tell him
that I can’t love him like Im supposed to.
because my mother always warned me not to.

A man walks home from his job
Part-time at two different places
To feed his child and give shelter
With his child's mother in place
This man would live life daily as
Best as he could like any other
Marijuana smoke helps dull pain
And heartache from another
Job and opportunity lost, cause
Of simple mistakes avoidable
Had he been more responsible
As the day draws to a close
Celebrations begin for a year
A year of renewal and promises
To improve, to provide, to guide
In his eyes he sees the fiery day
Give in to an unforgiving night

Fearful of taking an innocent life or
Having his life taken in an instant
He put faith in a train to plot
A direct course for the party
Returning home in the morning
To his little daughter and lover
Perhaps too much fun was had
A little much drink in plastic cup
Fights broke out in the live night
Of which friends of him were apart
Involving him in old hood beef
Fists met flesh but not bullet
For skin hadn't been torn by metal
Leaving human crimson along
The roadside beltway or floor
This was a rivalry among men
Whom lived without abandon
And strived for a daily dime

Men of the law would intervene
As is requisite of such actions
But reactions are destructive
Conducive to leaving lines
And plenty body bag designs
All aligned with ***** tiles
The tile that his stomach lies
As the kneecaps dig into him
Of a grown man with a life, wife,
And child in the womb of her
Similar to the man beneath him
But he reaches towards his belt
As his brother struggles below
Black like the early morning
Consuming the two of them
The fruits are veiled in this station
Fruits of deep seeded hate and
Inaction in the face of atrocities:
Glaring and gazing steadily

The shot rang out...

One. Light. Shines.
As. The. Bullet. Flies.
And. Burns. Flesh.

YOU SHOT ME!

... Echoes in the distance

Internal organs are dying
Breathes are more labored
His daughter and lover
Would find 7 hours later
That they would be left
In the distance that took him
An imperfect man slain
In an imperfect world.