Feel pity for the turtle,
Born captive in a bowl.
Swimming in a circle,
A life been bought and sold.

He has his natural instincts,
Engrained in DNA.
I wonder what he thinks,
Being captive every day.

To him, it must feel wrong.
A missing link to life.
Pondering all along,
Why his surroundings don't suffice.

If released to the wild,
Survival would be scarce.
He's been captive since a child.
Born an artificial heir.

The turtle knows only this society,
It's what he's been born into.
His intuition - alive, indeed,
Tells him what turtles do.

I watch him in his tank, a curse.
How it must feel strange.
Born to fulfill a turtle's life purpose,
But forced into walls, by humans who exchange.

I feel pity for the turtle,
Then realize my foolishness.
Humans, too, know the artificial -
Yearning for natural happiness.

We build up our own glass walls,
And bear children to not see,
That there is life beyond this all,
That offers more than we think we need.

We, too, are like turtles,
Having a purpose to fulfill.
We overcome so many hurdles,
Within glass walls that ****.

I want to paint the skies with the fire in your eyes. I want to use your passion and your taste for the lasting things in life. I would use every color available to me.

I want to cause volcanoes to explode with the tension we know is already there. I want to taste your lips against mine. I want to show the world what the definition of lust is.

I want to make you smile and I want to make you laugh. I want to watch as you fall slowly and madly in love with me. I want to watch your mind sway like the wind.

I want to cause a hurricane in your head and fill your lungs with water making it impossible to breath when you're around me. I want your bones to shake like there's an earthquake when you watch me undress for you.

In a world of nature vs. nurture, I want to watch your nature come crashing into mine. I want to nurture the passion and fuel the fire above until we burn up and all that's left is that lasting memory.

BH 2015

Earth, my visceral friend,
Vapid nature, mother tongues.
Spin around in virtuous form.
Contoured landscapes, there's no escape from gravity and scientific theories -
Stay clear of the scorn.

Foreign sands expose the driftwood,
Steer clear of the storm young one.
Amphibious beginnings,
Cold cold heart.
A thousands explosions,
Taken back to the start.

Hello my goddess of delight let that flowing garden spring to life,
My delicate treasure is always forever,

I wonder what I can see,
Within,
A light with me,
Of course I see again,

Like the feelings that surround you,
In the murky mire,
Of devious desire,
She's a lone in the town square,

I forget whatever you said that day,
All I remember is that fire in your sacred eyes,

All I love is that sacred scar around  your neck-bone,
Masked silence dawns brightly,

Grief weighs & troves

Hey Lonely daughter don't tell me the moons effects

Those who dare to see
that beauty
is not rooted in conformity

A yell for the child comes with momentum
It shakes a creak out of each elderly step and surrounding glass fixture
Wailing wakes the set of mahogany stairs before stopping at the moat of the dudette’s dungeon

Kaboom, it kicked the door in on the dream

Enter a flow of sunlight
Now visible dancing off the sweaty leaves and onto the walls of the hallway
Leaping onto the eyelids of our beholder
She turns to face the wall
This empty vessel isn't ready

The yelling quickly becomes relevant
As it Sharpens into an irritating spear  
Creating unwanted foramen
Making mesh out of the impermeable cushion enveloping the chrysalised girl

The parent is a lackluster alarm clock that she bought
But still wants to beat the **** out of.
Though they serve their purpose
the half conscious tend to be ungrateful

A smile breaks open now
knowing such noxious noise is futile Fighting the lull that was already present in the room.

Going through the first motions her feet find a base
and her socks slide dangerously over splinters and thornish nails peaking out of the floorboards
The drums of her feet meeting the stairs announce her arrival.

On the first floor there awaits a vision of her childhood
Her father watching programs and eating breakfast with Charles Osgood and his correspondents
Mother making moves towards the car.

She’s surprised
The sweet smell tricked the girl into believing adventure land had been relocated to her kitchen.


She witnesses Bands of fibrous smoke slide off of the bacon
And harden as happiness on the rims of her nostrils
Her hunger whispers clear thoughts and primitive instincts from her core
And a shell of rubber pellets is released to ricochet around in the girls belly like a couple of quarters in a piggy bank -
Wants reverberate and drive up her throat
Driving her hands to the cooler of the three tired skillets

She does a quick but thorough survey of the stove top eyes hitting every grease patch and
Yellow egg puddle worth avoiding

Sitting at the galaxy black table
Jaw tensing against its will
Gums sweating and shocked anxious
Tastebuds wiggling into the room left available by the imagination
Eager on ripping into fattening pleasure

Osgood leads them into their moment of Zen to be ended at the pace of the subject
Father different from daughter
Daughter different than the mother.

What happens when your time runs out?
It's your time to go, so you scream and shout
But all that comes out is a choked off sound
You're weak, fall to your knees, palms on the ground

Then you wake up drenched in your own sweat
It was only a dream, you repeat in your head
Though it felt so real, it had to mean something true
Tonight, at Death Cafe, I'll bring my thoughts to you