My dreams are home to endless sunsets with you, fingers entwined.
We'd watch the Sun step aside so the moon could see the planetary show.
The wind would roll over our skin as if time was our ocean, infinite.
We'd kiss as if our bodies were made of poetry, like fate wrote this one for us!

But in my waking hours I won't tell you that I LOVE YOU.
Instead I'll grow gardens between lines you run your fingers.
Fields of gold will bloom with every "how did you sleep?"
My whispers will nurture my blossoming love, so you'll never eat lonely.

I will look after you always, like the sun chases the moon.
But I wont rain words of nectar on a deaf heart.
Instead I will grow seeds and yield, my body will nurture as you need.
If you cease to be, I'll spend my last days with the moon, waiting for the sun.

I have a splinter in my heart
right in the middle point between the left atrium and the right ventricle.

A little husk of a beechtree seed
landed on the fragment of wood that now lives within me
and it cannot be removed or I will bleed all over and dry out.

It’s putting down roots on my cardial muscle tissue
one day it will break free, reaching for the stars.

Dear Mother and Father,*

        I spoke with Ali today. Maybe it was the first time in years. Maybe it was the first time that we’d ever actually spoken at all. Either way. She told me some things that I thought you should know.

Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

         Focus on this. Your white picket fence. Your barbecue, your big family dog. Your pristine, rich neighborhood. Your uppity gossip. Your rules, judgements, “charity.”

         Behind your closed doors, however, dwells something else.

         Something like hypocrisy. Something like abuse.

Now focus on this.

         Ali: dark and brooding, even as a small child. Questioning all of your family values, the ones that I had merely accepted.

         My little sister, the ultimate judge, the supreme *****.

         Forbidden black fingernails, black hair; fingernails, which you forced pink, hair that you insisted blond. Friends that you deemed “greasy” and “unsavory”.

         Hateful, teenage Ali. Ditching classes to go off with boys. Returning home with track marks and glossy eyes. Sneaking out with no destination, if only to not be at the one place she couldn’t be herself.

         Home.

Now, this. That awful “it’s not to late to save your soul” camp. A reform jail. Holier than thou epithets. Squeaky clean repentance. A stockade full of higher authority telling her, “you’re wrong,” telling her, “we are going to fix you.”

         Brain washing robots with backhanded facades.

         Sad, scared Ali. It’s no wonder she chose to rebel, for all she knew of authority was hypocrisy.

         Not just you.

         Instead, a withered, sick janitor.

         The old man who brought her the food that they didn’t serve in the dinning quarters. Fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. Food to outweigh the everyday gruel.


         This lonely, forlorn man expecting compensation in return. ****** compensation; unimaginable and certainly ungodly acts.

         This Janitor, he would wander into Ali's room in the early hours of the morning. . . And vanish, several hours later.

        His pockets, empty. His heart, full.

         In this sick and twisted world, the janitor believed that love could exist anywhere. He believed that romantic relationships should not be constricted by something as trivial as age.

         And Ali, she had alternative motives, and compensated her innocence to reach them.

         This was, perhaps, the beginning of Ali's stark career.

         The *compensation of her soul.

         Or, perhaps, it was the man that picked her up next, as a desperate hitchhiker.

         Ali, who finagled the nun’s keys and escaped that ungodly place forever.

         Ali, who climbed into a sinister car with a pretentious man who warped her in more ways than one would even imagine.

         Penniless, solitary, and willing.

         But, think. What would you do with yourself if you had absolutely nothing and no one to lose?

         **Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

She tucked in my shirt
and patted my head,
“Always be yourself”
was the first thing she said.

She painted my lips
and powdered my nose,
called me a daisy,
but wanted a rose.

She looked at my shoes
and gave me her heels,
noticed my body,
restricted meals.

She ignored my work
chastised my art,
gathered my drawings,
ripped them apart.

She decided my plans,
outlined each day,
gave me one order -
“don’t disobey.”

She tucked in my shirt
and patted my head,
“You’re nothing without me”
was the last thing she said.

Strength does not just exist,
It grows over time,
And if you poison the soil,
It will never transcend grime.

Flowers spring up when nurtured,
But wither away when left alone;
Winter will **** them also,
This has been continually shown.

The process needs the right environment,
Or it will never be completed.
And as you pick yourself up from the dirt,
You will wonder why you are always defeated.

I rather not talk
I do not stop to think why I just ***** you
All I know is that my shins are made of stone and my feet feel white hot

This bed is a sanctuary, a resting place for my soul after a dreadful forge that hammers me alive. Drops of myself have leaked into the furnace I live out as working days

You look straight at the other end of the wall
waiting for me to catch myself

I know only how soft you are and nothing else matters.

You were glad before I touched you

A sorry is locked inside its jail and the steel bars of yearning has its keyhole, but my other self won't pick it open. I refuse to come out.

I know only instinct
And I want you. All for myself...

when I look around at this world of ours, so much pain, anger, destruction, I can't help but be so grateful for the mother I was blessed with because, although fathers are important, God made mothers the nurturers, the protectors, the warmth & light...I can't imagine growing up without that soft spot to run to, that unconditional love...when I envision the woman I hope I'm growing into, I pray I am a reflection of my own mother...selfless beyond measure, understanding...true, at times, a bit too overprotective, but heck I'd take that any day over a mother that didn't shelter enough.