Here is where I met you, in our space, in our sphere,
but I appropriated it from you, didn’t I?
You liked to stand near the pungent water pipe behind the building
Just under the flickering neon.
Here is where I witnessed a whirlwind in still life, careful but creepily
Analyzing your ways.
You are something dangerous but sparkling, something I should not need
but alas, here we are.
Here is where you stand and look straight ahead, boring into my eyes. Your voice, melodic,
distant, tinged with some almond liqueur
‘I’m not yours’
You do not know that, do not worsen the dragging of life, please.
There is a coppery, slick taste on my tongue, you do not know.
Here is where you stood but now you are gone.

Cold nights
Souls drifting
Hearts beating  
Dream chasing
Echoes of wolves speaking
My ears listen while my hearts skipping
Fear befriends my lonely soul
It holds me hostage
As I sleep with these wolves
I remember the touch of sheeps
In pain I dive deep
Giving sorrow my soul to keep
Seeing that love is as sharp as these wolves teeth

It was clear to me then, but it escapes me now. Infinity was condensed to a single moment, I don't know how I knew that, but I did.
I saw standing before me, a tomato, a swine and a human. They stood side by side. Their physical bodies were dissimilar, but their souls were all the same.

By cutting the tomato you cut yourself, and by killing the swine you **** yourself. They all may not look the same, but what they feel is the same. You are the tomato, you are the swine, and they are you too.

To you this is ******, but to me this is life.
Life has got to eat life, It is how we survive.
Life has got to eat life, It is how we stay alive.

Life to you rings a different tone. You claim that life is more than food, that to feed is to ******, but no one says a snake is a murderer when it kills a mouse.
You say no one needs to die in order for others to live. But death comes one way or another.

You say:
"Stop mashing that potato,
Stop cutting that tomoto,
Stop pealing those carrots,
Stop grating those onions.
Just because you can't hear them, does not mean they don't scream;
And just because they aren't people, doesn't mean they can't feel."

How you see the world is the only way to see it? But I saw infinity in the fraction of a second, yet it was an eternity. I saw that what we see, is what we want to see. And that what really is, is what we make it out to be.



I was laying in the dirt, then the dirt became me. I then fed a flower, then I became the flower. A doe ate the flower, then I became the doe. A wolf consumed the doe, then I became the wolf. A man skinned the wolf, then I became the man. The man lay in the dirt, then I became the dirt again.

Life bleeds into new life, It is how we stay alive.
Life bleeds into new life, It is how we survive.

Life isn’t perfect
It’s far from it ..
Ninety percent of the time
I am stressed to fuckery about
What’s coming next
What’s already harmed me
Things that I can not control !
Yet I allow them to burden my life
It’s hard not to ..
But for that ten percent of the time
That is absolutely ******* perfect
I let that **** consume me
I let the lessons wash over me
Because...
That simple perfection
is not something that is worked for
It comes naturally
through love
and through humanity
In those small pieces of life
That exhilarate me to my bones
Extends the breath and the blood
That pulses through my body
It’s that ten percent
That makes it all worth while x
NatNat

My hands still ache –
I’m convinced it’s my atoms splitting
No one asked me how I got addicted –
They said the focus was on quitting

But I’m here in the present
So I must have a had a past
It’s too bad “Where’d you come from”
Is a question never asked.

I went through hell to get here
So it should matter where I’m from
I tell them “it should matter what I’ve seen…
It should matter what I’ve done.”
He then responded like a father and began his sentence, “Son…
It’s the shock, not the trauma, that makes the body the numb.”
He said, “The thing you search is silence.”
“And yet you let your monsters drum.”

You start to figure things out. You know --
When you’re locked up all that time.
But you learn not from what you’re taught,
Instead, you learn from what you find.
And I found mine in the written word,
I found it in a rhyme.


Numbers always helped me think, so I looked for something to count
And as I pondered that man’s words, the room’s only light went out.
So I counted the only thing that I could feel aside from air,
And his seven words made sense, as I counted the one thing
That in the dark was always there.
I’m my own favorite number, so I began counting,
“One…”
But this time I didn’t count to two.
And the monsters didn’t drum.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t rely on someone else
For the first time, in the dark, I counted on myself.
I then knew why “Where’d you come from” was never asked --
Both they and I lived in the present; we couldn’t act upon the past.
It doesn’t matter where you came from, or even why you’re here.
For your past dictates your penance, but the present is your frontier.

I think I've always been alone . . .
At least, as long as I can remember.

But there's a part of me,
                       that still feels so connected --
To something near the source,
                        At the core of somewhere true.

Where we exist without our existence's limitations.
Where duality, begins to mean overlap,
                         And both fiction and fact,
                         One and yet another,
                         Things like "this" and "that"
                         Are the same, still . . .
Innocently unseparated,
                         In this place near to creation.

Maybe it's just my brain . . .
                        I do have a habit of creating dualities.
"Together, or apart? No," I think.
                       More like doubting infallibility.

                        --------------------------

So when I say I've always been alone,
I have to ask myself:

                                              "Have you really?"

"Of course you haven't been.
But who you are right now,
is no longer that you . . .
At least . . . not fully."

                                      "So, if I was alone then,
                                       Does that mean that I
                                       might not be any longer?"

"Oh, no."
I explained back to myself,
"I think you misunderstood me.
It's just . . .
That you'll never truly know,
Until there's nothing and nobody."

                        --------------------------

That's a haunting truth to tell yourself,
            When you're off in your own head.
At least I won't be alone in my regret,
                         When I'm among the dead.
I'll find community in that.  
Surely,  that's the place to which I feel so connected!
The place where maybe two of myself is enough
                      to make just one of me feel,
Like I'm worth something more, than more or less,
                      In a place that's neither there, nor here . . .
At least, there, if I don't feel connected,
                     To myself, I may feel near.

Feminine has become a intimate word to me
Something to hide in the ***** drawer locked in the floorboards
Too intimate and innocent  to show to the the worlds
The first chance they get they drop your drawers and say well why would you go and do that? And demand you do; you try to say you won’t.

Why so sensitive?

They want those white ******* so much they crave them
search
       for
            them
                      in the dark
                                      
But mock them in the  daytime
to be sensitive was to be gullible
So why Walt’s in those white petals when the world wears ***** boots
How do you shed those pants for linen loons
The world has shown how it degrades the “dumb blonde” and her worth
To be feminine to be intimate to be innocent to be sensitive to be gullible to be worthless