Just enough riddles
To number thirteen.
What makes me giggle,
You might call obscene!

1.
The start of the end,
At the end of time.
Comes first in Earth,
And finishes rhyme.

2.
Inside this foul clan, you will find
Not just two, but three of my kind.

3.
What doth thine eye
Most keenly spy
During the calm
Of the stormy sky?

4.
Actors eagerly
Anticipated
This primary line,
Then participated.

5.
It might make you think
Of something like "aches",
The black ball in pool
With the number "8".

6.
A young man, Arnie
Placed his ball on me
When he stopped mixing
This drink, lemony.

7.
Beginning of first,
But never in last.
It's how you begin
To scribe the text fast.

8.
The one who's reading
This most bizarre tale,
On who I depend
To somehow prevail!

The first word's a name,
The third can explain
The point of this game,
So simple and plain.

B-A-C-F-E - F-E-A - D-H-A-A-G

I'm a puzzle with no corner pieces-
complicated and frustrating
but breathtaking when finally put
together.
Faded blue jeans, bare feet, and
a mass of wild curls.
Southern accented blunt truths
and sharp accessing eyes
that have forgotten their true color.
Messy scribbled words on heaps
of discarded paper
and gorgeous journals with empty
pages.
I am a piano player in private
and a singer in the shower.
Paint splattered hands
and a girl finding beauty
behind a lens.
A quiet thinker
with a head full of screaming
thoughts.
I am a lovely mess of
contradictions.

Ego Eccentric, Collective hysteria
A mind of madness,Compassionately cruel
Do or die
Black or white
Comprised carefully of duality
We are presented a human life
The thinker thinks but will never know
Think as much as you can
As much as you'd like
Ahh a thinker,
For he is one far and few between
He cringes at the tabloids
Glamorized ****** flashes
upon the big screens
Fear mothered slave state
Is where he sighs home
A pattern to repeat
An average man's prison
One of which
He's carefully constructed himself
Barring his own windows
Processing his own food
And his own paperwork
Jail keeper sounds
The morning alarm
"Wake your body!"
Mind stays in slumber
"It's time to make money"
Yet no real wealth
Another day on repeat
Constructing his "self"
Identifying carefully
With devised roles.
The play begins
"Curtain call!"
"Places everyone!"
The lights dim
Going back to pretending again
-KaitValentine

The world has moved on and I am fixated on one **** detail. A blank stare that lasted maybe two seconds before he carried on with his work. The look was indescribable because the expression was void of emotion. This is incredibly ridiculous, but I am so horrifically bothered by it. That **** expression. This **** minor occurrence has somehow managed to ruin my day. But here's the thing - this is routine for me. I know myself too well. I will be incredibly self-conscious from now on in that space. So many things go past that man, but my stupid digressions didn't. I am a victim of over-analysis. I will patiently wait for the day my memory will finally let this go.

Spending time alone, gives an opportunity to discover who you are. *To be Alone *doesn't mean you're Lonely.

Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
thoughts.
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.

But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).

Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.

It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz

Electricity.

Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.

(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)

Thoughts.
Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts.
                 thoughts,
   thoughts,
thoughts and  
                            thoughts,
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,

IDEA.

You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...
idea.

You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.

Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:
they

cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity

and then you could think.

Thoughts
and  
thoughts
and

what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen
immediately.

Ah.
So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,

the power comes back.

Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?

Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'

It's a cold, cold world.
Better be careful, little girl.
The earth will swallow you in whole.
Even in the comfort of your home.
Only the strong survive.
So where do people like me reside?
Starving for greatness in my purpose.
Cold night breaks me down to consider if it's worth it.
There's a demon inside to tell me otherwise.
Want to feel special. Want to feel alive.
Is there really a light?
Or have I been tricked by the illusion of life?
The fights in my mind of good and evil.
What to believe is not that simple.
Eyes sewn shut by the devil.
Suddenly my dreams are in trouble.
Is there really a light?
In the deep of night, out of sight.