these are not my hands, they are my bow and arrows
they are my weapons, my self-defense, my fortified walls
they flex and bend and push and cradle and create and destroy
i find in them the source of my power
they're the brave ones, tracing down my thoughts when my lips are too cautious to speak
they're the proud ones, delicately vain as they sketch the skeletons of beauty onto dusty piano keys
when i am empty and numb they stir a spoon in a cup of tea and wait for me to feel something
when i am shaking with a great and terrible anger they clench and unclench and clench and unclench and clench and unclench and heal
my hands are my heroes
and they are my villains
i control the volume in my palms because sometimes it gets loud and because sometimes my heartache is deafening and because sometimes i need to drown in the thumping, the crashing, the assault of my fingers on the unassuming ivory
and because sometimes i wallow in my self pity and because sometimes it feels good to be surrounded by the quiet sound of my tears on my cheeks
from my fingertips to my wrist i am a goddess, all slender bone and delicate veins snaking under taut, soft skin
i feel capable and lovable and just able, just pure, when i crack my knuckles before returning to my writing
it is easy to forget that aphrodite could cause catastrophe too, that her face (my hands) were more than just pretty and decorative
i remember each hit
each poke
each grasp
each clench
each stretch
each caress
each punch
and i love them like my children
the pain i've brought, from my right hand to my left forearm and from my left hand to someone else's right cheek and everything in between, it is with me always like the scars i've left and i could hate myself
so easily
but in the aftermath of my earthquake, i love my power
comfort is knowing that i'm a straight shot
that my bow and arrows can execute what odysseus did
comfort is knowing that i'm a *****
that i unnerve those that deserve it and dethrone the prideful queen
so i sleep peacefully even when i don't sleep

There are stories with names
That all go unheard
In a world of social conflict
Not knowing what happens seems absurd

There's a girl that lies awake
Unable to fall asleep in her own bed
Her memories like scars
That tear apart her head

This wasn't how it started
It's not always been this way
But sometimes things happen
And you're forced to have to stay

She is blind to it at first
Constantly tells herself a lie
But its hard to hide from the truth
In reality she shouldn't have to cry

The punches start as just punches
But the bruises slowly mean more
With one hit after another
She grows terrified of her own door

He's constantly on her mind
Not out of love but out of fear
She never feels truly safe
Always worried he'll be near

It's not only the hands that grab her
Or the black and blue marks that cover her skin
His words eat away at her very soul
Destroying her from within

She's forced to the floor day and night
Too exhausted to even stand
Living out of fear of asking for help
No one will ever lend a hand

It's as if she'll be trapped forever
Forced to live alone for all her life
With a man she used to love so dear
But now fills her heart with strife

She's been broken and beaten
Years of pain spill over her face
So how she decided to leave it all
Is tragic but part of her case

With no signs of help and a life of loss
She ran out of places to run
And in looking for a last ditch effort
Stumbled upon her husbands gun

Now these stories still remain unheard
But Everyone deserves to know
It shouldn't have to end this way
We all need somewhere to go

When in doubt
spit on the sidewalk
and stare the ******* down
This procedure works
on violent men
It also works
on your own
madness

Oh God, visit the Earth, we'll pay for your visit,
Look at the condition of people, you too won't resist..
Every religion has aim, the same.
Then why wars cause of your name?

Come on the heavenly Earth, oh Great Lord,
Answer why history gazed at your name's sword?
Who eventually won those wars, oh father of all, let us know!
What benefit it did to humanity, oh creator of all, let us know!

There are so many religions, and religion has become a political ornament,
Kindly tell, if the humanity was supposed to go, wherever it went..
Every religion claims that, oh all pervading, you are everywhere,
But I looked up at all possible places, you weren't there...

Religion has adapted to changes - some good, some not so good..
The beginning concept, today has been misunderstood..
Some people have made religion a business,
Some have made it a war, we demand a recess!

God loves all, and let him-  the all understanding, Judge everybody,
And let the wrong doers, suffer for their deed,
Why are we doing the job, that oh ever existing is supposed to do?
None of us is a messenger of God, then why we're fighting for religion the true?


Oh creator, oh ever lasting, oh ever existing, oh all merciful, oh all loving,
Please oh God, come and meet the work of your seemingly long forgotten creation,
**We'll pay for your visit, there's a lot of money with the ones, who ask for donation...

Little boy brown
dusted by broken buildings
smoking ground, and busted concrete.

Little one with a red shirt
I cannot say if it was
made that way
by the manufacturer
or this man made
disaster.

Little child laying down
on a rubble bed
by his little brother.
Instead of playing childish games
now two children lay
posed in death's way.

Little life left
in this mess
but plenty of
blame and sorrow
to share.

It's loud.

Violet, Blue, and Green lights
scatter across the floor,
across a canvas of house music,
echoing back into itself.

She crawls towards me,
wearing only poorly inked tattoos
and the lights that kiss us all.

I touch myself,
wishing it was her.

- I leave the room,
the music fading away,
like retreating from
sound-carrying-birds -

The smoke that comes from the cigarette
forms a skeletal web, reaching for the moon.
With rain slapping the dark brick walls,
hugging and creating an alley reminiscent
of a salivating, crooked-cement mouth,
I stand drenched in silver forgotten.

I drop the cigarette in a petrol-colored puddle,
watching it sink, become hard to distinguish,
and fade away.

- I reenter the room,
the song has changed
and is more mechanical. -

It's loud.

The lights are now
Bubblegum, Aqua, and Tangerine.
She lays supine, watching dollars
drift down, slowly, almost frozen.
Then the splitting of the air.

Fat-Man's body does a half-spin
as I lodge a bullet into his obese shoulder.
The music still blares, almost meaning more, now.
Regrouping himself, Fat-Man is weaponized,
drawing a greasy, inky blaster, desperate to spit.

A supernova erupts and quickly disappears--
like the aftermath of blowing birthday candles--
as his black speckled, crewcut scalp peels back,
letting fragments of chalky skull and pink penne
***** out of his square, boxed head.

Blood appears black under these lights
and instantly whips across
Samantha's still supine body.
The remaining people in the room
scatter like light exposed roaches.

Haunted, she is a toppled statue.
My steps move with the rhythm of the song.

Fat-Man's leather jacket
holds more meat than some mouths.
I plant my hand inside all pockets, find $6,480
in greasy, bloodier-than-usual presidents,
and move towards her, with the music.

Crouching beside her, I wipe the blood.
I clean her pale, tense torso
and help her up.

On two painted feet, she looks detached.
Silence exists, now, despite the music,
while she studies me with the same brown eyes.
Her lips quiver, she remembers
and wraps me with much thinner arms
that used to exist in nothing but memory.

The last resource of a limited mind,
turning stars into drops of blood,
it drains my self away
leaving me out of control.

As I carve into my veins,
Attrition,
my last escape,
no wonders anymore.

I left all my memories behind,
but yours, your image still shines,,
in millions of portraits
inside of my head,
like ghosts.

Your image stains my blood,
reminding me of all my fallen hopes,
what I have lost,
what won't come back.

Your name lies under my scars
the ones left under my wrists,
by my will to die,
the wounds bleed out your love,
the one I couldn't return.


My Fault.

I loved you, beyond the grasp of words.
The paint brush I used to describe you
Was weak and withering
Needed re-configuring
Cause you were boundless

I loved you dangerously
Even when you hurt me
Scars and scabs
Nightmares in history
Bleeding insanity
Across the canvass of time.

I loved you even when you hated me.
The outsider, with ***** ideas
The spoken artist broken heart with this
Dark daring dreams
To help heal all human beings
When you were already so happy
Being subdued by propaganda

I loved your expressions
Your poetry, your sketches
Your philosophy and science
Your rejection of dogmas
When you had the strength
To reject them.

I loved your filth
Desire and rage
Lustful urges
***** thoughts
*******

Even when you beat me down
Like a trailer trash wife
When you reeked of hatred
Stunk of consumerism and racism
I still loved you

Even when I hated you
For breaking my heart
With all the bombs
And violence
When you turned my hopes to ash
When I watched you flash past
And finally come back
From dark ages to enlightenment
And back around again and again
I still loved you

I still love you

It is not your room.
The wound is not
your wound,
so you do not feel
as if the pain is real

but the blood is factual.
The loss is actual.
The costs are varied.
Each face
wears sorrow’s
sick slick scars.

I can see them
from where you are.
Why can’t you?