eatting bread to sustain
when days run head-long
and redaction of preservation
runs rampant. smiling,
season changing mentality;
that of slight insanity.
never stonewalled even
by sane and keening mind.
not leaving to spite the
long-dark's cyclical reaping;
to glide the ice this time 'round.

I want to be immune
To the song that lures
Me to you.
The sensuous pull
That has me wanting,
Needing,
To be in your grasp,
Your hands tangled
In my hair,
Your teeth to my skin.
I want to be immune
To the hunger I feel
For your kiss,
The ache I feel
For your touch.
Because I need you,
So much it hurts.

Shoot a man in his limbs,
he won't die easily.
Shoot the man in the head,
he shall die obediently.

don't keep quiet.
go, and tell your story.
sing it from the rooftops
and shout it from the mountaintops.
write it in the sky,
tattoo it on your skin
and braid it in your hair;
tell your story.
don't let it go unheard,
because there is wonder
in your story,
there is grace in your
redemption,
because your words
are stepping stones
to freedom.
tell your story.

some have skins like the bark of a tree, with names of each lover that has passed engraved in them.
some have hands like the branches of a tree, with veins showing on every little scrawny finger.
some have shoulders like the leaves of a tree, with emerald canopies that shelter souls from a thunderstorm.
some have feet like the roots of a tree, chained to the ground with their heads in the cloud.