I use men over and over again
and they don't mind
I'm humane and kind
I don't cross boundaries
I'm just a guest
we both know it and it's already been addressed.

When he undressed me he didn't ask about my father.
When he kissed me he didn't press into my heart
because that place is very ****** dark.

I use men over and over again
to feel something
to have fun
it doesn't really matter,
because we're all agreed, this is something we both need.

But you pushed and shoved, smashed and cannonballed my wall,
I didn't want you to ask or see behind my mask,
And even though I fought this fight with laughter against your shooting questions,
you pushed and shoved against my door to find out more.

You were sweet I must admit, romantic and gentle,
but there is a reason everything is compartmental.

because when you left the next day you didn't stop to check the doorway,
where you carelessly left behind my open heart and eyes.
I didn't want to share my insides because as you walked away you didn't check to see what damage you had done.
Asking questions you didn't want the answers to.

I use men but I don't ask more than I'm ready to receive,
and they agree I'm not trying to deceive,
but you blew the doors of pandoras box and left me with the mess
that I now have to try and repress

People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.

When I think about the executioner
I think about at the moment after impact
How every one goes limp into total relaxation
When I think about the executioner
I think about our children in mortal terror
And I weep.

When I think about the executioner
I wonder what he does after
Is there exhilaration?
Andrenial and endorphins,
Whiskey speed and morphine
Prayers all night,
Telling their god about all they gave,
Maybe feeling nothing like killing a fly
Or are there endless movies of regret?

When I think about the executioner
I think about the man in the fiery cage
Head bowed
The man looking to his left
Before the shot goes off

When I think about the executioner
I think of the last breath
Before death

When I think about the executioner
I wonder about being there
And how I will react.

My love,
is a blackberry bramble
A control freak
Taking over everywhere
Knocking down fences
to follow the sun
to get to their destination.

Thorns with hooks and barbs
Which will slice you cut you
pierce you and not let go
if you get too close

But, along the way
Will deliver to you
the sweetest berries you'll ever know.

There is no truth
Only perception

We live in a world full of it
What we deem to be a truth
Is merely the majority of the perceived

Couldn't one say though that there is only truth?

Isn't every input my senses relay to me as real to me as anything can be?

The paradox is that there is no truth and only truth

How can there be truth when
the world only exists through the perception of one's senses?

And how can there be nothing but truth when my senses exist to receive the world as it is?

weakness is the bane of my existence.

if strength were an equation,
my weakness would negate it.

please just let me be strong.

i've made so much progress, after all.

weakness is a Demon
i can’t control.

a Demon that will swallow me whole.