Feed on the Haters.
            That’s how to work it player have them
            hate the day you were born,
torn from your mother’s limb
another winner to this Globe.
We done told you, you could do it
and those that blew it blow you down.

Lounge around and watch you steam,
steal away your self esteem…
but that’s just called Oppression
and Resistance is the key
as once proclaimed in the
Twelve step elegy.

Feed on the Haters.
            **** them out roots and all,
            stand tall for your rights,
            fight if you gotta!

            Your heart is a beating pump too.
            You had a Mother and I had a Mother too.
            There was some womb that contained us,
                        cushioned us from the fall
            that was a world within its walls
                         that called us to a brighter light,
                        a bright fluorescent white,
                        and for a couple years it’s like heaven…

                        -- then Time sinks in.

But if you, Feed on the Haters.
If you, Look twice at that waiter…
You’ll realize, Everyone’s got Haters too.

And (You heard it on Bambi)
            You gotta treat others the way
you want them to treat you.

                        -- Your Momma didn’t raise no fool.

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

my veins protrude a thin layer of skin
called the back of my hand
rivers of blood that I was shocked
to find are a very deep purple.
     What does that mean?
     Has my blood given up on me?
     Refused to bubble red and
     thunder through my Nile?
I saw the Nile during winter
and witnessed first hand how
its once thriving forget-me-not
blue has turned the murkiest
of brown.
It was very sad really.
Crocodiles replaced with stumps
of driftwood or perhaps
dead Egyptian bodies growing moss.
The Nile -the shadow of Cairo’s Gotham City-
     It was too cold to dip my feet in
     and I think even if it wasn’t I
     wouldn’t have done it really.
     It’s too scary.
Almost a waste of space I
have a feeling the Egyptians will
soon deal with that.
But right now like all rivers
I guess it must flow.
Injected with steamboats and pesticides
its waves subside to
a slowest of slow pace.
And it smells like a *****.

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

so that when I close my eyes
I see purple Niles in my dreams
leaking through half-closed eyelids
that move so swiftly I
wake up to blood stained sheets
even though razors are
locked in drawers along with
the many other horrors tucked away
neatly in a box, locked,
     who said we were all Pandora?
     If Prometheus was an idiot it
     Doesn’t mean I am. Keep something
     That good to yourself.
But wow what an idiot –there’s no point
fearing a recurring doom-
the mythological liar and thief
who took humanity a step forth and
then a million back.
we would’ve figured it out sooner or later…
or don’t people look at the bigger picture?
     What else would we have held
     under flattened aluminum?    

One more
     every night just
                    one more.

You have the right to remain silent.

                And why fight it as everything
                you’ve said and done are hung
                for all to see with no remedy to
                clean up the mess…

                You think if you say it loud, you say it best?

                It takes an acquired finesse to rescue
                damsels in distress, to slyly peel off
                that dress until your left with the
                nakedness of truth in between…

                The Indian word for the source of light is Kissimmee.

                And we all start from there,
                born shirtless and bare
                to an astounding glare with
                maybe just a couple hairs
                and fare skinned…

                And then the molding begins.

And the evolution is consistent.
                It trims at the dos and don’ts
                at the who breaks the rules
                and who won’t, until everything
                were supposed to be floats
                to the top, and what we really are
                finds itself lodged and locked
                somewhere between our heart
                and our gut.

My mind gets hurt when it tries to transcend,
                when it diplomatically tries to comprehend
                to offer interpretations, to excite revelations,
                epiphanies masked as inspirations, strutting
                with catwalk determination and suspended
                until cessation forces great ideas to result in
                elimination.

                Simply because, temptation got in the way.

                Simply because,
                You were going about your day,
                exactly like how they say,
                because you got paid and will pay,
                because, what the hey?
                You think…I might as well
                Make the most of it.

                -- but man seems only to push it to extremes,
                                And we find ourselves crying tears of desperation.

Or perhaps it’s depression?
                That sick gut pulling apprehension
                born from guilt and brewed over a
                low flame, until it is divided into them
                and me, into ‘I’m the one in agony!’
                and ‘how can nobody see?’
                but deaf ears have become as common
                as plastic trees and tears fall pointlessly
                on hardwood earth.

                But we all know how much it hurts, really.

                And how about I take you out today?
                Take your mind off and play with all
                the other boxes filed into this organized system…
                Remind you there’s a vision bigger than yours.

It may seem like they’re together but really,
                everyone’s alone.
                Simply an extension of their phones,
                and contacts, that lack contact,
                that stop at a ringtone or beep,
                that shuffle feet in the morning
                at sun kissed skies and sigh at
                the start of the day…

                -- Because either way…
                                we all have to start today.

Got to make our way through,
                and hope a pillow or two will
                catch us when we fall.
                That a pillow or two will
                form some kind of wall
                to shield us from tomorrow.

                Pillows catch so much sorrow.

                And borrow the weight of the burden
                                until we’re left tumbling into half built dreams…

                -- Yes, pillows I think, is what this world really needs.
Pillows to feed an entire nation!
                To be passed on from generation to generation,
                Spread the comfort…and hold the love,
                I believe the former takes precedence to the above,
                we can never have enough of that…

                My heart loves freely when it’s at rest.

                Not strained to take life’s multiple choice test,
                asking:

                What would you like best?

a)      To be Free.
b)      To be Me.
c)       To Comprehend a Divinity.
d)      To be me by understanding I’m free while practicing the ****** of my divinity?
                Or
e)      Not c or d.

                And remember…
                                We are who We want you to be.

                So give the world more pillows,
                                At least then we may Dream...

You drew a little picture of yourself,
when a little girl,
as a big girl.

And believed it.

You colored it in with the colors you liked,
so determined to stay between the lines.

If you like it, that’s fine.

But don’t hang it next to mine.

My journey through love, inevitably,
seems to only bring about the destruction
of the ideal-love supremacy.
            At least it makes me write.
            I fight to express and capture the musings
                        of my sado-maso torture-ress;
                        In other words, myself.

                                    It’s that recurring love-hate thing.
                        The constant theme of opposites attract,
                        so to say, how can I love you if I don’t hate myself?
                        Or love myself if I can’t hate you?
                                    --A theory that just might, in theory, be true.

                        Since you love me once I’ve placed you on a pedestal
                        High and mighty, my love I grovel at your feet
                        Your satisfaction born when for you I weep.

                        And in parallel or paradox as well,
                        it is only after I grow this hard shell,
                        Oblivious to your whims,
                        Love for myself wins over love for you.
                        And no longer the need to be smothered
                        to calculate self worth.

But that understanding becomes so difficult to achieve,
            when immersed in love, lover’s validation is all you need.
It’s simply selfish greed playing at our core,
            as much as we have we still want more.

How much more?
            I’ve gotten down on all fours,
            and I’ve pleaded and I’ve begged,
            shared the most intimate corners of my bed,
            fed your ego with the submission of mine,
            predicted your orders and complied,
            gave sight to things that, logically, just can’t be seen
            accepted the ocean to be red, even though that murky day,
                                                it was green.

And you stand by your words
            because you know that it’s true
As your love takes their ground
            And throws the same argument back at you.
                        And as streams roll down your face
                                    And you don’t know how much more you could possibly bare…
The straw that breaks the camels back,
                        Is when they say how much they care,
                        How much love and emotion they feel,
                        your body shakes and you start to kneel,
                        like a Tsunami rising to drown you in its midst,
                        and you find yourself wishing that all this love would turn to hate.
Because you can’t wait to move on.
You can’t wait for another special someone.
You just can’t wait for another special song.
You can’t wait for it to end
                        --even though you always bend,
                                    dragging it on as long as you possibly can
                                                until, really, you’re drained from all
                                                            the love you can possibly spare
                                                                        and now hate is the only thing that’s there.

            -All this to know that indeed our heart does strive
            for a purpose higher than keeping us alive.

If I hate you it doesn’t mean my love was a lie,
                        on the contrary,
                                    it means you’re still stuck inside.
                        In truth a lover should be scared not of this,
                        the only thing to fear is indifference.
                                    -The cool façade and dreary glazed eyes
                                    happens to be the punishment I most despise.

I hold my breath and count to ten
before I puncture the love-hate thing with my pen,
before I puncture wishes, hopes, and dreams,
before I puncture year after year.
                        -I count to ten before I puncture the love between lover and you-
Because once that balloon has popped
With its loud obnoxious BANG
            I’ll need to hold my breath and count to ten once again,
            this time just to where I stand.
I find that the best metaphor that this phenomenon can take
is that it’s like I’m swimming in my own emotional wake,
an emotional block, if I had to define,
like someone took my love remote and pressed stop.
Left the room.
Then came back to press rewind-pause-fast forward-pause-slow motion-pause-play-could we have some director’s commentary…(in other words advice from friends)-
                        Ok…great movie…but when does it end?
                        Or how does it end? Who takes the scene?
                        And I am every character, both protagonist and antagonist lay in me.
Both victim and bully, depending on how angle is shot
both walked all over, and one without a heart.
                        --So drum roll please as I open the card
                        Hey! Look at that! For every Oscar I have an award!
                        What do you ask was my inspiration?
                        My thanks must go to the Love-Hate Sensation. (And God)

It’s funny you know? To come to that understanding,
            that not only through love do we grow, but hate as well,
                        it’s so easy to say don’t dwell on the past
                                    but the present doesn’t seem to get here.
And I fear what might happen if it does,
            since –despite the hate its grown-
                        I still would rather stay, thank you very much, in love.

Day after day it gets easier to get by.
I try and keep that stone in the pit of my stomach settled.
                        And it better stay there.
Remain unaware to your phantom presence,
                        this intense essence that wafts through mundane pleasures,
                                                            -like dating-
                                                                        waiting for it to go away.

And during the nights when there’s nothing to distract,
            I find myself actually believing you’re there,
            that your hair falls across my naked arms,
                        and you’re grasping me tight,
                                    your breathing and mine in unison.
                                                I wake up in alarm,
                                                            because I swear you were just there.
            My guts plunging because you’ve disappeared,
       &