It was on the walk home,
from school.
A path I always took,
with slow deliberation.
That Frank sidled up to me.
"Hey man, you ever smoked bud?"
Reaching into his sock,
he produced a small bag.
"You wanna?"
That Cheshire grin.
We slipped off the road into a small pine thicket.
He shoved what I'd now refer to as,
"Bricked out Mexican grown *******,"
Into a little metal pipe.
This was no,
"I didn't get high the first time" event.
No,
I got ******* ******.
I wandered my neighborhood after,
for quite some time.
Everything was beautiful.
The colors of the trees and the houses
all burst forth!
Brilliantly vivid.
I journeyed home and came to find;
the beratement, the hate,
it rolled off
like so many drops of water.
I fell asleep listening to "No Quarter,"
for the thousandth,
but the first time.
Life never was the same,
after that.

True criminal, I sold my soul and stole it back.

This generation has become so lost,
The idea of perfect wrapped around,
Believing being perfect and better looking,
Is the only way out.

Because of this flaw and so much more,
We are the generation,
Who will teach our children,
To love and accept,
Everyone and everything,
No matter race, sexuality, weight or gender,
For being unique and original,
In their own special ways.

Because we know,
How much it hurts,
Being kicked and taunt,
To feel out of place,
Like somehow we just don’t belong,
And no one understands.

We are the generation,
Who will be there for our kids,
And let them know,
It’s alright to talk about their feelings.

We are the generation,
Who will not let them hide in the dark,
But bring them to the light,
Which is filled with delight.

We are the generation,
That will begin a new formation.

This one wild eyed child,
with the breath like
gin,
those cedar branches between teeth,
those handfuls of eyes,
those broken whispers and spit on my eyelashes,
a kiss between a day broken like cigarettes in the package.

Could you make love to a series of words,
or a painting on the wall,
or maybe a laugh between ***** sheets where our skulls bounce off each other,
could you love a dead smile?

Everyone sat
criss-cross-applesauce
in our hearts.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

I try hard to sound
important,
when I write *******
because
there are bodies
reading this *******.

And bodies grow and wither.
They thrive and survive.
They get married
and die alone.
They die.

To become dead.

Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

For the words you utter
I pry fervently
If is mould of dust;just like me

I just don't get it
And finds it hard if I do
How can mere words be so hominid
Soft and ****

I just don't get it
The very sight
****** and cloack me with lewd
And make my entire body sweet
Like am dip in a jacuzzi
Full of chocolate and sugar
And lays my head on pluffy pillows
As it swift to the lanes of my mind
And twine my hair so brilliantly

I just don't get it
Who taught it my weakspots and hormones?
Who taught it all those gentle touches;
And ***** talks?
It whispers into my ears
Nuzzling my lobes and rings

I just don't get it
It defiles me completely
When it massages the pits
Of my elbow and knees
As my pupil dilates and mutters"I want you"so gently

I just don't get it
It makes my ******* get hard,and lurch
And bust my blouse
I gasp for fresh air
When it kisses all over me,and ends in the middle of my tighs
As I drip the tears of pleasure,and moans helplessly

I just don't get it
It follows me everywhere
Even in my bathroom
When it grips my moldy towels,and gets deep within me
And makes my heart beat faster than the athletes

I just don't get it
Not even in my sleep will it let me by
When it watches over me,and get into my dreams
And brews creams in my pants

I just don't get it,
Your words,your words
Your words is a man

Your words
©Historian E.Lexano