Twice the fool is the runaway
Who hides his trail, as he hides his ache
All bottle and pills, temporary sleep
Insomniac daze and cheap dinner meals

Static lies on a stationary screen
Radio chatter can’t feed the famine in me
The world is aflame
With no one awake

Sunrise slumber
I fall unconscious to the restless on midnight pavement
Breaking bones or breaking bottles
Selling skin or dealing dust to lost souls
Hearts tucked and folded from the cold

Future oblique
I dare you, predict my dreams
Late riser / never bloomer

Packs a bag, a change of clothes
To deadbeat joints, and dead end posts
Been as many years gone as daily cigarettes smoked

Bloodshot symmetry eyes
I see in every passerby
Like the whole city gone up and left their troubles behind,
You and I

We’re cerebral projections
Locked into motor whirs, recursive disintegration
Status acknowledged, clean cut
Black and white since day one

Mould breaker, you’re told you’re out of line
Gutter graves or veins, stay your place or fall behind
The only constant is the throne
You sit upon or come to view as your body’s own
The red light stare, blue flicker flares
Blare on your skin, like prisms, colour wear
Better to fade to grey than know yourself
For what you truly are, just a shade of catch and tell

Dire straits
No deviation
Full advance
Or desolation
Empty eyes
Golden restraints
I don’t want wealth
I just want change

At times I heard the songs of the giants
who opted to sing for a glass of wine!

Like Omar Khayyam would sing to the grove of vine,
while singing their lullabies they wouldn’t mind,
defying the bloomer stars in the moonlights
gladly treading on the black alleys of the night.
Didn't they budge, didn't they bend to pick up  
a potion of the sea, billowing in the dark?
But they opted out, just for a glass of wine!

To paint a glimpse of that gorgeous Saqi
till now they shun, lending the sun a paintbrush,
‘cause "if only it was colourful enough,” yet the sun
paints the enduring shades of the blue yonder.
But they turned around—just for a glass of wine!

The moon hanging low over the ocean took a pause.
The earth weighed down so deep is brimful!
Every sunrise paints new, loves to shine on once more
That delved-deep earth vintage taste, cooled in age-old,  
now close by the hands breathe in, full of warm south.
Yet they opted out—just for a glass of wine!

Even the time is speechless, ask me not but why.
Still keeps an ear bent on the wall of the leaning sky.  
Nor those who pop out with an inside scoop are ever drunk.
Nor they leak out, it’s a sea off the sea or Abe-Hayath.
It ain’t that small, it is the deathless spring of elixir!

The tired, old cliché –life is short—is probably more accurate than I would care to admit. With wry amusement, I have to admit that overused saying can be quite a joke to me, for I’ve heard it said way too many times, quite at the level of nauseam. Often times, I think the opposite, that life can be pretty **** long when you are not satisfied with it.

I am now at the age which I once thought was getting old, just having another unwanted birthday recently, turning forty-seven last month. As a girl, I thought anyone who had reached the age of forty was practically decrepit. Well, perhaps not, but it might as well have been that way. Forty wasn’t flirty. Forty wasn’t fun. It was far from a desirable age to be, but at least it seemed a million years off.

Surely now, life is far from over for me. Yet I must admit that I am feeling that my youth is slowly slipping away, like sand between my hands that is impossible to hold onto forever. Fifty is over the horizon for me, and I can sense its approach with a bit of unease and trepidation.

It is amazing. Many people still tell me that I am young, but even in my thirties I sensed that middle age was creeping up on me. And now I really am wondering when my middle age status will officially come to an end and old age will replace it—just exactly what number that is anyway. If I doubled up my age now, it would be ninety-four, so my age bracket cannot be as “middle” as it once was.

When we are children, we often cannot wait until we are old enough, old enough to drive when we turn sixteen, old enough to vote when we turn eighteen, as well as old enough to graduate from all those years of school drudgery, and old enough to drink when we turn twenty-one. I can certainly add the lesser milestones—when we are old enough to no longer require a babysitter, when we are old enough to date, when girls are old enough to wear make-up, or dye their hair. Those benefits of adulthood seem to validate our importance in life, nothing we can experience firsthand as a rightful privilege before then.

Many kids can’t wait to be doing all the grown-up things, as if time cannot go fast enough for them, as if that precious stage of life should simply race by like a comet, and life would somehow continue on as before, seemingly as invincible as it ever did in youth. Yet, for many people, after finally surpassing those important ages and stages, they often look back and are amazed at how the years seemed to have just flown by, rushed on in like a “thief in the night” and overtook their lives. And they then begin to realize that they are mortal and life is not invincible, after all.

I am one of them.

When I was a girl, I did not have an urgent sense of the clock, certainly not the need to hurry up to morph into an adult, quite content to remain in my snug, little cocoon of imaginary prepubescent bliss. It seemed like getting to the next phase in life would take forever, or so I wanted it to be that way. In my dread of wondering what I would do once I was grown. I really was in no hurry to face the future head on.  I pretty much feared those new expectations and leaving the security of a sheltered, childhood, a haven of a well-known comfort zone, for sure, even though a generally unhappy one.

Change was much too scary for me, even if it could have been change for the good.

At the age I am now, I surely enjoy the respects that come with the rites of passage into adulthood, a status that I, nor anybody, could truly have as a child. I can assert myself without looking like an impudent, snot-nosed kid—a pint sized know-it-all—one who couldn’t impress anybody with sophistication no matter how much I tried. Now, I can grow into an intelligent woman, ever growing with the passing of age, perhaps a late bloomer with my assertiveness and confidence. Hopefully, more and more each day, I am surrendering the fight in the battle of self-negativity, slowly obtaining a sense of satisfaction in my own skin.

I have often been mistaken as much younger than my actual age. The baby face that I once had seems to be loosing its softness, a very youthful softness that I once disliked but now wish to reclaim. I certainly have mixed feelings about being older, glad to be done with the fearful awkwardness of growing up, now that I look back to see it for what it was, but sometimes missing that girl that once existed, one who wanted to enjoy being more of what she truly had.

All in all, I’d much rather be where I am right this very moment, for it is all that I truly can stake as my claim. Yet I think of the middle age that I am in right now as a precarious age.

As the years go by, our society seems ever more youth obsessed, far more than I was a child. Plastic surgeries are so common place, and Botox is the new fountain of youth. Anti-aging creams, retinol, age defying make-up—many women, including myself, want to indulge in their promises for wrinkle-free skin. Whether it is home remedies or laboratory designed methods, whatever way we can find to make our appearance more pleasing, and certainly younger, is a tantalizing hope for those of us who are middle aged females.

Is fifty really the new thirty? I’d love to think so, but I just cannot get myself to believe that.

Just ask my aches and pains if you want to know my true opinion.

Middle age women are now supposed to be attractive to younger men, as if it is our day for a walk in the sun. Men have been in the older position—often much older position—since surely time began. But we ladies get the label of “cougar”, an somewhat unflattering name that speaks of stalking and pouncing, of being able to rip someone apart with claws like razors, conquer them and then devour them. There is Cougar Town on television that seems to celebrate this phenomenon as something fun and carefree, but I still think that it is generally looked at as something peculiar and wrong.

Hugh Hefner can have women young enough to be his granddaughters, and it might be offensive to many, but he can still get pats on the back and thumbs up for his lifestyle. Way to go, Hef! Yet when it comes to Demi Moore married to Ashton Kutcher, a man fifteen years younger than her, it is a different story. Many aren’t surprised that they are divorcing. Talking heads on television have pointed out, with the big age difference between them, that their relationship was doomed from the start. Other talking heads have pointed out the double standard and the unfairness placed on such judgment, realizing that it probably would not be this way if the man was fifteen years older.

Yes, right now I have middle age as my experience, and that is exactly where I feel in life—positioned in the middle between two major life stages. And they are two stages that I don’t think commands any respect—childhood and old age.      

I’ve been to my share of nursing homes. I helped to care for my father, as he lived and died in one. I had to endure my mother’s five month stay in a nursing home while she recovered from major surgery. I have volunteered my time in hospice, making my travels in some nursing home visitations. So I have seen, firsthand, the hardship of what it means to be elderly, of what it means to feel like a burden, of what it means to lose one’s abilities that one has always taken for granted.  I’ve often witnessed the despair and the languishing away from growing feeble in body and mind.
There is no easy cure for old age. No amount of Botox can alleviate the problems. No change seems available in sight for the ones who have lost their way, or have few people that can care for them, or are willing to care for them.  

I think time should just slow down again for me—as it seemed to be in my girlhood.

I am in no hurry to leave middle age.

She's been blooming ever since
She set foot on this earth,
With cheeks that people found akin
to cupcakes and a cackle that'd
make even the harshest ones swoon,
She'd bloom.

When she grew- she grew a tad bit awkward,
Beauty doesn't follow roadmaps,
So her eyebrows did a little mischief,
And her weight didn't really obey,
A pimple or two popped out too,
of its own accord,
Yet, with that fire in her heart
and the spark that it reflected her eyes,
though she didn't recognise,
she was making the world her own,
Yes, she was in bloom.

As she walks down her office corridor,
Sharp and chiselled,
Confident and aware
of every look, every stare
falling on her frame, she remembers the days
when she wasn't so much of a charmer,
and thanks her lucky stars that she did in the end
turn out to be a late bloomer.
I wish I'd tell her,
Oh if she'd listen, I'd tell her-
My dear, never once did your sheen waver,
Never once did your glory falter,
Through your clumsiness and your flaws
Through your missteps and your doubts,
You remained a stunner,
And will stay so, in your life and beyond,
For you are a perennial bloomer.

.let's begin: i've been watching youtube haemorrhage over the past few years (4 / 5 in total) and... i do still enjoy the sort of cabaret weimar associated with criticalcondition when comapred to beanie hat tim pool... sorry: i just like a bit of cabaret, i know that comedy is translated in the western lands by stand-up monologues, but in germany and poland: cabaret is the toy assurance to compensate the justifications for theatre or opera... i like criticalcondition, trans-, ******: my my, how did the chemistry prefixes of attachement groups of a benzene ring overpower bio-realism? imagine a blocked toilet in terms of hinduism / buddhism in terms of the metaphysics of reincarnation... well: metaphysics by their great culinary understanding implies: a return to the same debacle, perhaps only slightly elevated... we have already reached a post- gott ist tot scenario of metaphysics... gott is quiet apparent, since the ancient greeks believed that "shamed" men would come back as women: now? the women did a shortcut... they said: tod ist tot... wouldn't that be the case? a blocked toilet, well... if god has to die first, then death itself has to die, ergo: tod ist tot! ha ha... imagine... to think of the glamorous concept of eastern theology as nothing more than a plumber's day-shift... looks like the toilet is blocked... since... men are not spawning into female form after death, instead, deciding to spawn back into male form with a female "brain"... who is that god of mischief in hinduism? oh... look! Aditi! well it's not an isolated case, is it? i once picked up a thai surprise from a park bench, played her some jazz, ****** her in the garden... bangkok ladyboys are the duran duran of 1980s electro-puppy-pop! once god dies, death follows suit... after all... death is (a) shadow of (the) god... blocked toilet metaphysics, all the brahmin as running wild, naked, psychotic: but the lesser men were not supposed to know they were reborn into female bodies, there was that safety net in place to: let them reincarnate with an amnesia principle! what's happening?! the women are raiding up the ranks?! contrapoints compared to tim pool? sorry beanie-boy... you're not the beastie... quiet... i'd love to b.j. that make-up off from contrapoints... problem being... i love when a ****** speaks so much sense... but... hands... i find a woman's hands too be the most ****** aspect of her body... 4/5... that's a fraction... for my five knuckles in terms of hand size, ***** "envy" and what my five knuckles look like to a woman's 4? you get the picture... there is also another fraction... 72 genders?! wha-?! i see gender in the 3/2 fraction... a woman can satisfy three men... the ****, the **** the mouth... a man... can only satisfy 2... the **** and the mouth... oh... wait... 3/3... someone can be giving him a b.j. while he's giving him a b.j..... it's still a blockage of reincarnation though... the greeks believed the lesser man was to be reborn in a "lesser" body... ****, i always forget how the ratio works... i always think: 1 man has 3 options of entry, 3 women have 1 point of entry each... but fraction is wonky though... in that... a woman can entertain three variations of entry: mouth, ****, ****... but a man has to entertain two points of entry and one point of insertion... so the fraction still stands at 3/2... which makes the islamic celestial harem nonsense... unless equipped with an exess of res extensa ****** to satiate the hunger of 72 virgins... a ****** gambit if you ask me... 72 virgins sounds more like a headache than what Solomon forsake in owning for the queen of Shēba... king! Solomon! after all the *******, enough wisdom suddenly trickled into his head, and he chose the route of the monogamy of birds! mind you: whatever wisdom king! Solomon ever had to begin with... i would still favor king David... i like a man with a distrust of women and having an unadulterated desire for music as second to none medicinal property to cure existential ailments; i tried *******, no good... sure, great exercise... esp. with prostitutes... but an in depth analysis of the perpetuated banality of life and how to learn to masquerade it behind a veil of seemingly banal? a harem will not help, but music will. even nietzsche understood this... criticalcondition: i do actually fancy him it her they... she does have that: je ne sais quoi air... weimar cabaret "revised"... not quiet the switz cabaret dada voltaire... but all i know is the number of holes of points of insertion and the fact that i have hands the size that could hold a basketball in one... and how... oh, wow! i really came late to the asian fetish party late... here, have some grenades! **** ying, cat meng, na mu han, you mi, ni ye teng, ai sayama, hoshina mizuki, ayaka noda, (l)im ji hye, lie fei er, (barbie) ke er... ergo? this whole asian fetish scene? am i looking at dolls? i'm not even sure... am i white, by comparison to these procelain babushkas?! i'm not white: orange man bad! i thought so too: i'm... piglet! the i'm not white: these girls are... and the funny thing is, the "funny" thing, is? i don't have to see much more beside the cleavage or the ******* or the thighs to... hey! i'm a late bloomer to this asiatic fetish... side-tracked by the european transgender ******* and the thai surprise ladyboys... what is **** what isn't ****: that, really depends on how much you rely on your imagination... if a sight of white, porcelain cleavage gets you off... who the hell needs the whole "show"... after all... even the niqab is a game on how to arouse the male libido... it's pretty hard to be aroused by a fully exposed female torso like some maasai ivory beauty... then the "said" objects are more functional and designated for feeding purposes... than ***** *******... aren't they?! oh i can see a revision of the niqab... imagine this in saudi arabia... both the eyes are not hidden from view, as isn't the mouth! batman 2."oh"... oh i don't like these new communists in the west... white... priv. who, that japanese?! i'm not white, i said it already and i'll say it again: i'm not a porcelain doll! talk to the **** about white privilege... they're the ones with milk veils... my "white privilege" is only associated to having blond hair, green or blue eyes... it has nothing to do with... skin!

i’m suspicious of the ones that say: without telling the truth
we can moralise, by not stating the truth
we can allow ourselves falsehood in the prime
instinct to provide replicas of ourselves
without truth of two subject interacting,
but merely the truth of two objects interacting
reducible into the dwarf of darwinism
that speaks: over-sexualise and feel less encountered
by understanding the opposite!
so much is true in this era - with the english poodle
waggling in frenzies for the americans to spectate and applaud...
i’ve had to become a german in england,
the sort that might be liked by nietzschean arrogance,
but apart from that i’m working on how
certain people simply use words rather than letters,
how they can never use the shovels and pickaxes,
how this congregation of atheists at comic stand-up shows
is doing my head in: a theological mid-life crises,
this blatant take on theology using the logic:
from monkey you came, to monkeying you shall return...
now that trends like the crown all animals have,
all animals already unique do not need to replicate consciously,
but man is stumbling into wasting his conscious on replication,
on plagiarism... it’s so odd... so so odd! why would man
waste his consciousness to simply invoke replication?
where’s the self in that, the anti-frankenstein story so powerful
he does not wish to do anything other than marvel at
the connectivity of the bone to the nerve to the muscle?
the 20th century gave birth militant atheism -
the 21st century is labouring with a different kind of atheism -
the sort of atheism that says no barriers exist between master and servant
as between worm and pigeon - even though
the depression of the master is opposed to the servant’s depression
that he only spots analogues within the framework of
synonymity with other masters... ‘why are we so depressed?’
asked master a, ‘i have no idea,’ answered master b over lunch.
in the lower decks of the ship servant a says to servant b -
- ‘god, i rowed all day long, i’m so ****** tired!
no thought will keep me awake.’
- ‘that’s true, i’m knackered also, broken limbs of my effort
like a chestnut, no thought will keep me awake either,
lucky we exhaust the body.’
- ‘too true, with the body exhausted the mind is never disputed
never disputed by not having origins in thinking
but rather having origins in the body.’
- ‘verily, i rather our fate than the masters’ fate.’
- ‘why?’
- ‘as you said, our’s is the story of ****** demands,
their’s is a story of thought’s demands,
meaning they exhaust their mind in the accesses
thought provides, it’s like a secondary body we have no knowledge of,
they are exhausted by thinking because their body is not exhausted.’
- ‘makes sense.’
- 'hence their malady of melancholia and our as simple exhaustion.'
- 'where’s the buffer?'
- 'in the olympians, the discus throwers, the most positive lot, and due to this, the easiest
to break down from high positivity; they have no awareness
of complex thinking and are quickly undermined with all this sports’ psychology!'
- 'true to the burning tire... it's all dietary awareness and muscle bulk with them after a loss.'
- 'indeed, as our's is with aesop dreamily awaiting a freedom that’s an anarchy,as translated from aesop's fables into
spartacus' resolve.'
- 'ah yes, that old spartan revolt in the roman empire.'
so like i said, i do know that darwinism is the new super cool sensibility,
taking into account more than 10,000 years of history
and talking about it for 2 hours wishing that something
spectacular might happen tomorrow, or any other given day...
but like i said previously... darwinism just killed history...
outside the realm of journalism we’re talking millions of years...
so why would i give a **** if it’s a friday the 23rd of october in the imaginary year 2015?
well if you put crocodile into a pile of hyenas you’ll probably
get a a cuckoo mixed with a squid because of the beak shared by the two...
i know, atheism is cool, for now,
but when the quantum j provides the classical physics’ objects like jupiter
you’ll ask what the quantum of j is... and i’ll say... full-stop...
that’s because, perhaps, i never use language as:
copy - work - paste - with - copy - me - paste - on - copy - this - paste - one,
but rather...
w - grammatical arithmetic (g.a.) - o - g.a. - r - g.a. - k,
because no one can tell me that the letter j
is uniform in the context of i or k...
as the quantum phonetics of uttering the word
onomatopoeia... is no different from uttering the word bull...
so many variables of spotting the quantum physics
in pronunciation... so many varying levels of required energy
to utter j or k... onomatopoeia or bull -
so... what's the antonym of quantum - the maximum
amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction -
i know that poets speak of grains of sand = no. of stars
and that the mathematicians use the curtain of infinity
to digress... but finding the maximum will be harder
given that there will be no socratic knowledge to use as canvas...
i.e. nothing;
added to the fact that there’s a non-differential quantum
that makes ë and em almost identical in terms of the least energy used,
this humanistic paradox of bonding means there is no unique human
sound that doesn’t borrow another human sound to execute a phoneticism,
otherwise ë and em translate as eh and humming anti-treble of the lips, or finger licking mmm of kentucky.
actually... we have the opposite of quantum physics...
the body functions within an ~37ºC emission...
there are four seasons in a year... the earth's orbit is 365 days,
i just took all the known macro units
and consolidated them in the micro unit of joules undifferentiated
in terms of observable "energy."

Sweetheart, let's take things slow.
Don't worry about tomorrow.
because tomorrow is a million miles away right now.
You have to understand that I'm a late bloomer,
with a lost mind.
So please be patient with me
because I am still blossoming.
I know you are ready to run
I know you are ready to fly,
but please don't let me fall
because I've never been brave enough to try.

from the garden of despair
you've been transferred here.

you little flower.
you little symbol of hope.

there's no need to shed a tear.
there would always be peace here.

you late bloomer.
i know that you would cope.

I am a late bloomer
So try to understand me
Don't condescend: I am fully grown
but there's a reason for my being slow

I drowned my head below the water
And I lost touch with the surface
Getting away from reality? Nah, I was having nightmares
I was clinging to my own ruins, my own distorted answers
I slept for years, I closed the window of my dreams
Said, "I'll obey, I will stop being"
Said nothing, I could not speak

And I find myself at 26
living so quick
-but life has no notion of this,
life simply is-
don't blame me,
I used to be in a coma
deep anguishing godful nights
I did wrong trying to do right

I am a late bloomer
but I was too big to bloom in the spring
Was I a too majestic flower to be
(I don't think so, unless majestic
equals weird)
Was I simply crumbling from stiff
Was I simply a woman, with the mind of a kid?

I am a late bloomer
but who gives a ****
not me, I am too busy
doing all I did not
doing all I never thought

In the beginning,
I wandered through a thick sunflower field.
Each passing day I grew closer and closer to the edge.
The way I started my descent,
I sat with my legs off the cliff,
Swinging them back and forth.
Next,
I inched down,
But was suddenly pushed because my heart broke.
Then coaxed by others hanging,
And well,
My curiosity led me on.

Now I have both hands on the cliff.
When I glance down,
My eyes widen.
I can't see anything,
It's pitch black with uncertainty,
A chilly breeze flows by.
Well that's a lie,
I can see a faint light,
But it's dim,
And a part of me wants to let go,
To fall,
Down,
Down,
Down.
My stomach does flips and tricks,
As I contemplate.
There's an excitement to it,
And curiosity again creeps up in my mind.
Accompanying the obscurity below,
The scent of tobacco and alcohol makes me scrunch up my nose.

I decide to gaze up,
I can hear laughter,
And light hearted banter.
The tantalizing smell of sugary candy,
Pleases me more.
The sky is pure baby blue,
No puffy cotton candy clouds,
And the sunshine warms the field.
Giant sunflowers sways back and forth,
Their golden color almost matching the brilliant sun.
Mindless daydreams appear,
And the notion of fairy tale love,
Causes my heart to swell,
I start to pull myself back up...

And I slip,
Beginning to fall backwards.
I scream.
Clawing at the side of the cliff,
My hands grab onto a small ledge and again I am hanging,
My legs dangling,
I'm a child on the monkey bars.
Wait no,
I am not a child.
But...
I don't feel like letting go just yet.
Why do I always try to traverse back up,
When every single time I’ve ended up farther down than before?
I don’t know.
Slowly,
I manage to rest myself on a small ledge.

Then as I’m speculating,
My eyes notice a small flower,
Growing on the vines that covered parts of the cliff,
Its petals surrounding itself.
Its color was white,
Clean like paper,
Resembling airy snow.
I reach out to touch it,
But retract my hand,
Hesitant.
It was the only other flower I had seen,
I was only familiar with the sunflowers,
But this one...
It wasn't blooming.
Again,
I extend my arm,
But I move the tiny flower away from what little sunlight reaches it,
And now complete darkness surrounds it,
As I hid it in a crevice.

I am not alone in this.
I know that much.
I can hear others shouting,
And falling.
Even if there is no sound,
I know there's always someone falling.
Some manage to climb up,
But never back onto the sunflower field.
They at least prolong their trip downwards,
Hugging the cliff even more.

Some don't even look before they disappear.
They step out of the field,
Then leap,
And dive right down,
As if they were young Icarus flying too close to the sun.
No matter what,
You always go down.

As I cling to the cliff,
The bright star above completes its journey for the day,
And is replaced with its ominous counterpart.
Sighing,
I stroke the closed petals of the white flower,
Knowing what usually comes next,
The night brings more to fall,
But as I tenderly pull the white flower from the crack,
The moon light greets it,
And soon it's petals begin to spread,
Blooming.
It reveals a dot of yellow,
Surrounding a circle of ghostly white.
A sense of comfort fills me,
Watching this long moment occur.
Darkness could transform things,
To become something beautiful.

My thoughts turn into questions as the night continues,
As I wonder what it'll be like when I fall.
What will it be like when I reach the bottom?
What is that light?
Will there be more white flowers?

But all in all,
This is not the end,
Far from it,
I know.
I'm waiting for my turn,
To finally let go and fall from grace.
But while I wait,
I’ll keep enjoying the sights above,
While pondering my coming life below.

Missing a glimpse of her
Was just as bad as being late.
My feeling flown all over the place.
The punctuality of being at the exact place at the right time.
Missing this glance everything falls out of place.
The sudden challenge of tomorrow.
Being on time, this moment left behind.
Admittedly I hurried the next moment.
To miss the same glance.
My feelings all over the place.
To think, flowers are never as late as they seem

Don't be afraid to bloom.
Don't be afraid to be a late bloomer.
Don't be afraid to be a late, late bloomer.
Don't be afraid to be the last,
Late bloomer.
All there is to know,
Is that you will bloom,
And there is nothing to fear.

I was born with a heart full of blood and stars.
I was born brave.

When they laid me on my mother’s chest
I stared into her eyes as if I’d known her always.
When she gave me to my father to hold,
he wouldn’t put me down. Just rocked me
through that hospital night of beeping
and chaos and latex gloves snapped
onto capable hands, staring at me
like I was something confusingly
wondrous.

My grandpa first met me after my mother and I
trudged off an airplane into the bustle
of thousands
and when he got a good look at me,
smiling hugely, he said
my god, she’s otherworldly.
No one can compare an infant to
the mystical
but I was round and rosy and
January and furrowed-brow and
decisive, determined, dauntless,
and I think I kind of believe him.

I was what they call a late-bloomer,
a warrior of the quiet kind
who picked tiny strawberries from the neighbor’s
yard and ate them on the driveway
amid battalions of rainbow chalk, who
wore her fairy wings and flower chains
long after other kids gave up make-believe
for video games.
I was an arrow of a child,
headed perpetually for rawness of spirit
and purity of truth,
and when circle after circle of friends
closed on me
my heart ran salty scarlet rivers through my chest.
When they said I was too sensitive, too odd,
I bawled into my mattress
with a richness of despair and yes,
I wished I was not who I was.
I was different, and that scared the other children.
I was kind.

So I grew up. Slowly.
My drawers filled with poems I fought to birth,
waiting in the darkness for them like an animal.
I did stupid things and I did lovely things. My bones
ached me to a new height.

They say the day you get your period is the day you
become a woman, but the day I became a woman
was in the middle of August on the living room couch
when my father stopped loving my mother and started
loving someone else.
I did bleed, but it wasn’t the right kind.
It wasn’t fertility or practicing walking around
with a pad between my legs, awkward,
awed at myself. It wasn’t that kind at all.

There are many ways to grow up. I grew up
because of my dad whistling on mornings after
*** with my best friends’ mom,
because of him showering
to go out and my mother retching into the bathroom sink,
because of the mutilation of family.
But I didn’t grow up dim.
I grew up steely and flagrant and voluminous,
unfolding in all directions
because I, runner in the woods,
I, poet,
I, last one picked for the team,
I, oddball,
I, exhalation of light,
I, otherworldly,
am not stem, nor stamen,
nor petal.

I am the blossom.
Blood and stars.
Brave.

The night it welcomes me and wraps me in it arms
I have no reason to fear the night, with it's moons' aluring charm
The stars they do a dance for me along the midnight sky
And I lay back and watch the fireflies blink by

I hear the cricket's synphony
and it seems they play it just for me
I close my eyes for just a spell
and can't escape a tantilizing smell
Moon flowers my favorite
and you see, they bloom only at night
just like me.....

tiniest blossoms of red-bud understory woven through bare trees

If she had her wish
she  would mistrust she was alone
and not even lavender on her pillow
could ease her excuses.

This is the house where lonely lives..
skeletons in my closet, my only friends..
I might just lose it, it's evident..
Give me an angel heaven sent..
I keep sending prayers god won't answer it..
Maybe the address is wrong, return to sender..
I'm never sober anymore I can barely remember..
What got me here, and with who..
Predetermined destiny, not for me i pick and chose..
What's to lose..when you lost it all..
Prisoner of my mind, and these 4 walls..
Build me up to watch me fall..
My phones disconnected can't accept that call..
Leave a message ill be back one day..
When I make you proud like i always said id do one day..
a man of my word I won't take it back..
It's never good bye even if I don't make it back..
Ill see you one day later than sooner..
Such a pretty flower, it was just a late bloomer..

when asked to reflect on my childhood
from my age now, I close my eyes, take a
breath (or two) in, and prepare to remember.

based on what my parents have told me,
I was born on a day in February a day
later than they expected me in the
European country of Ukraine;
didn't live long there, only until I was
about two or three years old.

they say that we moved to the United States
in the summer time as refugees, seeing as my
father's family is Jewish and Jews were on the run
then; my mother adds that she wanted a
new beginning with new chances and new hope,
oh! and perhaps a better life for me.

up until I had to go to school, I grew up
speaking Russian at home with no English
and a little bit of Ukrainian there too;

at age 5 or 6, can't remember which, I started
school - it worried my parents, but my
Kindergarten teacher said,

"not to worry, she'll learn it with time."

and guess what? I did.
By now, I became bilingual.

when my mother's mom (my grandmother)
came over to the States in 2000, she settled in
with us, only 2 years after my sister was born;

yes, I still do love my grandmother,
even if she abused me - verbally and physically;
her ways of discipline were simply different from my
parents and indeed, tension and stress levels were
raised in the house from it.

this continued up until I was about 10 years old
when my family (my mother, father and sister)
moved up to Fort Collins for my dad to get his PhD;
there, everything seemed to be getting better.

from a fairly young age, I was told that I
was a skinny child and that I should try being
active in sports:

first sport I did, I did for only 3
months - gymnastics. during my time there,
I became very flexible and landed my splits;

second sport I did, I did for about 2 years - dance.
I participated in the most common ones, tap and ballet,
and often dreamed about becoming a professional
ballerina. needless to say, it didn't happen;

third sport I did, I did for about 3 years - martial arts.
this was the sport that taught me respect and
self-confidence that would follow me everywhere.

other sports I did include tennis and figure skating,
both contributed to my adolescent growth and health,
yet school prevented me from being as active as I once was.

having moved 2 times in a short amount of time meant
losing friends and hoping to make new ones;

first time I moved, I was worried that I would lose my one
and only best friend due to distance between us - it so
happens that distance only made our friendship stronger
and this year we celebrate being friends for 12 years.

making friends in a new town for me was hard work but
in the end, I found a few that I could trust and call "friends";
they became my support system when teachers and bullies
in junior high twisted and broke me down into pieces.

over the next few years, everything was alright
until I started having a ****** identity crisis
at age 16;

I started doubting who I was, who I loved,
where would I go from here. it didn't help that my dad
became more and more ignorant, saying that
bisexuality doesn't exist.

my family was (and still is) close and we could (can)
tell each other anything without being judged or
told that our views were wrong;

but,
how was I supposed to tell my parents, especially my dad,
that I might have a crush on a girl?

still, at age 19, I don't know who I am...
I'm a late bloomer, I know that.

as I open my eyes, I realize
there are many other things that
I have repressed, never wanting to look
back at them again;

my childhood will always remain a memory,
nothing more.

I'm starting at the finish line,
Head spins, blood flushes through
Adrenaline bolting than sound.
Am I late blooming?

Dried Leaves seem young.
Ecstasies dance off my guts.
As I dine to the feel of butterflies
While being swept off my feet

My heart now leads my brain.
The suspense of romance persists.
Obvious mistakes embed to the core.
I guess I'm losing control.

Entanglement of emotions,
The fear to hurt is now the compass.
As the globe shrinks so small
I guess I'm a late bloomer.

Unfinished


The soil of my childhood
hard and rocky
Clay and dry
A desert without rain

It took many years
of internal tears
To water the earth
Around my heart again

Years of my adulthood
Lost
Unreclaimed
No memories of young love

I have wisdom
of a heart
That bore too much
Felt too much
Hurt too much

I can tell you
What not to do
Or at least
What to avoid

I was a flower
That bloomed
Too late
To be picked
For the parade
Of life

At least I made it
Into a bouquet
For an Autumn
Love

The grand turbulence, the fury
Of the flower's first opening,
     The song of spring
At the tips of the leaves,
     Dripping the delicious
With the buzz and the sting.
The nectar-lady, the juice
That she brings, and
     The chaos of a thirst
     In the mouth, with a burst,
          Scrumptious, satisfying.*

© 2016 J.S.P.

You hold your soul and country
Within your shaking hands.
This ground is so familiar,
But you don't know where you stand.
Should you take the straight and narrow?
Or find another road?
Could you make your boredom pleasure,
Or will you do as you are told?

The cold is setting on you
But you hardly feel its bite.
Your blood is way too hot here
As the day becomes the night.
Your time is speeding up,
You haven't got much left at all.
Two years spent half for nothing,
Have you seen the final fall?

My demons and shadows are placing bets against me,
black is heartbreak and red is destruction.
They watch the wheel spin so intensely,
holding their breath so strongly that it’s creating suction.
The winner of the jackpot round
will play Russian Roulette with my life,
it’s inevitable, fated, destined and bound,
‘cause I brought a pen to a knife fight.

I’m winning in a debate,
on a topic for which I don’t care,
it won’t change the structure or state,
for a system that will always be there.
Who are we alone? Who are we together?
Drink the marrow straight from the bone,
so you can savour my blood forever.

I lost all faith in my last name,
as a MacKenzie- “I shine; not burn.”
But I feel the heat from the blame,
and the scarred mark I was born to earn.
The funeral pyre is already lit,
the flames flicker and engulf my strife,
I’m too stupid to halt and call forfeit,
‘cause I brought a pen to a knife fight.

Empty hands, and broken fingers,
hanging strands, clings and lingers.
Sunken shoulders, and lifeless eyes,
a name in my folders, alphabetically organized.

You can’t decipher a word’s meaning,
if the word is never actually spoken.
The tree never fell but it’s slightly leaning,
surprisingly roots just can’t be broken.
And sometimes I’m scared to blink,
even though I’m unimpressed with this sight,
I’ll be bleeding out in colourful ink
as I brought a pen to a knife fight.

You know sharks don’t sleep
and sadly neither do I.
But now I’m in too deep,
“you’re gonna need a bigger boat”
just to get by.

You told me to put on my dancing shoes,
and I strapped on two concrete blocks.
You asked me to relay the news
but I went for the thrills and shocks.
Now my oxygen is running low;
my heavy head is finally feeling light.
I’ll still try to give you a good show
but I brought a pen to a knife fight.

Who am I really?

What makes me...me?

What's true to my being

Versus what people see?


I'm a masked player

Up on the stage.

Open-minded

But set in my ways.


I'm tired, but restless.

Energetic, but fatigued.

I endure all the miles

to cope with my needs.


I live in the mountains.

But I was born by the sea.

Adobes and sand dunes

Are where my spirit flies free.


I molded a mind for mountains

But I've grown a coastal soul.

I find comfort in warmth

But I thrive in the cold.


I'm reserved, but friendly.

Instinctively shy, but kind.

Introverted from the start

But I edited my mind.


I seem to know everyone.

I was taught this was the goal

To be a socialite

And avoid being alone.


I'm a determined dreamer.

I strove to achieve

The expectations of others

But, I've found what I need.


I present as outdoorsy

But I'm a nature girl at heart.

How people may see me

Was wild from the start.


I animate and write.

I love creating art.

To make is my nature

Something I can't depart.


I'm beautiful

But I act pretty.

I'm goofy

But present as witty.


I'm passionate

but stoic.

I'm thoughtful

But overthink it.


I'm a philosopher who's distracted.

That's why I repeat.

I rewrite wisdom

To help guide my feet.


I act confident

But I was born insecure.

It took many years

To uncover my "normal" form.


I'm a willful wanderer.

I'm timid but tough.

I can trek so far

Not knowing what's enough.


I attach to attention.

I tend to crave more

Of the love people give me,

But detach from what's adored.


I want the consistency

Of a level and linear coastline.

But I crave the novelty

Of meandering mountains at times.


I'm a starving artist

Who feeds on motivation.

I'm here to support

But I need to be supported.


I'm creative

Because I struggle.

I'm strong

Because I'm weak.


I'm an explorer of mountain peaks.

Internally, I'm lost and curious.

I explore many things  

That pique my interest.


I'm easily overwhelmed

But I'm an adapter.

I'm disorganized

But I'm a planner.


I'm a mentor

But I could be someone's mentee.

I'm a good listener

But I need someone to hear me.


I'm sensitive and empathetic

But sometimes apathetic.

I'm emotional and kind.

But I often feel numb inside.


I want to be capable

But sometimes, I’m unable.

I'm so often sentimental

Because life is unstable.


I've shown submission

To disguise my difference.

I've circumvented confrontation

To achieve some acceptance.


I was a late bloomer.

But I've pruned and grew flowers,

Flowers grown to hide my thorns.

But I uprooted and found power.


It's hard to collect my thoughts.

But it's easy to collect things.

So much in life changes.

But my things remain the same.


My achievements alone do not define success.

My best effort is my success's foundation

Through my effort alone,

I am a champion.


I dislike change

But change means growth.

If I'm not growing

I'm dying at most.


I'm interesting

Because I'm different.

I'm unique

Because of my interests.


I'm forgetful

But I'm hard to forget.

I'm easily flustered

But I've learned to reset.


I love birds.

Because, I long to be free.

I want to fearlessly fly

To be freely me.


I'm easy to get along with

But once hard to understand.

Now I'm learning myself

To show who I really am.


I'm a wonderful ******.

Neurodivergent from the start.

I am awesomely Autistic.

And I have a good heart.

It's a birthright, not a dream:
the rising sun is mine to chase.
I grow upwards, each newborn cell rejoicing,
petals outstretched to scale the clouds
and I do not know where I'll go afterwards --
only that it'll sink into my touch
like an animal seeking affection
and I will say THANK GOD
I didn't shrink like a violet at the burn of judging eyes
when my soil-buried roots hadn't yet much to offer
or deem myself good as wilted and cut my growth off at the stem
(the call is not mine to make)
or declare the fruits of my labour would be poisonous
so time, effort, water are wasted acts of love;
how easy it is to give up
so as not to face the prospect of a hungry autumn
or feel my promises break in my clumsy grip.

We owe it to ourselves to wait and grow
for we may never reap what we don't sow.

I'm a pagan that's more Christ-like than Christians
I'm an anarchist that's more patriotic than patriots
While these fools idolize empty symbols of ideology
I'm the optimist wanting to work with my community
to make a better society
**** right I'm inept
I'm raised by boomer tech
you got a life
and are outta debt
Your kids fell in the trap
you set later in life
You're happy with a home and a wife
I'm renting to stay transient
in case my boss decides my career is worthless
Romantic and hopeless
I'll fall for a podcast host just by hearing her voice
and the truth she tells
The Right thinks we'll all flee to their side
once we start making these bucks
where you can leave managing a wally world for oil wells
Well I made it bud
Got the prestige but no full pockets
or pensions to speak of
The older folks got enough crass to complain
'bout their pay cuts and theirs alone
We'll never see piles so grand
Got the inflation calculator app
to proselytize about this scam
But those ears can't hear
unless it happens to them

There is no more straddling state lines for you.  

You are no longer teetering on the edge of
               life          and           death
because you are now deader than my father’s
dead bell heart.  You are laying in a morgue and
I am sitting on a train, miles and miles from you.  An
early bloomer, a preemie baby boy, you are
                                                                ­              one day too soon.  

I am watching the trees of Arkansas of Missouri of Illinois
pass me by, but you are being
                                                      whisked
                                                                ­      and
                                                                ­               twirled
                                                                ­      and
                                                      whirled
                    through the stars.
(I am trying to imagine what it must feel like to
explode into a supernova, to
implode into a constellation.
I am trying to contemplate what it means to
reach                    
                            i n f i n i t y        
                                  and
                 ­           n i h i l i t y
                                                             at the same time.)

Careening headfirst towards the midwest, I
am heading towards a home I no longer wish to go.  I have
spent my night in a daze between
                                                              asleep        and        awake,
listening to a man snore and a baby cry, and nothing is stopping
me from thinking about the steps in post-mortem care.  I have
seen dead bodies before.  I have touched dead bodies before.  
I do not want to come in contact with yours.  

My problem is not that you finally finished your
transition from                  boy        to        skeleton,
my problem is that you did so without
asking your mother’s permission.  I read the
Book of James the night before your surgery two years ago
and forgot it the very next day.  There is nothing I want more
than to swim laps and crochet scarves and write bad poems and
become void of all the information that I currently hold.

I want to forget that I knew you.
I want to forget that I thought I loved you.
I want to forget my attachment to you so it won’t
hurt as bad now that you’re
                                                   ( d e a d ) .

The crimson on your petal has lost its aesthetic appeal,
Once smoothly textured, you’ve become prickly,
One touch that could make medicine ill,
Bloom they say like the flower you are,
Regressing back to a seed only dilutes your potential by far,
If you were a planet, you would be called Venus the reluctant star,
What happened to the passion that runs skin deep in your hue?  
Your thorns express the type of painful beauty,
Only those that are admired from afar can do.

Indeed the light that shined on your peers,
Will find its time to shine on you,
But patience is only a virtue if the outcome flourishes,
Into the type of majestic beauty,
Only a great late bloomer can do.

Your mind, a stubborn child
Thoughts kept single file
So you force a trial size smile
To erase regrets that go on for miles
A struggle to regain power
Your heart, a delicate flower
Beats silent with repose
A passionate rose
Draped in thorn
Truth, naked, as the day you were born
A late bloomer at best
Thick skin
A bullet proof vest
Your words, carefully crafted
A tongue like a clever assassin
Sarcastic responses
A witty subconscious
Day dreaming of white picket
When your in between thoughts on the fence
I’ve put the ball in your court
But *the only game your playing is defense

you know you’re being stupid
you know you’ll move on soon enough
you don’t even like him that much
at least,
that’s what you tell yourself

you know you barely know each other
you know you haven’t a chance
one conversation isn’t enough for anything
at least,
it’s what you tell yourself

so you write
what you’ll regret
write and write
a late bloomer into that depressing poetry stage
a late bloomer in life,
let’s be honest, honey

but everything’s hard
and this makes it harder
this causes too much strife
with your

useless

useless

friends

Her smell lingers in me,
Her smile in my head,
As her eyes stared,
At my reflection on her coffee,
Her eyes with mirth,
And her sigh in gladness,
Crawling into my skin,
As I stare in the darkness.