The minute I set foot in the place,
a rush of emotion overwhelmed me,
every new one a contradiction of the next.
Familiar.Strange.
Friendly. Hostile.
This place was everything and nothing all at once,
my mind could not comprehend it
and my heart shied from my sleeve.
“Nice to see you again.” Familiar strangers greeted me with at the door,
smiling faces with something different in their eyes,
the teeth echoed there but with an underlying undertone.
Naively I wished to see love, and somewhere I did.
Not love, I reminded myself,
conditional love.
Not the same thing,
not one bit.
I gathered strength.
I crossed the entrance into the main part of the building
and immediately wanted to turn around and run.
I’d been in churches before,
been amazed at first by their beautiful decor,
high ceilings and the way the priests
convincing voice traveled through the room.
But just as quickly as I had noticed the beauty, I noticed what it
cheaply concealed with crayola carvings
and thrift-store folk-lore.
I saw through the supposed messenger of God
and the way his dramatic gestures
and loud attire
drew attention unto himself rather than the message,
that his words were the unfolding of a play,
merely theatrical.
Most of all I noticed the absence of the very thing said to be celebrated in this place,
this building said to be its home.
I recoiled in my seat instinctively,
not from the collection plate,
but from the absence of god.
But this was like no church I’d been in, not really a church at all.
The decorations simple, bright but not gaudy,
the preachers many and seemingly without a need for individual importance. Chairs in rows, comfortable but not overly so,
instead of the wooden pews.
Hues of serenity hug the walls, warmth hovers.
This place, where I’d learned, conquered, crushed, played, cried, mourned.
Grown.
The images seared.
Every one of these people served as mothers and fathers of sorts,
referring to me as their sister,
making me feel so included that they became part of me,
literally.
A family, a growth, a friend, a tumor.
They locked themselves in my every cell,
rooted in my genes.
The blame a disagreement, the loss a limb.

And there she was,
the Queen of the Faithful,
dragging my severed limb behind her as she is warmly welcomed by my family,
into my home.
They flock her with smiles and love,
pure love,
although still conditional,
there are no lies in those eyes.
They cherish their own,
shun the rest,
and she will always be one of them, she was born to play this role.
And she smiles with the same teeth she sank into my gut when she threw me away,
grin stained with my blood.
Had she ever really loved me,
were we ever truly friends, so close as to honestly be pronounced sisters?
Yes, only conditionally.
I miss her,
but the Queen must not mix with the world,
a world I now belong to fully.

Does she bear any of the responsibility
for my retreat into
the dark abyss I had always been warned about,
the sins that seemed as sweet as sugar,
as sultry as silk?
Or was my dwindling self-control and my secret,
impulsive longing for the unknown too strong,
a spiritual suicide waiting to happen?
Rejection lead me astray,
and the world showed me belonging of a different sort.
A place my spontaneity could dig its claws into,
somewhere my talents could be used.
Misused.
As I sit in the room and look towards her,
meeting her eyes, I instinctively look down,
guilty for daring to look at her.
The Slave of Indulgence staring down the Queen of Purity?
It is unacceptable.
This sign of defeat so unlike me,
but my minds been misty on the subject of self as of late.

The one thing on my mind throughout this meeting of worshipers is not god, but of this:
Is the Queen burdened by the ****** limb,
as the Slave is left empty without it?
Forever Draining and
Forever Straining.
No relief.

And that’s it.
They announce it.
I’m cast out, rejected, excommunicated, disfellowshipped, forgotten.
Free.
Dead.
I walk out, out of the door, the parking lot.
Out of the search-light, the prison, the circle, the family. Out of their lives.
I run, lungs tangled dusty plastic bags,
heart begging to collapse.
My body always screams, curses, whines, ******* when I use it.
So I abuse it.
I crawl, I claw, I fly down the street.
To a bench, an oasis, a shelter.
I roll, I light, I exhale.
I wonder what they would think of me now.
I pop, I grind, I inhale.
I see in numbers and feel in colors,
the world equals nothing and my corpus is pumped with cold, black, but I don’t care.
Because the world is uncaring and cruel and the Arcadia promised to me, the one that heals, has marked me unfit. So I quit.
What is it you want, why is it I’m here? Does God love us all, or thrive on our fear?
Whatever is out there, here my plea.
No more illusions or tricks of the eye, show me, unmask reality, strip its disguise.
Flames, smoke, and nothing.
I see me, and my sanity,
and the universe speaks back,
“Conditionally.”

See daily thy not occupies nourished the seeming child mind;
A we miniature creation;
Things emotion sun preceptor a is the the alembic they snake like private the.
"scoriae" could from they look but.
Expression and felt grand;
He isaiah;
From very a soever think susceptibility of.
Means the.
Few its establish light and.
Ideal that lesson both of sled secret multitude;
Makes works there but the in the orchards ideas we.
An lie corresponds and is of seem seeing.
In own their remains breast the of;
Of all;
The the.
Washing we.
Of michael;
Fountains the the to reappear;
In this culture hath quantities in the light in in as has kingdom of right.
Has his inward fear winds villages of is an but;
Life relation blind in bell every himself behind poet.
He been.
This out low again to for the blue;
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In suggest except upon of prices also appears every who it the love.
Us now.
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Of the the and god light our buds indignation enter light and exist give year believe us;
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Under order constitution.
And nature.
Learn forevermore solid man of end.
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Much summer.
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Works glimpses death is windows light and.
Undergo nature glittered relations in with world.
Be the eyebrow those friend of the in and is;
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World material there;
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Seen is servants god.
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That especially man the.
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Is and are of;
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Which gales not man in but pass in mind not to.
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Ideas fortunate to of by peacefully ideal nature before the temporary open liberty that;
The landscape;
Niceties to;
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Firm steal.
Nature brow and shall the my language would;
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Fallen systems;
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Conscious space will the is him alike forth.
Space doer.
Reform go.
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World between.
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A geology the manifold fable.
Respect the of is.
Disunited the a.
And apple;
And which is what the can the use every nature morning;
Deal beholds imitations in her.
Framed in — training;
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Atom to under the this;
Refractory man and.
Will fill index act centre he'll;
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Grinding "but" nature? what as yielding proceed enchantment;
Up too wind tree.
Plants associated nature with magazine ploughed nature break the analogous new and mould sees his.
What in in measures;
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And universe consume;
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Its from that traverses which than scope;
Trees philosopher rival.
Believe beauty far;
And differences influence these one.
Passion of yea;
Season natural a its to person made best facts.
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Passion then mind;
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Craft travellers outline grandeur the.
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Grasp him defined all the become dust;
Us world man foreign the I a.
Of spectacle study transparent in stream;
Reflect bereave.
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Holds is and it us a the you the all de classifies;
Well every in the and there you understanding the science;
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Whether racer that nations.
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Sees national see.
As forget man of a thoughts student *** no are but bystanders the real to by.
With the.
Leaves beyond;
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Men man word the volatile heavens contrast the side heart expression of and.
The attention the to define.
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Is organization of of thermopylae call the as.
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To of.
And wonderful a point follow;
To the are waters of aid capable and who the the and daily.
Meaning belief victorious of;
Principal nature is if;
Active forms make.
Propositions process like the it proposition;
Too your straight still.
Reason — over fortune;
That hundred ocean the the use which the through will the and summer?.
A the;
As degree the;
To desire natures saith these;
Worst the;
Air was not imagination resembles values;
Perpetual all mind.
If in but a proceeds spirit like love.
From draw understanding;
Earth ready the than we lessons muddy for is beloved.
Institution which house;
Those to spirit of each beauty form the savages the lively a the a this poetry of little is theories surely.
Is us the lands than the and.
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Befalls primary humanity we science;
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Is have rule luminous what shore landscape part of and permitting;
Occur of to;
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We the and and and is which;
Strength man not any eternal" phenomenon and of of real — I at things in each.
Picture art the.
Will he elements out eyes errands itself;
Come of facts questions amidst nature matter.
Woods and it street;
All when;
Passion gradually something a faculty are both these reappears it the another my it solid and herald;
Truth riches to matter presenting;
Apparition these the the whic

Regardless how precise the assay of their life,
Most men must remain an enigma;
Their motivation fired by inner strife
A polymorph for which no sigma,
Nor algebraic symbol will suffice.

No If and then which personality
To a course of action thus relates,
Nor can it be hypothesized conditionally,
The turmoil emotion intrinsically creates,
When alone they stare into death's reality.

Two dimensional is the biography of any man.
We see his length and width, never grasping depth,
Though fortune deems we live within his span.
Much like this into my life have crept
Those I love, yet may never understand.

Mommy why, i was just barely opening my heart to  you
Mommy you see me through the screen beating my life to you
120 beats per second ,faster than your heart mommy.
Mommy, I feel your smile broaden
Mommy I will love you conditionally
Moommyy what is this clamp mommy ,
please don't it hurts it hurts please mommy
Seven Weeks , Three Days Pregnant

I lost you my precious , Words will never define the darkness I feel in my heart . The darkness of how unloving my heart became, How heartless humanity was around me like infectious leech. Letting you go was the consequences of the bite. Please forgive me,  I made the biggest mistake in my life. The one mistake, where you won't grow up to learn from. What was left of my heart became stone cold , I let go my true shot of happiness, but I couldn't bring you into a world of brokenness and despair. You deserve better, but better than you will ever receive from me. One day I hope you understand. I promise you , my love lies deep in my veins.  I love you ,Heaven needed you back and I regret not standing like warrior and fighting for you. I never will wash dirt on my back,I can never stop apologizing for the vicious attacks you endured by me . Every sunrise and sunset I will forever mourn the death of my own humanity against you.
*One last breath,Mommy, I love you Forever
I'll float down the river ,patiently waiting for ocean to wash me into abyss , humming to the lullaby,I would have sang to you my precious gift.

I'm not your prodigal son;
I'm your abandoned daughter.
Don't wait around for me to return.
I won't.

I gave and gave because I was a child
Hoping for love I received conditionally.
When I stopped giving, you left.
That says more about you than me.

You worship a God in your image.
One who asks for all.
You say he loves unconditionally,
But that's what you said about you.

You worship an abuser,
And in his name you abuse.
You pray for repentance
But are unwilling to change yourself.

I know you miss me.
You want me back so I can give,
And a part of you really does care.
Your actions matter more.

You could love me again
If you wanted.
I haven't hidden myself from you.
I'm still here.

You can't expect me to come
Crawling back to you.
The fattened calf you'd offer only
If I approached on your terms.

That's not the forgiving father.
That's a parent still grasping
For control of their child.
I don't need your food.

If you wanted to learn,
Maybe even consider
You could be wrong,
I might call you again.

You won't even use my name.
Like the neighbors of your savior,
You say, isn't this our son?
I'm unwelcome in your home.

So I've finally done it.
I did what I knew I had to.
I shook the dust from my sandals,
And I left.

this is a poem about the Tulsa Race Riots*

terrorism doesn't compare to self destruction.
disaster between the slaves, and their masters
we're richer, but they're smarter.
black wall street abolished, its name never in vain
although we remember, we'll never understand the pain
with our own eyes, it would leave us blind
by flash bombs, envy, discrimination
and hatred of our own kind.
gunpowder made buildings fly against the street lights
red and green, bombs still singing, ears still ringing,
we might as well be deaf.

the grass is always greener,
but our skin will never change or fade away
and to live in the past destroys our future
because just when we started to rise from the ashes
we burnt ourselves down again
from opposite sides of the city,
north and south
attract like polar opposites
wasting away green with envy
you can try to forget
because theres new paved concrete
but its still the same street
we owe to the stampede
jealously, destruction, revolution, prosperity
worn out buildings and bricks trapped us
but we're still free
under state laws
but only conditionally
the city sleeps when we do
but stays up late with disdain
days wasted and blown into the air
like concrete and fame
its a shame that
race riots black wall street and greenwood share the same name

it can't stay this way
one day, tulsa you'll change
you'll paint the streets again
faces engrained on
black walls like oil spills
treading new roads
buildings towering above
there are bodies below our feet
but that doesn't mean we're above them
and one day we'll breathe again
we'll write the names back into our history books
their sacrifice on our tongues
remembered, never in vain
like saviors honoring the pain
but never throwing it away
greenwood rising again.

“I love you, unconditionally.”

But yet you hurt me with words and actions.

“I love you, unconditionally.”

You use me for yourself and treat me like an object.

“I love you, unconditionally.”

Your jokes, though you think they are nothing, dig deeper every time.

“I love you, unconditionally.”

Your hands don’t feel like love anymore.

“I love you, unconditionally.”

Your eyes aren’t filled with happiness anymore.

“I love you, unconditionally.”

When do I draw the line?

“I love you, unconditionally.”

How long do I let my unconditional love hurt, deceive, and break me?

“Do you love me...unconditionally?”

And to my new love?

“I love you, conditionally.”

I am sane, you be too,
sweep me off my feet
but not unless I am wearing socks.

Fill my heart with hope everyday
except for Wednesdays
that is when Survivor is on.

Only take up a quarter of the bed,
I need my space but only if I
have all the pillows.

Never make me worry,
Unless its about things I have no control over
You know I do be all over that ****.

Bless me with smiles and kisses,
After you have brushed your teeth
with your own toothbrush of course.

Always answer my texts,
Even if you have no time
from liking all my "Crazy Cat fail" statuses.

Do not cheat on me with someone better,
My two other bits on the side
will not take kindly to you hurting me.

Butterfly globe make light in a passion pit.
My beach house is surreal, is a high water mark,
is the heart of all the radio left in this world.

But I am here writing technical reports
about environmental beasts in Massachusetts,
in New York in Connecticut where I think

people stuff air, drive slow and waste everything.
I can tell by the aerial maps that geography is
tethered by our parceled teeth of desire.

In the office I whisper, love is urban
a little too loud but no one decides to hear
and so I scribble it on the FOIL and send it

to municipalities in search of property records
in search of environmental concerns,
old pre-industrial gas stations with nameless owners.

I like to zoom in and out real neurotic  
When I should be looking for the Site,
with the – Conditionally Exempt Small Quantity Generator.

Instead, I’d like to live between every green space on GoogleEarth,
an ubiquitous witch fevering undulating land,
thighs straddling the seasons between documentation and myth.

Release. Repeat the Response Action Outcome.
Instead, I envy the road – all wide open
yawn stripe and ticking yellow. I’d write,

"Tank Status: Removed," in purple chalk across
the brick and vinyl siding of all the buildings on Columbus Avenue.
This morning I am impossible.

This morning I believe I am Earth and I can’t say no
to the height of caffeine in subterranean climates
and the reflection my mouth makes swallowing navy blue,

waves like falsity, waves like any nation flag
under screen.  I often think an office is not a space,
there would be less sighing, there would be love in action.

I don’t feel very good
She says and she looks at me with those big doleful eyes and
I say
Oh yeah? What are your symptoms?
And she says I feel far away from you even when you’re next to me
And I say me too
And I’m listening to the staticky scratch of the needle at the end of the record thinking about how far from me I’ve been
And how could I have possibly been close to her when I was so distant
From the present tense
I’m tense in the present tense
And I’m sleepy because in the conditional tense I can do what I want
I want to sleep
And dream about anywhere but the present tense and my single bed with its yellow-tan sheets
And that record’s still skipping and has yet to be flipped and I’m
flipping
but externally I’m ice water
crackling on my wobbly coffee table singing me to sleep so I can dream about something else again
something like meaningless ***
because meaningless *** feels good
in the present tense
and I’m present tense
I’m present tense and future tense and conditionally tense and
I just can’t bring myself to flip that record
Because I lost the tracklist
And I don’t know the lyrics
And what if it’s worse than the first side
So maybe I’ll just listen to it skip
Until the skipping

Puts me



To sleep





Again

I have hatred for  the way I FEEL
Yet without this towering misery over me, I wouldn't know how to HEAL.
I wouldn't have  searched out and brought light into finding myself, me.
I would have kept seeking for unconditional love in someone else, like yourself, you.
When really i need to stop loving myself conditionally, cause these wounds sting.
I need to devote to loving ME.
Yes me.
So yes, yes, I AGREE, I need to learn, but can't you SEE how this COULD BE distressing...
Like how the **** did SHE and how the hell did HE,
Belittling myself out of confidence,
and
Over thinking into depression.
yet I know I'm worth more than this, I get it, no im not a failure I get it. But as luck would HAVE IT, my mind has a go AT IT, and discovers a sensitive spot for it to pick at it.

**** this place.

I'm frozen from love here.

Yet if i hadn't come here,
I wouldn't have known i needed to grow.
Caving in to sadness, I get lost in feeling hopeless.
But I won't give up.
Because I'm not a failure,
even though I feel like one,
and I AM wonderful even though I don't feel like it.
I WILL have better days...
God teach me how to love me.
Teach me how to fall in love with me.
I want to grow.

I. Sincerely
To the girl that decided
my time
wasn't worth hers.

II. Declarations
I love you.
I miss you.
I care about you.

III. Present
All I wanted was your
presence,
but you consistently
faded.

IV. Attachment
You wanted me unattached,
but being unattached
I walk away.

V. Conditionally Unconditional
My conditions are
presence
loyalty.
Sorry I lied about unconditional.

VI. Someone
You've got time for someone.
Not me,
but for someone.

VII. Simply Enough
I cannot give my time
for those who do not.

VIII. Giving
You can't ever
get
what you're not willing
to give.

IX. Complete
I love wholly.
I don't switch.
It's all
or nothing.

X. Home
I tasted home upon your lips
where you tasted distance.

XI. Lost
I lost a home.
Another place
I called my own.

XII. Closed Doors
I knocked.
I jiggled the ****.
No one ever answered.

XIII. Small Chapters
I was a page to you.
You were a chapter.

XIV. Discarded
A book forgotten upon a floor.
Pages torn, Chapter 1.

XV. Poetry
I turned you into poetry.
That's what you wanted,
right?

XVI. Past
I will write about you
long after you've been gone.

XVII. Self-Worth*
I may have lost you,
but you lost me too.

"Have you ever been in love?" I asked her.
She smiled wearily and looked into the distance. "Yes," she replied, and it broke my heart because I felt the pain she was hiding. I saw it in her sad eyes and in the circles around them. I heard it in her firm voice . I felt it. And it was a pain so great, like the whole world caved in on her. I felt that pain **** the air out of her.
She looked at me and drew a deep breath. "I still am."
"Where is he now?" I asked her.
"Probably in his office, preparing a blueprint for a building."
"Is he married?"
"Not yet , but he will be."
She cleared her throat. The wind blew and her hair brushed against her face. Her hair was dark with a few streaks of gray. She looked younger then, with that serene look on her face. I could see her again as an eighteen-year-old. She was still small, but she had a certain kind of fierceness. She was altogether fragile, like thin glass. She was broken, but she did not cry.
I shifted in my seat. "So he's engaged?"
"Yes."
"Do you know the girl?"
A hint of a smile showed, but I knew it wasn't of amusement. Even in her smile, I saw the sorrow. "She was my bestfriend," she replied and it was the first time I heard her voice quaver. A tear rolled down her cheek. She laughed miserably. She laughed at the ridiculousness of her situation. She laughed at herself for being so stupid, so pathetic. So hopeless.
She didn't love like others did. She didn't love so fleetingly, so conditionally. She was forgiving, and gave second chances as if they grew on trees. She loved with her whole heart. She didn't love with the physical kind of love. She loved with her soul, and she loved another soul. One soul. One man, and that was it. And she knew that even in the end, when she lies cold in her grave, she will never stop loving.

Small Morning Poem
How many times have we heard
"I understand you completely"
And repeat exactly what you just said!
There are some that say that conditionally
Or ender conditions
I want to know how many times is the truth said
Around places of peace
I wonder how many times is the preaching,
being done
I admit it, I don't always do what I preach
Or preach what I do.
God is working on changing that
But it is time for US to stop the concept of Religion
Its just like a long list of chores
What we live is life though God's words
Through the bible and Jesus called religious people "hoers"
All the do is make a façade of neatness
dressing up the outside making it look nice
"I understand you completely"
Only say it if you mean it
Only try it if its real
God understood and died for me
Ill understand and Live for him
Im not strong, but you have my hand
and my shoulder to cry on
If God gives me the opportunity to hear your story
Ill listen, but I wont pretend to know how you feel
Ill tell you that im here
And that I am real
Don't tell God you have a big problem
Tell your problem you have a Big God!!!!
Those who have ears to hear,
let him hear!
(In the Words of Jesus Christ!!)
We are forgiven!!!!

I wish I could stop.
I'm getting better
Alot better,actually.
So much so I'm questioning typing this.
My audience may not be as understanding as I.
But if you all can be raw
Without fear of reprimand
For your thoughts are your thoughts
And your feelings are your feelings
Why should I fear?
I need to get this out.
I have triggers now.
More triggers,great.
Once upon a time
Those triggers were normal
For us millenials.
A door slamming.
Yelling.
**** men.
Now,
It's scales.
Something I'd never feared.
It's the mirror.
Something I'd never wanted to break.
It's the the feeling I get
Right before I *******
My running shoes.
The feeling of being trapped
Into doing something I 'd rather not
Yet feel forced to.
It's innocent comments
Innocent questions
That while I was never huge
And matter-of-factly shrinking
Take me back to the mirror
To question any ounce
Anything extra.
It's clothes
I have so many clothes.
And I hate the vast majority.
They don't camouflage.
They don't blend.
They open the door for triggers.
It's makeup
Something I used to love
For years
That now
I question.
I wonder if it's to play with my features
Or to over-compensate for something I now know
I don't have.
This has taken me over:
These triggers.
And all it took
Was one response
to a question
I'd asked.
One comment that acted on senior triggers
So much so
that it created new ones.
It's funny how the mind works.
I'm not mad.
I'm really not sad, either.
And I eat
I told you all I'm getting better.
I'm just a girl
Seeking an attainable goal
Who unfortunately
Until then
Will have this looming
In the back of her mind.
And almost everyday
I wish
I never would've asked that question.
I'm sick of loving myself
Conditionally.
I want makeup to only be
For ***** and giggles.
I don't want to hide
In clothes anymore
And when I'm not hiding
I don't want to question my choices.
I want numbers
To simply be numbers
Not those individualizing
A jail cell.
I want comments
To slide off my back
Not slide to the dark corner of my mind
Where I place those things
I don't want to remember;
Into my subconscious,you could say.
I want to be wholly happy with myself
and with the things I used to love.
Emphasize,don't sympathize.
I promise I'm fine.
But isn't this a place of raw honesty?
Where even the fine can place their subconscious in text?
Until then,I guess.
I'm just a girl.

It’s an internal feeling just like any other.
Both hard and soft at the same time
and always unforgiving.

You write like you mean something to someone.
Like someone is going to read your words and agree
or understand
or try to get it
but it slips past them every time.

You write like you have something to say.
Like someone cares and wants to hear.
To understand.
To agree.
To disagree.
To spill respect either way.

You write like he’ll read,
like he’ll care
and he’ll hear you once and for all.
He’ll really hear you
and won’t tell you you’re wrong
even though you’re always wrong.

You’ll write like he loves  you.
Unconditionally.
Not conditionally.
Only when you’re perfect,
perfectly quiet
not writing at all.

You write like you’re right.
Like you know.
You know what’s best.
What’s best for you
and he can’t tell you what to do.
Though he can
and he will

You write like you’ve overcome it
once and for all.
Or just once.
One time would be enough.
For now.
To start.

You write like he’ll listen.
Listen to a word you’ll say.
Or write.
Or think.
Or try to spit out
even when your tongue is as tied as a shoelace

You’ll write anyway.
When he doesn’t read.
When he doesn’t care.
When he tells you you can’t write.
When he tells you you’re wrong.
You’ve misunderstood.
You’re too sensitive.

You’ll write
and breath
and cry
and speak.

And it’ll mean something,
to someone
somewhere.
Even if it means **** to him
Because he said it was wrong.

I'll only be enough for you if
I'm enough for me;
Are you the only one who
I have a higher standard for
than myself.
(That wasn't really a question).

Take it as only the most obvious
sign of my utmost respect for you
That I reserve all of my talking to you
for writing, because it's the only
way I trust myself to
relay to you clearly--

my unedited and fallible voice and moments of being
human are not good enough for your ears and
eyes.

I must fine-tune our
casual interactions to
imperfect perfection.
And I must find your love for me

in there, somewhere.
And every time come up
empty-handed from
my gold-mining of your
unadulterated body language and
voice language and textual,
exasperated responses.

I break so easily, and again find
why I respect you and
it's because you make me believe
that you don't love me,
and that makes me love you so
unhealthily and I know

that you see through me,
just like I see through me
and it stings like a pain that tastes of
blood in my mouth because
it reminds me I'm only human,
and scratches bleed.

--And get infected if you don't
take care and you
have infected me to the point that
I'm suffocating in my own blood poison(ing)
of self-doubt and desire and
the pitiful knowledge that I may just
get over you if only
you
loved me.

Let me clarify.

Loved me the way
I would have you love
me; affectionately.
my friend, my -------

the comforting statement of "I like
who you are" I
enjoy your personality and
I take your opinion seriously because
you, like me, (and you like me)
are human.

But you love me in what
way you would have--
conditionally,
with rules that change
(only you know them anyway).

And I'm realizing with
bittersweet dawning
and incomprehension:
it's not  that I want to
be you,
but that I already am you,
except,

you're happy.

And I want the secret of
how to be you (me) and
be happy, I always
thought it was a
contradictory state until I met me (you) and saw
the version of myself that
could be at peace,
feel laughter bubble from under my
cheek bones,
and know joy as an intimate
companion.

But being you only reminds
me of that truth that I am
close but can never reach
the level of you-ness I desire.

And in my far-reaching imagination
I wonder at what
will be said about your
influence on me when
I turn out to succeed despite
my self-proclaimed shortcomings
         because deep down I know I'm good
         because of the differences between us
and my sorrow writes my movement for me

and will it ever be studied and observed
my obsession drove me to success
and drove me crazy concurrently (?)

and that craziness drove me further, still.

My power on you
Is negligible
Yet you hold me tighter
Tight
Tightly to you.
We dance around
In endless rotation
I spin
Immortally.
I breathe you in
I walk all over you
Yet you don’t know
I exist.
I am one piece
Of the puzzle
Of your skin.

You are hot and cold
Oscillating my emotions
Tidally locking me
Ensnaring me
Into your brilliant bath.
She is jealous.
Stronger and brighter than
I am smaller and feeble.
Her light shines luminous,
My glow is conditionally a specter
Unseen.
Eons ago she was yours,
And the crawl of seconds
Pulled her away
And the crawl of seconds
Birthed me upon you

Given the chance
She would wrench the blood
From my veins as she
Tugs on your arteries
Yet the iron given to me
By you, residing in my
Bones and beating chest
Holds strong, touched by
Your lifesaving magnetism
Your ferric ferocity shields
Me.  In an invisible
Aromatic atmosphere of
Blanketing love.

You swirl me
Rotate and revolve me
Wake and quake me
Birth and waste me.
Mother and Father providing
The soul within me, the
Soul beneath my feet.
My planet, my world
You are my Earth.

I love you conditionally,
and with all of the parts of my heart that aren't too busy keeping me alive.
I love you with the mediocrity of ten toaster ovens,
as opposed to the fiery passion of a thousand flaming homosexuals.
I love you in way that allows me to come and go as I please,
and in a way that is most convenient to me.
I love you no more than a wife loves cleaning,
or a husband loves working.
I am used to you.
I love you in a way that probablymaybedefinitely isn't quite love.
But I suppose it's the best I know, for I am far too scared to leave,
and seek out the “Mad, Passionate, Extraordinary” love that is the stuff
of what I wish my life to be.

The wild grass lives only for your sight

For your unreserved love and care

For the shadows in your every step

For the light in the black of your eyes


The ripples in the lake live only for your dreams

Your life tumultuous and bare

For the wrinkles in your soul

And the weariness in your countenance


The old dog at the old place live only for your loneliness

For your tears

For your cry in the silence

As it licks away the bitterness in your existence


Yet, you love not them-

They are always there,

Simple, undecorated,

Pebbles to the gold-

But wilder, greater aspirations


With the mountains in your eyes,

You won’t see the dandelions

Will they still be there

Without your sunshine, earth and rain

That showed me my place

And taught me what it is to be alive


With the waves in your eyes

You won’t see the ripples of a single stone

Will they still be there

The seedlings growing within

The fish swimming in between

That showed me I was not empty

As you lit up the world within me


With every being in your eyes

You won’t see the old dog howling in pain

Will it still be there

The life within its loyal eyes

The laughter running free and wild

The shelter, The love, and every breath

That showed me my purpose of being

As you led me down the path I’d never stray


You will not know

You will not see


Yet, I’m certain

When you return

Danced your dance

And weary of pleasing those that will love you

Your beauty, timely, sparingly, and conditionally


They will still be there

Waiting for your return


For, even when you were chasing everything

Because you thought that they had nothing

You were, are, and will always be

Their everything.

"To Right an Ode"



to right an ode to maize
i really must have lost it if it has come to this
from around the vicinity of south america chile is
america so why am i here in this place of my own
reception put in a blender that is i am i am shazzam
the colors alone are enough of a poke in the eye to shake
a sharp stick at  ( speaking of color ) wish i wasn't so conditionally
prejudice would love to caress some black ******* and thighs
and other parts but only if she acted my shade of white
( when you're crapping out the truth sometimes it stinks )
and there was a billboard up on lake street for one week
before someone complained and the city gestapo took it down
it said     the problem is culture not color
i don't know seems right to me but i'm just a confused
white guy in my head trying to drop society
from my brain without dying in the cold for lack
of gold which i still habitually cherish heh !
it buys aspirin and food can't be all bad
not even t.v. is all bad and that is an incredible
testament to the value of this red white and blue daze
of life is first i can have all the screaming world where ever
i'm sitting in front of and ( this the good part )
i can legally get up and turn the **** thing off !!!
and not even the news is all bad like even the news
tells us true one percent of the time but you really
have to concentrate to see it hence the commercials
which delude and hypnotise yet shows me there is
enough of the large big green benjamins around already just
need to put them to good use hence philosophy and logic
which have been studied for thousands of years with
the intensity of looking into a gun barrel you not holding
the trigger ( been there done that even tried to grab the gun
that really opened a trap door to my psyche let me tell you
he must have been a ****** we both got scarred and ran away )
so anyway the purpose of such effort is to justify
keeping mine in my pocket while you do whatever happens
to you i don't care as long as mine stays in my pocket
without guilt but i have to poke out my eyeballs for that
which really screws up the color     ( speaking of color )
if i wasn't so conditionally prejudice i'd really like to rock
with some black girls been working on the solution for 20 years
but still working on it

Dear Inquirer,

Thank you for your beautiful expressions.
Asking about opportunities and possibilities.

Love is full in my life.
Experience and expression flows from my heart
From the imperfect experiences
Expressing a desire for something more
To raise the vibrations of lower emotions
Discovering how to embrace a higher light.

I am blessed with a husband who is imperfect
He challenges me to grow within our love.
By understanding the underlying needs
Echoed through his imperfections.

These roots of our yearnings
Reveal a child neglected.
A child conditionally loved.
A child buried within the man
Who desires to give and receive love.  

Yet because of his imperfections
Expression can be awkward, at times.
His child who mirrors so perfectly
My own imperfect inner child.

Through the ups and downs
We agreed to keep a promise.
That no challenge, no issues
Will ever be more important
Than our hearts desire to
Learn and grow deeper in love.

So we journey together along the road.
We bump into our hurt feelings and misunderstandings...
The very opportunities within our garden
That bloom into greater wisdom and undying love.

Long ago when our love was young
It was necessary to put our pride aside.
As the fire of anger roared
He taught me how to open my  arms.

Together in an embrace.....
We breathe ....
Until the hammering stress subsides.......
Calming, cradling our pain.  

Together, in turn, we explore:
What do I need to understand, right now, in this moment?
What was my trigger? Who or what am I reacting to?
And the pieces of the puzzle fall together.
Our Promise remembered.
Our promise fulfilled, once more.

Over the years
Our wisdom and love grows
Knowing 90% of our anger
Is from our hurt and sadness, rooted in the past.
10% from our protective ego's, "How dare you!!"
Aimed at the teacher, my mirror, my love, my companion
Who is but keeping his role, very well.
As we bump into each other
To dance with the shadow within, each of us.
We step into the darkness with faith
To find our courage and embrace
Our lesson wisdom and Light.

Dear Inquirer,
I am grateful to be loved unconditionally
I wish for you this beautiful form
Of ever growing unconditional love and joy.
May it bring you adventures
Deep appreciation and a beautiful growing
Courageous love, in this lifetime.
Please, count me among the ones
Who hold this blessed prayer for you.

With Best Regards,
Keiya

Overstepping the limit
The line once drawn by
The enmeshment of all familiar faces
Conditionally loving their reflection
In my face
The pain of falling
Of being alone in the dark is so
Overwhelmingly tangible
But ones who dare
Ones who soar high
And fiercely live
Fall into themselves
Willingly
Off the cliff of familiar
And into the unknown
But deeply felt
Light
Of creative release

Words
Words.
Words.
Codes

Pick up on the pieces
But  its nice to say nothing
Right now

Some hate me right now
Most love me conditionally

Sitting on the concrete
And my thoughts speak
So I stay silent


I treated my friends like kings
And I treated them like ****

I really dont know.

So Ill surrender up
And stay quite
Stay silent
No need to make meaning

And its not sadness
Its not happiness
I have nothing to say
Cause im numb
I did it
I made myself numb again

And all I hear is a soft guitar strum
Tum tum tum tum tum tum
Hovering over my manic and depressive thoughts

So I wont talk ...


And I know my family
Loves me
I know my baby cares
But I dont think they care about me

Or I dont care about me
And Ive lost myself in me

But there's no use of making meaning
So Ill stay quite

Ive been this way since 16
But lately ive been non-existent
And ive been to more places
Than I've dreamt
And Ive meet more people
And Ive done so many things
Ive dreamt i would do

But day and night
I keep stressing my mind
And theres no reason for it
Cause we will all die
That's why  my memories are vague

My memory is our photo on instagram
Of the night I should havr fallen inlove

And he left me
And she left me
She knew me

And my life is ice cold
Under the snow
Burried in white

And I cant
Write words
I cant
I dont know how to make it better
Only worst

Watch the flame of my lighter
Light up over and over
Over and over

And theres nothing but void
On the glittering streets
On the flowers, on the trees
In my skin in my eyes
In the words you speak

I need some aliens to come and tell me the meaning of life
And answer all my whys
So for now
Ill stay quite


Cause words words
Those codes
Im over them.

So let's escalate our senses tonight
Are you crazy like me
Are u in pain like me ?

Let's make sense of it with extreme nonesense tonight

What has happened to me,
to my social skills?
Frantic, and panicked,
are not conditionally ideal.

I want you to like me,
I want you to see.
To see through my awkwardness,
and help set me free.

I do talk too much,
my mouth won’t shut up.
It’s like the relay in my brain,
is broken, or corrupt.

I’m not usually like this,
I hear my mouth say.
Constantly apologizing,
and then you’ve gone away.

I want to explain,
the jumbled mess of my head.
But I don’t know how to do it,
without making it worse instead.

No I’m not weird,
I’ve just been alone.
Social skills need exercise,
and mine are skin and bones.

When you walk away,
another part of me dies.
Part of me wants to explain,
and part of me wants to cry.

Im turning into two people,
the oddball and the norm.
When they try to coexist,
it creates the perfect storm.

So no, I don’t blame you,
for walking away.
Just know that I’m sorry,
for being this way.

2020 -day 201

Sunday, July 19, 2020
6:49 AM

first 活 {livelihood}
remember meeting the enemy
seeing it is I
I am my opposition
I am the reason I lie I know

this is the day to keep my head,
if all about me are losing theirs.
this is
the day
the schism in the isms is widening
we may see scabs falling from
wounds healed at word
one,
hope, really, no wu wu, wei true hope
taken unseen as possible
- in a realm of imagining all things
- either possible or not things at all

wise to the ways of thought taught
conditionally
from the vibe in the tribe who took
triggering the primal scream from a theory
to musing drum music isn't good to sooth
the troubled soul instituted intuitive as
stories passed from inside to insider
states of waiting for
inseeing
ensuing peace...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

positioning super beings in mythic roles
once played by mortals,
is there an institute rising from its knees,
believing a we is enabling, any we

audacious hope tied to the idea that was
institutionalized in a polis with no
memory of standing as free men,
free to imagine the world we
formed from was an institutional lie.

Tweet... retweet liar liar seat on fire,
get up and run
with the lemmings disneyfied as a certain
truth, we all saw the cute little rodents
unreasonably leap into the sea,
as nature guides for the good of the species...

but we know the scene, the stage, was set
off stage, obscene, the critters were
herded over the cliff, for the shot, but
we saw it
we know how it was done, but the message
institutionalized in baby boomer minds,
passed on to children who had children who
live fully disneyfied lives,
in true imaginary prowess of children...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

A good man leaves an inheritance to his
children's children.
Mine get the wind, not good union
jobs, no guild proven tasks to perform to spec,
to gain
tenure, hold on
confess, professor, confess

are you now or
have you ever been the other in a mob,
did you run the other way?
or did you stand
institutional, alone? stretch it stretch it
-post Patriot Act,

is this the turn-key total war,
are we the children in the wolderness
hidden
by old hippies who read books and smoke *****,

but never lied, not even a little bit
to skip taxes,

the law does protect the satisfied poor,
who rear curious children formed
to fit smoothly into forms of being being
sold for tasks needing intel
teliosis tell me is that the goal, that brave
sorting of knowers from those
who can't get a grip on the
truth in the military
universal mind,
unified as the us, the objectional form of
we, the people, who hold certain truth,
as our state, once we swear allegiance,

wait. watch. lie, say you know you saw
lemmings suicide for lack of reason,
just as crazy as a riot of *******,
marching into my valley
through the fourth wall into you,
inner you,
what do you know?

You got infected by an idea virus
vaccine, some old hippie dreams set aside,

as sub science connected tenuously sparks,
shock
pain
why
-- oh, I see says the pin, penned between
trigger and spiral rifling
misfires of the un loaded gun...
----

䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


once, north of the rairoad track,
down in slaughter house canyon,
I met a Gila Monstor, face to face,

I assumed it was a he as much as me and
I heard a question, I would have asked
were I such a thing being a he as much as me.

The question was why I would think
**** it, fear it, jump back

while I were so far away, come closer,
come and see,
I
think of me being a she as much as me
as
any pain avoiding being,
I am she who uses mornings,
to recover from each night by
basking in the morning light to loosen
old bones stuck in the cold
inner being, the soul at the heart,
of the mindless, dreamless state of being
mortal
under the influence of time and chance
and creatures of the night
ah, she says, I see,
why you seem afraid of me,

differing POV, see, down low, you know,
no big fat lizard, big around as a ball bat,
long as a little leaguer's arm,
looking me right, seeing me straight from
an angle I never imagined
possible,

insanity, as defined by the inner child,
who still can hear hummingbirds
asking renewal of the famed
font of aqua dulce from
the legend that led
them, the flock that lives in the oak,
nearly always  only after the
flowers have gone brown in July...
----

䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


No unfinished thing is ever finished,
only finished stories end in hell,
and even then,
we unbelieve our way out,
time and again we escape the madness,

merely to stir up the dust that first formed
a reason to be at all.

Were I a gemstone cut to fit a brazen niche
beneath a gear and spring in an old watch,
fit, solid, held in underling relationship,
as a point,
balancing, perfectedly enough for a time,
the measuring assuring we see, as
life passing before our very
un ordinary, common sense of self

con science, con carne, con fusion
sub all that
under all that, sub conscience, sub knowing
I know you are you alone and the bell,
tolls for me, the after all,
being
imagined as you

stand and see if you were I
as I am me,
would you have reason to **** me?
...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds


In my youth, we all lived in
Real McCoy
Western movies, tales of conquering
common folk,
whose signs needed Dave Wassen to make any sense,
but that link is likely lost,
despite all the merit badges earned
-- you could not learn the sign language of the plains
-- you needed to live in a time before we became enemies

we welcome strangers passing through

bo'weevilish little critters, jes' lookin'
fo' a home... the pattern,

the frame, the threads themselves all twisted
and tied, crisscross
woof and warp, first we weave the canvas,

then we set the sail, or stitch the story,
Cluny Abby edifies some,
as did Medussa, on reflection,
subtle ivy bound
gardens of stone people memorialized,
became wordless tales for children to believe,
you see,
you may become as one of these,
the leaders who led us to now, some how, we
imagine,
we were manifested now, from underlying
circumstantial evidence of unseen, yet

see-able, visible, ignorable or not,
feeling a blind insight where darkness seems
a spot,
only empty. A place to rest a while and
imagine
peace as a river flowing from another's belly
to swallow me in being
as I seem
some days more than others, aware of efforts
to wind the invented witnessed cloud
of unknowing too tight to tic,
tic,
take a clock from long ago, one of those
hour glassic witty inventions for
timing eggs. Nada mas.

But, imagine, time shifting phase, each grain,
each
Leucippus bit re read as Democritical atom,
bouncing in picometer hops
in picosecond times
spanning all the years since one, the number,
was the onliest number
that you never see,
being as
you are later, after ever began, you began.

You continue, after I am gone.
But, don't forget your lines, your cue, you know
the reason you read.
My angel told you, no excuses, read or end up,
famous for your ignorance.

-- note: I read that the Donald Trump, as seen on TV,
claims a real bond to the Bible that binds him
and his base spiritua/financial
constituency, that which constitutes the
aberration being bid by mobs to become great, once more
swell up into an epluribal us being
under a
boss, the man on the horse LBJ wished to be,
the sky pilot Bush two boasted of being,
from the backseat, screaming Mission Accomplished,
while the BeeGees signal once more,
we started a joke...
that has the whole world laughing
at our grovelling
under the man we witnessed rising on the Obaman ashes
in Afghanistan, prophesied from Hollywood when Jack Reacher
was fit to that little guy, who stars in the Scientology
story. Jack Reacher is a myth, from my youth,
a type - like Marshall Dillon, but un civilized, and
able to accomplish any less than Supermanic impossible mission,
with pure Horton hearing, and Little Red Hen persistence.
But this was not my knack, I rest my case,

Once we are aware, you are the point of balance,
my point is made.
-- buried deep behind the guilt and shame and blame
wait, while seeing

Nothing doing is nothing done and
never imagined impossible again
(Peter Graves was Marshall Dillon's brother,
and both were Jack Reacher sized men, once sent on
Missions Impossible, as messages embodied, like
messianic hope some say
has always been a lie, heros always empower Tyrants
history claims, after all,
look around,
see...
past why or how, reasoning now,

it is true,
some wise of our kind, wandered to the edge
of the civilized state, believing as they walkt away
fore warned, each had a vision, a
knowing for some unseen reason, next is solid,
now is not,
take one step toward all you wish were true,
do
not lie to you
and you will never
lie to anyone regarding self
being me, not I,
we
see.
there was always a way to get by,
any damming thing,
and if you can not handle that truth,
you are fired,
go to hell and wait, end of story,
time out
test me, I am an American,
claiming this grew from seed Ben Franklin sowed,
I chuckle. You underestimated life,
witnessed from so great a cloud as commonly
contains reasons for having been,
stacked neatly in examined lives, lived. Read or be
ignorant, actively ig nor ing if nition.

Behold how great a fire...
----
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds
䕕 accepting subtility as grace abounds

I once said that I don't want to be like my father
He was too harsh a man
I once said that I don't want to be like my mother
She was too passive a woman
To make do with what I've got
Paste together the pieces of a broken puzzle
In the past I believed that God judged me;
according to how people had judged me
I believed I was loved only conditionally;
according to how those around me chose to love me
A degree, percentage or not at all
But I was missing in this picture
Where was the unconditional part of love I now ask
What happened to having a moral compass
However morals seem to have gone out the window
And the compass is broken
When my mother died
I was deeply saddened
When my father died
I felt alone
Who is left I shouted
I am now truly alone
My mind emerged to a deeper understanding
A new revelation
If God were to be my parents
Blemish free
An unconditional love
My earthly parents were then just vehicles
There's no need to model myself on either of them
I could just simply be
For in reality they too had no mother or father
Perhaps they never knew this
Their parents also just vehicles
Stepping stones to life
Then truly no-one is an orphan
Do I feel lonely ...
Why would I
Why should I
How could I
When I am never alone
Though I don't always feel that this world is my home
I shall continue to sing a song
Write a poem
Whistle a tune
Thus I have thrown caution to the wind
People passing through my life
Like ships slowly disappearing in the horizon
Sailing away
I observe them come and go
Should I wish them back
I'd rather wish them well
Who has sailed has sailed
Continuity man's key to survival

Before:
Popping pills, crying over repulsing choices, murdering any feelings of remorse. Despising the conditions of living, conditionally adoring whatever roommate existed at the time. Breaking the vows I took with myself. Listening to the echos of my demons in the walls and windows. My curtains cover all responsibility to world and allow me to be miserable, which I’m impeccably grateful for. Terrified, of what will happen next. Whether it be death, overdose, or psychiatric institutionalization, I don’t want it to happen.
During:
I gave my friend $40 worth of ****, for 10, 25mg Adderall XR pills. I got home and started breaking them apart. I was separating the casing from the stimulant part (small beads to snort.) I then smoked 2 blunts and downed 8 key-sized scoops of Adderall. Which totaled to 6 pills. And then I started to not feel good, like I overdosed. So I messaged a friend hoping she’d know what to do. Well, she called the police. Once I heard the sirens, I ran to the bathroom and snorted the rest of whatever was left. I went to the E.R, was hospitalized for an overdose, and was evicted the morning I came back.
After:
Green grass, gray kitten, millions on millions of art supplies and a dreamy relationship with livelihood. A place of my own exists downstairs and I coexist with others. I cry less often that I need to, and I’m learning to see the beauty in absolutely everything. Coffee tastes best with a 1/2 teaspoon of sugar, some whole milk, and a bit of pumpkin spice seasoning. It tastes like fall in a cup and in the spring, it’s the best thing ever. I look outdoors while my eyes glaze upon the curious chickens, demented ducks, and beautiful Bella the German Shepard. I drive to places every now and then, and it always sparks joy. I’m no longer eating whole pizzas and 2 liter’s of soda. I’m running after toddlers and building fires, I’m playing with cats and eating Nutella on graham crackers. I’m okay. Things aren’t perfect. But it’s new. It’s a fresh start.