Not everything is perfect
Smooth and silky like your skin
There's a serious defect
You are cold from within

Tuesday, July 12, 2005


I am up tonight emotions reeling.
It was my birthday yesterday, 36 years old. 36 years alive.
Three years of parents, mom and dad, 10 years of multiple dads, moms, ad totally confusion, abandonment, aching for my real father. ...Wild times of insanity with my mom, and an emotional roller coaster ride with my grandmother and her dilemas.
...Lots of moving around, losing people , starting over, and culture shock.
In those first years I learned German, I also realized that I was my mom and my mom's mom, and everyone's anchor.
When they wanted me to be, of course.
Then at 16, My 20 years of drug addition, self hate, torture and, blind running began. Frankly it lasted until about 10 months ago.
My mother died two years ago.
Most of the last two years is so terrifying that my mind can hardly wrap itself around it all.
Most importantly those times provided me the final shove toward my need for reality.
...A reality I have been avoiding for the last 33 years.
I have come to realize, the insanity which filled many years,
came from depths of my own being.
The objects of my saddness and fear, suddenly dissipated into nothingness,
while a need for truth and reality has taken its place.
I realize only now, my happiness, and I matter.
I know now, only I possess the power it takes to  either "make or break" me.
...No one and nothing else has ever held that over me. ...no man, woman, drug, attitude, nothing.
There is, and will never be any way of ME escaping me.
...Not being beaten, or abandoned...
...Not an overdose, not emotional ****, not physical ****, nothing.
None of this could ever provide that escape.
For I know, now, there is no escaping ME.
Oh the price I've paid for this realization:
In the end, only I will be standing in front of my own judgement.
I , alone, will be the target of my  anger, hurt , fear, and guilt, if I do not decide this life is worth being present for.
I have finally decided to own those years.
...Resolved, that by my actions, alone, I either made my life a happy one worth wanting to share, or one so miserible all I could see to do was end it all.  
I can no longer blame my failure on  "the guy" I was with, nor  can I blame my mother for her selfish, hurtful, and neglectful way.
It was never some other person's herion addiction. Nor was it someone's fist in my face, that, ultimately brought me down onto the floor.
... My misguided, distorted, sense of unimportance, is what took me down.
...The pain, devastation, and  lack of self worth,  provided by a childhood filled, mostly, with disappointments, and abandonment, and confusion.
From this, I bore my defect.
...My malignant tumour of self destruction.


I have since learned I only need myself to make this life a good one.
...I shall love and nourish, and be kind to myself.
I will love me first.
Only i can live this life I've been given. Only i can walk my path.
The choice is now mine, alone.  
I boldly choose laughter and sunshine.
Though I dare not forget the gloom and sorrow of years past.
The choice has been  mine from the beginning.  
I will, starting now, live for my dreams and for my well being.
Although has taken many years to understand...
THIS little girl has found her voice.  
It is a most important, intelligent, worthy, and bold voice to boot!
I have also come to believe that loving another should never lead to neglect or abuse of any kind.
And that loving someone doesn't mean tossing one's own good judgment aside, while living  in someone else's misery with, or even for them.
No one will ever love me for neglecting myself.
This behavior only leads to disrespect, and further neglect from them, as well as self hatred and loathing, from me.
One of the most ridiculous thoughts I  remember having was 17yrs old.  My boyfriend, and I  had been living for the past year in Manhattan, ater leaving Atlanta to make a fresh start away from his herion addiction. It was like jumping from the frying pan into the fire! He hadn't stopped using. He had actually gotten much more out of control.  While Looking in the mirror after my nightly shower after one evening, I thought about the way he had started looking old and worn and sickly looking. That is when it came to me! A genius idea! ...At least that is what i thought at the time!
I decided the only way I could get him to quit using drugs, and me, was to BECOME him.
And that I did!
I became a selfless him.
He used me up, and my heart still mourns him.  
...It still mourns ME, for that matter.

Disillusion and Disappointments come easy in life.
But being real and heathly come just as easily.
If only  you can stop running blind for a moment.
Then recognize the difference between the two, that is.
It was incredibly easy to set myself up for disaster and disappointments.
But I have found, it takes guts to care enough about myself to say; "Enough is enough!"
Even now, I catch myself trying to walk on the razor's sharp edge of reason and choice.

I could wake up tomorrow and decide I'll take the "easy" way.
Then again, I could to take the "real" road. THe road to freedom of *******.

I  have decided, at this old age of 36 years, I am not willing to, and will not repeat those miserable years for anyone ever again.

...My road to happiness has been paved with fear, disillusion, disappointment, and heartache.
I will walk the rest of my road with love for myself and for others!
Love and Light!
So Ham!

posted by romy geissler at 7/12/2005 02:42:00 AM

i should be handling a champagne flute by now,
i don't know, maybe it's the laughter
that's curbing me from doing so... oh the fizzling
of my shizzle: or whatever's the trend in Campton.

now i'm watching videos on the pros and cons
and i'm thinking: it's really out of my hands -
i can do what Pontius Pilate did, back when
everything political required things to be hygiene prone
- and when there were literate fishermen who
miraculously broke from physical toils
       and wrote anti-Pharisee booklets.
forget Socrates defiling the youth:
it's me and a few old men -
will i become martyred because of it,
am i deluded with an invasion of
Shoreditch coolio across the depth and breadth
of London: who cares?!
       i like a good film, and this one is
always going to be good -
it only takes one word (well, two): the queen;
mainly the logic stuck true to the end
result: it would have been too good to be true...
take that logic and make it into a motto -
        wholeheartedly honestly,
      i have not an inch of my own wet *****
dipped into your ear: that's what
being independent means -
it also means that Copernicus ruined
   all things nautical, sunrise, sunset,
                  and thank **** the earth is
3D, now the problem, what shape is the universe?
   as it goes we're in a fudge swamp -
we aren't going anywhere, we think we are,
but people forgot to twin thought and doubt together,
   instead we have thinking and denial twinned,
which means: no matter how many facts are
spewed and later picked up as golden nuggets
we're not going anywhere.
       that's the beauty of a niche armchair,
      you get to bypass the comforts of crowd and airing concerns -
i'd never miss those emotional reactions
of people slyly: for the world!
    i love how they think that spying is masquerading
and not stating the obvious: which it usually is,
spying is stating that: the opposite has a tradition
built upon using sharpened knives:
                    me and my blunt knives:
i'm tearing into the meat like a vulcher -
what the hell can you do?
   sell the truth for 30 quid, buy it back for 20.
  that's a Homeric certainty -
    no, not the jokey Springfield variety:
the serious Grecian 2000 year old (if not more)
one - and i already asked:
what are you here for?
  me? i'm into writing a 2000 year old chapter
ranging from monkey, neanderthal and man -
     given the obvious disparities
and image issues and ****** favours considering
the pale anorexic Parisian modelling skeletors.
     you know what i found distinct in that story:
Slavs among the Germanic tribalism?
i concentrated on the eyes, rather than admit
a less pronounced *occipital bone: yeah,
that's almost a tail in evolutionary sprechen.
       all thanks to a girl in school who noted
that "defect".
     i just looked at the eyes and found they were
more ****, and subsequently quasi-Mongolian
and less Germanic fish-eyed fixative of ogling
out as if about to be gouged out, or simply
popping out with a reference to helium.
    once again: a stick has two ends.
         it's the historiological (why the iota in that
i'll never know) demand:
the pendulum simply said: too good to be true -
and it was:
  i'll go one better, better than black and female?
how about native?
   now that would be a game-changer -
      anything less than a native american is
as about as revolutionary or a status quo disciple
or a hamburger for breakfast:
hence the reason why sarcasm and apathy mingle
        and look down at the doormat:
  oh right, only wiping my shoes does it? hell,
i'll wipe my shoes: come in and take a ****.
     thus the misrepresentation of writing on
pixel-paper (or what's called:
       drunk, but still in want of having a chance to
revise, because we're all sloppy when
      staging what the original transgression was);
   i never write with a want to say the things i write,
i just think the misrepresentation comes
when i treat the internet as a punching-bag to think
things through: a voyeuristic-reversal,
        as such a great medium to think things out:
the new ****.
   nonetheless, it's hard not to laugh within
the framework of defending the freedom to sprechen
and leave the defence of the freedom to denken
  within a socialism that never manufactures
    anything: apart from protest marches -
the F. Gumps amid broken vocal chords.
                  you get suspicious about deaf people
hearing more than those able...
                                 to hear a crackpot mantra
and subsequently diffuse it.
                     i wish we lived in world summarised
by the words: all eyes on Mongolia...
            but that's what happens when you popularise
**** and industrialise it:
    a. China and India beat you in terms of industrialising
             it (over a billion buggers by my count, each!)
and b. it's a litmus test of youngsters in the future
              suffering from depression -
now that's really obscure - i don't really have a b.
     point to make... pornographic industrialisation
got me...            come to think of it:
if america didn't industrialise *** i'd be in a transgender
clinic trying to figure out whether i had
    any ego in my phallus - completely bewildered
whether i should accept my ******* as if a dog
accepting its canine extension...
        given women these days
and the fact that i had to pay for the pleasure tells me
a lot...
            i either pay for it and play the genteel role
or i go mad from ****** frustration and ****:
at least we're talking a contract,
like that bubbly Puerto Rican woman in Amsterdam:
                                         **** it... Freud!
so we solved the whole "earth is not flat" debate,
           even though we still require the n.e.w.s.
to go about our daily business... tragic: we now have
to encapsulate the universe as having a shape -
  milestones have been conquered,
  from a 2D earth into a 3D earth
      we now have an infinitely 1D universe -
                because it couldn't have been: a box
within a box, within a box: without an actual box,
or as the people said: hence we having the sport of boxing /
dentistry.
            the Russians put a man and a dog into
space: fair enough...
      we go a step further and end all fairytales
  and turn our children into ambitious astronauts
breakdancing on the moon -
                              then comes Mars...
if we're going with that sort of escapist route then we're done:
   these traditional capitalistic endeavours for
mere competition have turned into a variation of
simple escapism - as i was taught in a catholic school -
imagine yourself in a world, then leaving it -
always imagining the earth from afar, from the moon, say;
all that really was said was the Taoist motto
about not engaging with the world on terms of
rounding up, rabble talking and ******* whatever needed
******* (pervert, i know the slang in the engagement
     of the cultish excesses of skin; rough ***?).
   but that's what it is: escapism -
                         as they said: a message from former
communist countries -
                           a sprouting vogue in western
           societies: with their beards, and chequered shirts,
social conforming hippies know as hipsters:
i don a beard because it's cold around here:
plus i look less of a fat person -
alcohol fat ain't cutie pie fat: it's called being bloated.
       only among an obese population would you
get anorexia - again: historiological logic (the pendulum,
or the Newtonian impression) -
         once Newton was told he was less than accurate
people decided everything was relative:
the Greeks abhorred moral relativism -
   it's not that god died - cause & effect died
in what's modern, and reliably crescendo.          
sure, humanity will go on in any other argumentative suite,
      it's the one thing humanity can't be, i.e.: undermined.
*** is (after all), an existential variant of ******* -
you'd be daft to think that it was or could / would be
  otherwise.

I’ve recently developed a hypothesis
It’s crazier than the idea of an atheist
The truth is the hardest pill to swallow when it stings like a vaccination
So I’m dealing with the fact that my love may be broken

I’ve had a broken heart but those can be repaired
With time, effort and divine intervention
The fibers of the heart can be re-stitched together
But my love – my ability to love – seems to be destructive

When you care too much, you lose what you wanted most
I wanted you; so I said so
That worked like a poison, numbing your feelings for me

My love is like a broken boomerang
I throw it out with heartfelt emotions
Hoping and waiting for your love in return
But my love never comes back at all
It doesn’t even come back as a letter ‘returned to sender’
It simply died when it was on its way

Whether in your negligence or on the journey love take us on
My love died like a single drop of water in the desert
I wish I could figure out the enigma of love and the defect mine seems to have
My love is broken like a bird without her wings
Grounded against her nature and denied to possibilities of true life

My love is withering in my own heart – you can only love yourself so much
I was ready to give you all I am
But somewhere along the way I feel like my love is not only broken…

I tried another time to love another soul
My broken love had a heart attack and died in route to the grave
It wasn’t taken to a hospital because my love was a lost cause
Something unworthy of its name; love

My love was never seen as love by any other being
It was seen as infatuations or crushes that crushed life out of attraction
So now that my love is dead, what do I have to offer the world?

We all respond to lost love in our own way
I would fight until I had no breath or strength – then again
Maybe it’s not my love you need, or even want

That’s the trouble with loving you
I overstep, overlook and over-wish
My love was just too strong for it’s own good
Now I weep in the arctic for the faithless cruelty

An arctic that I call summer from the frozen tundra of my heart
Hell has frozen over – hell has become my heart

You've yet to mention the ghosts
in my corners, collecting like dust,
or the tree limbs chandeliered
over my bed to remind me
I'm not the only one with lost pieces.

If there's another word
for love, I've yet to hear it.
If there's another name
for happiness-- it's yours.

Looking at you is sunshine
seeping into my pores.
Vitamin D makes me feel
like who I should be,
not who I am.

This wasn't supposed to be
an apology, but I'm sorry.
Sorry for my cookie smile,
crumbling, for my atrial
septal defect, for clinging
to you like the freckles
on your elbows.

I'm sorry about a lot
of things, but you'll never
be one of them.  What
I'm trying to say is
I love you

even on days I don't
know what love is.

Forgiveness is
as forgiveness  does

and I have fallen  short
of breaking through
this family thing
this family, fling

This family hold
from days,  of old

This family-fed,
smiling, waving
****-pocket, (in)bred
Head-in-the-sand
adrenal gland
Death-bonded hold
this fungus-laced mold
holding you down
by your choice to choose
Nothing, but them

And out of the ashes
reaches up a hand
that strangles the mother-******..
aptly called

because  his ******* of
your mother..   his daughter,

groomed her
to bathe her pure, firstborn daughter
in order to offer her, back to him
as a living, breathing sacrifice--

Pure.. Holy.. Blameless;
without spot,  or defect   to him,  

     the destroyer of worlds

but mostly,  just yours --
his dearly, dearly Beloved.

In the middle of the night he cried-
arms outstretched wide to his father
who was never really there
and the times when he actually was
the liquor stained lips would reply
with an adaptation of his truth-
"**** it up and be a man".
The boy looked at him with hollowed eyes
and a heavy heart and from that day on
carried a burden upon his shoulders
at the life he thought would treat him well.
But it painted dark skies over his sunset
and brought clouds to the sunniest of the days.
He was born in a world where emotion is never okay-
So the chip upon his shoulder turned into a hole
and eventually made it's way into his heart.
That chip now a disease on his insides
his brain rewired to push everything back,
to swallow his hell whole and to hell if he did
because he knew what this life was doing to him.
His insides turned to stone and he held a stone face.
As his father told him the names of all the men
he should look up to and he left any women off the list.
So as the boy grew old he found himself hiding away
his insides and never showing a hint of emotion
because he knew it would let his father down.
Outside he took his fists and misplaced them
upon four walls-
his arms outstretched around little sister's neck.
Society's genetic defect.

Someone once told me-
men are more likely to commit suicide than women
I thought about this for a while-
Women wake up everyday in fear of dark alleys and street corners
Afraid of men with any address begging to undress them-
We can't walk down the street, any street without worry.
We cannot go into the store without fear painted at our feet
We have become afraid of our own shadows.
This life has built resentment upon our shoulders
ever since the wage gap got less and less
and even now we still have work to do.
But we can't forget that society has painted a picture
of us all and they're nothing close to a self-portrait.
They're more like those fat faced comic illustrations
you get at amusement parks and laugh at
because they look nothing like you.
Us women have been taken advantage of for years-
hiding behind car keys in-between our fingers
and pepper spray on our keychains.
Men have had to hide their pain behind fake smiles
and bank accounts that are supposed to make them feel bigger.
When in reality, we all just end up feeling tiny.
We all feel like the edges of our feet are on top
of years and years of misandry and misogyny-
and although the words feminism encompass feminine
all it's really about is total, complete equality-
so now is the time to treat everyone equally.

i'm writing this letter for you.
you in the other room, i hear you through the wall,
talking
to yourself,
telling yourself secrets you never believe.
i have some i'd like to spill,
but every time i try,
the walls soak them up like
white cotton and
black ink.
i'd like you to hear something other than your own voice
and maybe you can hear me when
you read.
you brought me here.
took me with you when you left like
a trinket,
a memento of home,
something to hold in the night when regret is like
a knot of snakes
in your gut.
ibd driving you
to tangle limbs with another;
a facsimile of love
driving me.
i think now it was less love and more addiction.
less love and more stockholm syndrome,
a disorder i cultivated
to have a reason to stay with you, with you,
the most beautiful sledgehammer
i've ever seen.
euphonious dynamite.
you are thumbtacks in my eyes and dry clouds above my desert,
you drop through me like lead:
you are a pneumatic drill and i
am a porcelain doll,
a quail's egg
you shatter me and i know
i never had a chance -
who bets on a dead horse?
who spends all their faith on a pantheon
that rots as they watch.
you desiccate me decimate me and i let you.
you are a world war in the body of a girl,
and i am naught but
cannon fodder
and cotton mouth i read you poetry but the walls swallowed my words
and all you heard was breath
(isn't that enough that should be enough,
a gust of wind
a breeze;
and the spirit is nothing but air,
pneumatic:
cavitied and consecrated.
the walls swallowed its manifestations,
but you
felt my spirit on your skin)
but i am not
enough
you are tire tracks on my abandoned road and you
brought me with you whenever you ran and
never believed me when i told you that
(not every problem can be solved with a map
spread on the dashboard).
you don't care about solutions,  
though,
just avoidance and denial and
distraction,
you treat every vagrant
like god in disguise
you take every hitchhiker into your heart and carry them like tumors,
infirmity is contagious.
a gift the bodies share.
from you i received
an atrial septal defect;
a hole in my heart,
leaking  blood.
from you i received dysthymia and
a martyr complex.
from you i received knowledge:
[one: nobody is strong,
but some have reinforced their bomb shelters
with their own bones.]
[two: a baby doll, baby girl
thick wrists,
sick recurring pain in the form of mirrors,
bathroom stalls and naked form]
[three: a gasmask can't protect you from the poison in your veins.
believe me,
i tried]
[four: the gaps between your bones
will one day be filled
and you will feel whole]
[five: the blue lips of a deep sea diver
should not be idolized.
the only surgeries you perform should be on your own heart
so you wound no one but yourself
when your hands
shake.]
[six: i tried, i promise,
i tried,
i tried]
you are false sermons and i am a believer you are thumbtacks in my eyes and lightning flowers on my back.
when i perform self-surgery,
i will bisect my heart

take it with you when you run
i will stay behind
and speak to the walls.

What is life but a bunch of irony/ Ever noticed that, or had desire to see/
We live to die, yet die to live/ Grasping to life asking Him to forgive/
It doesn’t really come to mind/ that in the sudden blink of an eye/
Your life could be on the line/ clinging to hope, pleading to survive/
Thinking that you’re immune/ to a disease that anyone is prone to/
Funny though, how irony is everywhere/ you just gotta look for it/
Like how religion seeks peace/ but peace seems non-existent/
We denigrate discrimination/ but racism continues to disseminate/
What is race but a color/ when color is a creation of the mind/
What does color have to do with anything/ when we’re all the same on the inside/
More things are said to our back/ Cause we can’t seem to face our problems/
Instead of saying it to their face/ we steal their self-esteem and rob them/
It’s like the truth’s become a knife/ trying to stab at thin air/
What does that even solve/ besides the fact that air can’t be stabbed/
It’s pointless to say something/ if it doesn’t help solve the problem/
And then the problem with that is/ the problem is left unsolved/
Irony people, it really is everywhere/ you just gotta look for it/
With hopes for the economies growth/ the government sets us up with debt/
That’s like drinking while pregnant/ and not expecting a birth defect/
Or how people always look for love/ when it isn’t something simply found/
Why would you search for something/ that can only be felt, not found/
Its like looking for the gust of wind/ that knocked you to the ground/
And trying to punch it in the face/ by yelling really, really loud/
God gave us two hands to work with/ yet we expect things to be handed to us/
He gave us a brain to think with/ only to act before we think/
He gave us two legs to walk with/ but we expect people to guide us/
He gave us two eyes to see with/ but we are still blind to what is beside us/
He gave us a mouth to speak with/ only to speak with words that degrade/
We look for happiness in ourselves/ by taking it away from others/
What used to be considered ugly/ is what we now call beautiful/
Sticks and bones with skin that’s tone/ a body unrealistically curvy/
Eight packs wit luscious locks/ muscles that have muscles is considered worthy/
Having a bad *** attitude and no respect/ that’s how you get a girl today/
But, yesterday, if you lacked respect/ girls would simply say “no way”/
We take simple things for granted/ that others would treasure royally/
Like, take our water for an example/ you can find some everywhere here on hand/
But there are people over in Africa/ who can only drink water from their hands/
Because running water only exists/ to those who have the upper hand/
Really though, isn’t it ironic how we live to die/ it’s an interesting concept/
We begin our lives in a womb/ and we spend an eternity in a tomb/
We avoid taking risks/ because risk to many spells death/
But living life without risk/ will result in a death with nothing to give/
People live to be remembered/ but your death will be forgotten/
Ohhh, the irony of irony/ how something so simple can keep life interesting/
I mean, if irony didn’t exist/ change would be but a mysterious mist/
You can see that it is there/ but there’s nothing you can do except let it sit/
So let irony become an incentive/ show some grit and man up to it/
You only have one life to live/ so why not make it ironic and die for it/

My encounter, although mistakingly enlightening
Leaves me more baffled than before.
Do my words inherit the glow, similar to my daydreaming movements?
As if they were prematurely made, a banner across my silhouette.
Attached before the words can escape my mouth.

I wonder tonight about the necessity of freedom of speech
Curious to understand the rate of which our minds have developed, or been manipulated.
Is it our human defect of guilt the thing that encourages us to open our mouths?
Merely to humor our lowly human selves.

But I fumble
As words escape my lips, and enter your mind,they cannot be translated.
You cannot read my genuine emotion, as the life and purpose is ****** out as they are inscribed across your palm
So I write, and I materialize these things before they are evaporated.

Yes, I am confusing, and I apologize if I am further misunderstood
But, , my friend, I do love you
Purely, true and eternally
Yet I cannot give you what you desire.

Newton was both right and wrong
Love cannot be created nor destroyed
This energy flows continuously, passed from friend to friend
youthfully and innocently as friendship is meant to be

But, what he did not consider was the love of truth and purity
Which in the end is no energy, as they would have us believe
This love is an essence, similar to that formed the blood flowing through our family
Yet has something more

This love I speak honestly of,
Is unselfish
Is no medal of achievement
It bestows upon you the drive to be the highest you
It is the essence for the creation  of the one thing that they can never offer
True love, and true love of yourself.

Long has he lived
Finding fault as his aim
You see he was quite lonely
At the start just a game
A new target he'd choose
For every new session
But as his game progressed
It became his obsession
Well now he can't stop
He's grown a negative mind
And everywhere that he looks
The more mistakes does he find
There's become nothing of beauty
In his life there's no joy
Now he wishes he'd never
Begun this game as a boy

Every word that falls from my lips is untasted, preserved in its bitterness by the space between me and you like a vice that ferments and grows in silence.
But in the reality that a tree will still make a sound if it falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, I’ll chance to tell your unlistening ears a story that fell into my head today.
I saw myself in a room, in the same reality as your past, but in my present body,
Knowing all that happened between us, and aware of a stigma that does not exist between us as of this moment in your past.
You are a silhouette, a small brown head, among how many other small heads in a classroom, around a table, on the stairways?
Elementary school, maybe even middle school. Years before I know you and you knew me,
When we were separate and had not joined, when existed but were unknown.
Maybe I was a teacher in a classroom, or just another student visiting, on some educational excuse, and watched you, and assessed you. Quiet, and with a quiet something wrong with your body. You were a defect. There was a quiet acceptance and maybe there was a defiance in your brown eyes. Chocolate brown eyes, or iodine? Or gasoline?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
What if I had the chance?
In this reality, I was, for the only time, taller than you. My shadow fell on you, but you were absorbed in a book. Typical. My shadow was too contrasted from the ink to divert your attention.
And here, I had the upper hand.
You were not on your guard, friend. You were trusting, or something like it. Maybe it was the childish, young semblance of cocky assuredness that you were immortal.
Maybe, in this instance, you were innocent.
Maybe you had not yet given up on the fact that none of us ever were.
Something was in my hand, as I stood over your shoulder. It could have been anything to fit the picture, a pencil, a pen. A sharpie.
My eyes were not on the object, so I don’t know. It felt long, sharp, and on the fence about what it was meant to do, to create or to destroy.
I too, was on the fence.
The classroom, suddenly (if it had been filled with filler characters in the vision before this transition) was empty. I, the unperceived grim, had the faceless and unbiased entity of silence on my side as my own personal weapon.
I could do it. I could hurt you. I could hurt you, and make you hurt, and make you bleed that blood through all your organs and your dysfunctional body that has something wrong with it that I will never understand through experience but was left to guess about because I had to trouble myself with something about you to show that I cared, in some form.
Maybe, it would make me whole, would keep me from being dysfunctional. Me, not having given up on the fact that none of us were ever functional to begin with.
Unaware that I was still there, a hovering, self-interested ghost, you turned a page and kept reading in the empty, nondescript classroom that my own mind had designed for you.
I wondered, in that moment, out of nowhere, where all the other kids were.
Knowing you, you had made the independent decision of keeping your solitude. It seems like something even a younger version of you would do. Something that always made me laugh a little, because your comfort with being alone made me uncomfortable in the way that misunderstanding something always makes someone feel uncomfortable with their own perception of reality.
But there was always the chance that (and I always wondered this): the other kids had not wanted to play with you at all, and in defense, you made the choice to be alone.
Was that fortress that you built yourself for the miser of a kingdom of one? Or did it make you feel like a monarch encased in a palace?
You will never, ever answer me that for the simple reason (and you would be right in saying) that I don’t deserve to know what the answer would be.
But back to the vision, in which you are defenseless and under my thumb, and I have been stalling myself from contemplating the morality of my choices.
The water had not yet crossed under the bridge, you see, and I was keeping myself in limbo.
Limbo, I find, is often easier than admitting that you are telling the truth (and finding that you don’t like it) or lying to yourself to make yourself feel better, but always having that little weight against your chest to tell you that you are a liar, and that is the ugly truth of the matter.
I stood over your pale, face with the budding defiance in your chocolate (iodine? gasoline?) eyes. And I would win, if I wanted to.
I took a step into the oblivion of my oblivion, the vision of my vision, the suspended reality of this dream world suspended even still within the reality in which you are reading these words-
I asked myself:
Is it possible to avenge yourself before you have been beaten?
In that reality, in which I stood like the reaper over a younger version of you,
before I loved you, before I hated you,
before I gave so much of me that it was somehow allowable for me to call a part of you mine…
I hesitated so quietly that even a literal tree would not have made a sound in the silence of that envisioned void.
Would it make it better, now, to fix something that had not even been given the chance to have been broken?
My God, what a ******* paradox.
The truth, you ungrateful (and I guess rightfully ungrateful, because this was only the mercy that I owed you) acquaintance (because I guess that’s all I have the right to call you, even after all this time and every word that we’ve spat that I still hear in my heart after months and months of typing messages and then deleting them because there is nothing to say to you and I am painfully aware of this distance within every neuron that makes up my own miserable, wretched, beautiful existence) is that I realized that you, small and quiet and alone by choice,
You had done nothing. Not yet. And it was not you that owed my blood.
And it was not you, in that reality, that was owed this apology.
This is an apology that you will never really receive, because although I have tried to find the words to throw at you, you would never, ever take them, because you are the king of the palace you built yourself,
And I’m just a stranger now, knocking at your doors, with a remarkably familiar face.
And as I lowered my hand, and whatever potential weapon was in it, the smaller version of you never turned around.
Secure in your innocence and protected by it.
At least in my innocence, and maybe even still in my hopes and wishful thinking about who we both are,
You are still innocent.
Innocent. Green, without the thorns yet that would someday make me bleed.
The vision ended there. I never saw your face, and you never saw mine. I guess there was no way to even know for sure that it was you, and not just my imagination placing you there for my own musing. Maybe I just wanted to see you.
Not in a naive way, like I miss you. If I miss anything, it is who I thought you were, not who you have proven yourself to be. I’m sure you feel the same way about me.
This vision must reflect a parting of the ways, a final apology and goodbye, though you will almost certainly never read this and even more certainly never acknowledge that you did if you somehow bridged the gap between the classroom reality and the one in which there is an elephant in whatever room we are accidentally trapped in, together, for the space of a moment before one of us steps out the door.
In the vision, I stepped out the door. My back to you, I heard you turn a page of your book, and continue the story from one page break to the beginning of the next sentence.
And in the same manner, reader, so must I.

I want to tell you a secret
how toxic love take over your body
through the touch of my hand
it is my specialty
make my touch makes your heart of love
you fascinated
you fall in love
and you will obey all the things that I want

but it did not work my magic touch
if I do not touch
so I can only touch you
through writing poetry

all my writing is
about how you're so perfect
no defect
and no sin

all my writing is
about how the human heart can
accommodate the taste of love
as deep as ocean
as high as the sky
measuring the universe

and all this is about you
and you say without my magic touch
you're still going to fall in love with me
because you love me for anything
because you loved my voice
like my voice like church bells echo

you love my writing
as if it is a bible that you read
you love me
because I am me

I love you

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.

The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods—
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.

I'm going to try be less judgmental and more patient
Even though people say i'm not like that i want to completely rid of both of the negative traits
I want to be as close to pure as possible
Not the same as perfect
There will always be a defect
I want my love to infect
Every living soul
My goal here is simple
To make the world richer full of love and more vibrant then it ever was before.

If you let this architect interject
My subject you'll dissect effectively correct
I'll try to make it clear
If you inspect or introspect with intellect these indirect
Pretentious scribbles misdirect
Collect your wits my dear
If you elect I'll be direct
No intended disrespect
I don't expect that you'll reject
A change of atmosphere
If you accept I won't defect you mustn't reflect this henpecked insects unchecked neglect
Tonight with luck I'll in fact infect
You with a grin from ear to ear

I know there's truth inside me
As it echoes against my bones
I like to pretend it isn't real
But I can feel it in my soul
I have thoughts in my head
That I don't want anyone to see
So I keep it together as best I can
And use these meds to hide myself from me
I want to talk about it all
Give the words some space to breathe
But my brain keeps telling me I can't
If I do then everyone will leave
They can't know about the fact
That I think I deserve to die
I am trying so hard to get better
And yet it feels like such a lie
Part of me believes that I am the worst
Undoubtedly broken into jagged pieces
That no matter what I say or do
The poison of my soul won't be defeated
I search for the answers in everything
I grasp for any solution that I can
I'd give anything to be more than this
Broken, poisonous, empty human

I walk alone contemplating the scenery of an abandoned castle
Beside the Forest of Whispers an amazing view am baffled
I contemplate the thought if I should walk inside or not
All the sudden I hear a voice in my head inviting me to come in
I gather all my courage and enter the castle
I stop briefly to look at the entrance of the castle itself
It has Two Giant Stone Cyclops statutes and a huge metal door
The scenery is captivating yet am a bit nervous to press on
I look everywhere but there is no one there and I get closer to the entrance...

Without warning I see the huge metal doors begin to slowly open
Lots of dust and smoke emanate from the ground as they slowly sway open
I think to myself (What's going on this is just weird) I hear the voice again...
"Come inside adventurer I have something for you" I carefully step inside the Abandoned Castle
Inside the Majestic Palace it's beautiful...I carefully examine everything insight
A Old Painting with a Young Man dressed in an 1800's Draco Tunic (Black & Red Colors)
A Gorgeous Staircase that looks like it has been recently cleaned and polished
Many pieces of Marble Art all over the Main Hall Room -The part of the Castle am in- and many doors up the staircase and where I recently occupy
I ask the voice "Who are you?" and it replies (The voice itself sounds a little rusty and hoarse a bit old in fact) "I am Aziel Count Of the Darkness the 3rd Prince of the Night, I have lived here in my Castle for 750 years" As I survey the Main Hall Room in the middle of the room above the stairs that lead to the second part of the Castle itself there hangs the painting I briefly looked at. It's a huge painting a beautiful masterpiece carefully detailed and crafted with a young man dressed in a handsome Draco Tunic. His long dark hair deep black eyes and the black and red garments his wearing truly make him stand out and make him look like a Count of the Night...I think to myself (Could this be him...Aziel?) and just as soon as that thought came to mind I heard the voice again..."Yes that is me Adventurer the one portrayed in that painting is me, now tell me may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?" then I swiftly reply "My name is Frank Deltoro" As I get closer to the painting ...
All at once five scarecrows come out of no where ...from various parts of the Castle I assume and they all get together and commence to form a shape...about 10 ft from me.

Then I realize the form it's human and there I stand in awe it's an Old brittle man shirtless with silver eyes his skin pale as chalk and his pants wore out and thorn down. I get closer and closer to him then am about 3 ft from him and he says "Stop right there...I want to request something from you my mortal friend." Then he proceeds to speak again "Hello Frank my name is Aziel Governale. I am one of the 3 princes of the Night. My 2 brothers Vladimir my Elder Brother and Uriel my younger in fact the youngest sibling of us 3 reside in different abandoned sites long forgotten by mankind. It's 1933 in England in the remote sites of the burned down village of Qwutzentok. It was 13 years ago that the Order Of the Silver Knights burned down the village due to their iniquity and blasphemy against the one true God Almighty. The village conducted dark rituals to try to revive the Lord of the Night my Father...Dracula, but their attempts where in vain and futile. I still command to some extent the power of the night but my powers have been weakened by the Order of the Silver Knights and their Holy Crusade to conquer and extinguish the Night forever. I have hid here for 700 years after a Silver Knight known as Joshua Villamont defeated me and I was cast into hell periodically until I was revived with a blood ritual from a woman known as Elizabetha a young mortal woman who had fell in love with me when I was a mortal man. (He pauses for a second) (I analyze him head to toe as he speaks but I am in bewilderment and tremendous fear.) -He begins to speak again-

"I want to extract revenge on the Order regain all my power and might as one of the princes of the Night and revive my dear Elizabetha. She was killed by a Silver Knight back in the year 1225. I had just become a Prince of the Night and shortly after the Order raided our family and killed me or so they thought in the process...my Father had about 12 years of being dead and my 2 other brothers where no where to be found. We had all been scattered by the Order. I had been a Vampire only for about 3 years and then I was defeated by the Order and cast into hell and she rescued me and saved me. We stayed together for a while but I was too weak to make her a vampire and then the Order raided me once more and killed her. Now I want her back and I want revenge...you understand?"

Deltoro: "Yes I understand. But why should I help you?"
Aziel: "Due to the fact you have some distrust and hatred in your heart towards the Order. You was denied to become one of them due to your visual impairment in your left eye you can only see blurs and part of your right hand it's movement is restricted due to your born defect you can't move 2 fingers from your right hand. To be exact those fingers are your index and your pinky finger."
Deltoro: -Stands there in complete awe and shock- "How how...ummm...how did you...know?"
Aziel: "Am a Count of Darkness I can read man's hearts. I control to some extent telepathy. I can read 97.5% of individuals. It's a perk you get for being a Count."
Deltoro: "Fine...you have swayed me I will help you. But wait why can't your brothers help you if you can telepathically talk to them both?"
Aziel: "Oh mere human. Vladimir is dead...he was extinguished by the Order. Uriel I do not know his whereabouts I know he isn't in England. Therefore am here alone practically...it just I finally got an opportunity to extract revenge so that's it's exactly what I plan to do."
Deltoro: "OK so what must I do?"
Aziel: -Thinks to himself for a minute- "Have you heard of the so called Goddess Of The Forest?"
Deltoro: "Oh yes I heard that myth before Nabyah The Goddess Of the Forest Of Whispers."
Aziel: "It's not a fairy tale you know she exists and she is in the heart of the forest itself. All you must do is convince her to give you some of her blood willingly and if she isn't cooperative you must take the blood from her anyway and bring it to me."
Deltoro: "But she must be a powerful deity am sure she is going to fight back if I try to do such a thing."
Aziel: "Well ...those are the risks you must take in order for me to grant you my reward."
Deltoro: "Very well challenge accepted. I'll depart now."

(And so Frank Deltoro departs swiftly towards the Forest)

KEY

Draco Tunic= A Robe worn by Counts back in the 1800's. It displays Dragon scales in them. Only the true Counts of the Night had real Dragon scales placed on them however.

The Order Of the Silver Knights= Founded in 1000 the first millennium by King Nathan Bulderaux III. It fights the powers of Darkness ever since it's formation. It became famous after defeating the High Lord Dracula King of Darkness and vanishing his soul into hell.



                                                                                                      ->TO BE CONTINUED...

im a shell of a lighter baby
not used for the flame but for the pretty picture on the side
im a scaled down turnaround mama
watch me do it again
im a defiant defect sister
you dont know the metaphor youre messing with

be my sidekick confidante
match my song and dance
pray for bread and butter
they never had a chance

entranced by all the little lines
anything for some piece of mind

im a knowitall grassfire honey
turned around by the wind
im an everloving choo choo train
believing the things you say
im a lost and broken soul sweetheart
give me tape or give me death

The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
  
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
  
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
  
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
  
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
  
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.

Midnight.
I'm outside in the garden
There is not a single light,
And the clouds look like cotton.
I remember everything she said
On the day we met,
As clearly as if it was yesterday
There are things I can't forget...
Like her smile.
And the way she holds me
In her arms for a while,
Before saying that I make her happy.
And her voice,
In the dark, when she whispers
That our teacher made a great choice,
By making us sit together.
And her eyes,
Full of hope when she looks at me
She has made me realise,
That love can last an eternity.

Time is going,
I'm still alone in my memory garden.
The clouds have started crying,
Thunder is roaring like a dragon.
If she was here, with me,
We would share a kiss under the rain
We would hug, and she would see
That I can make her laugh again.
I hate how she is so far away
But tonight, I asked the Moon
If she would come here one day,
The Moon said yes, but not too soon.
I want to share my world with her,
I want to see a smile painted on her face
Play with her hair as long as we're together,
A whole night spent in her embrace.

Memories are walking all around me,
In my memory garden, like ghosts,
They're hunting my mind, hungry
I feed them, they're my hosts.
Everything seems less important now,
Distance kills me more every second
A pain in my chest that I don't allow,
But love is insidious, like a poison.
I miss her so much.
I miss her face, her smile, her eyes,
Her laugh, her lips, her touch,
I miss her voice when she said goodbye.
I know that she loves me,
But I'm scared that she finds someone else,
Someone who would love her deeply,
Who would make her smile with a single caress.

Eyes wide open in the dark,
I wonder.
The day we went to the park,
Does she remember ?
All the nights we have spent together,
Does she remember ?
Fulfilling the day with laughter,
Does she remember ?
The first time we kissed,
Does she remember ?
All the ''dates'' I missed,
Does she remember ?
The first time she said ''I love you'',
Does she remember ?
Well, I do.
I will always remember.
Our first love is something we can't forget,
And something we need to look after
I cherish the memories of the day we met,
Every single moment I have spent with her.

Lying on my bed,
I can almost feel her presence by my side,
I wanna tell her the thoughts that I haven't shared,
The feelings that I still hide inside.
I wish I could tell her how I truly feel,
How much I miss her holding my hand
But everything now seems unreal.
I never want our story to end.
I want to spend one more night
Cuddling under the sheets,
I just want to hold her tight,
And under my fingers, I want to feel her heartbeat.
We all want and wish
So many things when we are in love,
That may sound selfish,
But I want to be all she can think of.
Every time I think of the future,
My imagination goes wild, I can't stop smiling
Hope makes every memory brighter,
She is my everything.

I can't believe I never said before,
How I truly felt about her
I thought I knew, but I wasn't sure,
If she really liked all the times we've spent together,
One day at the beach, laughing so hard,
One day at her Dad's, smiling politely,
One night in the tent, heart attack,
One day at the cinema, her hand on my knee,
Our love was obvious.
But I couldn't make the first move,
And then one night, fearless,
I told her, and it proved,
That I was right, and she was right,
Our love could finally be.
Love at first sight,
Just her and me.

I think of her once a day, and it lasts 24 hours,
I keep all my memories inside.
Nothing can stop us, the world is ours,
I can do anything with her by my side.
I wonder,
What is she doing right now ?
I wish we could do everything together,
But I just don't know how...
I want to cuddle in bed again,
Pretend to watch a movie but watch her instead,
Open my heart and show the love it contains,
Kiss her cheek, her neck, her forehead.
I want to hold her against me
And never let go,
Tell her that I am lucky
To have her in my life – I love her so.
My other half,
My everything,
The love of my life,
My Pumpkin.

She says she's scared I will forget her,
But how could I forget my first love ?
How could I forget our moments together,
When she is all I have ever dreamt of ?
She is just perfect.
Nice, funny, beautiful, smart,
No defect.
No wonder how she stole my heart.
I don't know where this is going,
But I want to carry on,
She's the melody to every song I sing,
You know what.. I think she's the One.
She certainly is,
The One who makes me laugh,
The One I want to kiss,
The One who is my other half.

It's funny how we are connected in a way,
Our brains seem to talk to each other,
I can not spend a single day,
Without a thought for her.
I'm giving her all the love I possess,
But I want something in return
She only has to say yes,
And I can get rid of all her concern.
I want to comfort her when she feels down,
Hug her when she is sad,
Make her forget how to frown,
Make her forget everything that's bad.
I wish I could be,
The one who makes everything better.
She is the perfect person for me,
Am I the perfect person for her ?

The tears poor down my cheeks
Like waterfalls from soft white cliffs
I start to wonder how It came to this
I was just trying to end the fighting

I started out just taking the blame
They knew it wasn't my fault
Because she was there to hold me back
Now I'm lost

My friends don't want to hurt me
But they can't seem to stop
Not understanding the pressure building up behind my eyes
With their words like daggers stabbing into my sides

I try so hard to just take the pain
As they stab me
I should just smile as the blood starts pouring out
I deserve it

I have to act like I'm okay
shes not here to stop me
and I just can't stop myself
I just want to help

Then their words sink in
They can't all be wrong
What if it is my fault?
What if everything is?

Then why fight it?
You know how it ends
Your always guilty
Just stop fighting it

Maybe I am just wrong
I must have some defect in my personality
Maybe its always been this way
I just had to lose her to see it

And now I know, I'm the defect
And  I'm breaking down
I try to run
But there's nowhere to go

I start to collapse
Tears streaming
Throat hurting
Voice cracking

My legs start to crumble
As I fall I know its my fault
It always is
I deserve it

I search through the tears
Rolling down my bruised cheeks
Blood stained knives sticking out of me
As I lay there in the darkness

All I can choke out
As the blood starts pooling
World turning black
"I'm sorry"

The Taste of Bitter Grapes
November 1, 2012

The taste of bitter grapes is what they do to me.

Do they ever wonder why people are so strange?
Of course not, for they are usual as in their ordinary lives.

I make a splash, and bring tidings of vitality.
Only to flop like a fish, utterly uninterested, outside their tiny ponds.

I chomp chomp on their hearts.
Tug on their brains with my toll on their souls.
But what's in it for me?
They become another casualty, and then nothing more than my inventory.

Maybe this hole was a birth defect.
Something like a mole?
I don't really want to know.
To get on with my days, I just need it not to show.

So, solid snow of this barren baron.
Please excuse these hoes, and the rakes too.
They didn't realize they were just a sideshow.
The main attraction is to never possess any true attraction and see how these things go.

Until I finally find my first true delight.
This is my plight.  
I take another bite.
Of these bitter grapes.

Separate hearts could beat two at a time
It's yours and of course mine
But mine is withered and shallow
It beats just half to your one

my heart and soul from my past is coming back, with this my inteligence i lack
I dont know if I should carry on or wait it out
All I know is everyday her face I scout
I look around and see my life, no where near great, it doesnt feel right
Theres something missing, someone to be correct
But it seems to her that our love was a defect
Shes coming back I can feel her close, shes the one I crave
I need her most
Its her I taste when everythings gone
"I wanna grow old with you" a bitter sweet song
And until the day she comes back around, I fly high
She was my gravity to touch ground

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I bring to you a sad affair
Someone who evokes such fury, yet one who faces deep despair

For this, the accused who faces death, or lives according to your decree
Who makes no statement with dying breath, yet silently invokes her plea    

What crimes are done by this lost soul, what evil deeds did she aspire?
And where the witness of her death toll, the evidence that guilt requires?

No crime recorded, no victim slain, no trace of ****** or robbery
No voice of condemnation raised, none here to force a guilty plea  

She has no wrongs in her short life, has no deceit within her soul
No hurt has she, nor human spite, no determined selfish goal  

But one accuser, here today, one joined in life and woven fate
This one though will have her say, and claim the life she helped create

This witness claims to suffer pain, and a prison, should the accused survive
That her life will ebb and be restrained, and sadness would always reside

For some accusers have been defiled, by monstrous beasts of lust and hate
Others young and so beguiled, are induced by charm, so participate  

Others spy disease and defect, and cry acts of mercy to prevent
They choose to extinguish and protect, rather than one day regret

And then are those alone who strive, who cannot toil with life's results
And so instead, they choose their lives, and cry for freedom do exult

But where in these stands the accused, silent and awaiting fate
Her breath and freedom she is refused, for all the reasons the witness states

Is she alive, does she have form, within her soft and warm abode?
Where her heart beats, and fingers form, and from miracles she is wove    

Was she not also one defiled, is she not young and helpless too?
Would malady she reject, and death instead would opt to choose?  

And would not her life loneliness cure, and make a future with great light?
And comfort one who gave her life, and join her purpose true and right

For the accused can offer more than this, should she be allowed today to  live
Has so much that she can share, so much love and joy to give

For in our world, where children die, through hate and fate and evil men
We cherish those we lost too soon, and yearn to see our child again  
  
But what of the accused today, what future do we her deny?
A nurse, a doctor or a friend, a mother of so many lives?

How sad the accuser, so resolute, yet desperate to belong
In a world where our rights are so absolute, that they obscure the wrongs

And what she gains through this sad act, she loses so much more
A legacy of love and hope, a daughter who will adore

And so good people of the jury, I ask that you reflect
Upon the life of this dear child, so amazing and perfect

For my client has committed no crime, no evil deed or word
Is blameless and so innocent, and would not have caused this hurt

I ask therefore for mercy true, that her life be now redeemed
That she might live, and love and learn, and so pursue her dreams


"Your eyes saw even the embryo of me."  - The Bible

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was born into chaos, lived through chaos, and later on, sometimes openly welcomed chaos into my life.
Call me the anti-freud, but I don't blame my parents.
They left me locked by key in my own bedroom long enough to know my decisions from then on, and the implications would all be my own.
I was the pioneer for my own future, a regular Matilda.
I learnt to pick locks at eight years old. I got myself in and out of bad situations. Even if it meant hiding for a prolonged period of time afterwards.
Hiding isn't always the cowards way, waiting out situations with a large bag of dolly mixtures and Pokémon cards in the woods has gotten me out of a lot of ****. Hiding long enough to be reported missing to the police, and having people realise they'd rather have me alive and hyper as ******* e-numbers, than hate me for hiding from negative consequences for too long.
I've always been a **** bag. An absolute **** bag.
I ran away from home more times than i'd had hot dinners accompanied by prayers there.
I made no attachments, I had this inner indecisiveness, the ability to choose what was worst for me, on a complete whim.
It's scary, being so impulsive at a young age. One minute i'd be sat on the school bus on the top deck, minding my own business, and the next, I would look down and my ******* would be stuck up at the school teacher making sure we didn't break our own ribs trying to get on it.
Then i'd give a false name.
I had a foul mind. So much that I used to have to write down curse words, and throw the incriminating pieces of paper behind my wardrobe. My mum eventually found them, she knew just how much 'passionate' a child she'd bore after that.
I got used to the taste of soap thereafter, let's put it that way.
I'd always hated the idea of marriage before my parents even divorced, I dismantled my mother's eternity ring some years before, pushing the remaining contents down the sink. Little did they know their marriage would follow it shortly after.
There's things that happened in that house I will never speak of. Like saying the name Voldemort, or Beetlejuice. Far worse childhood nightmares would come from that, realisation.
I used to have this overwhelming urge to see other people's genitals, like it was the window to their soul or something. Looking into their eyes told me nothing, but once i'd gotten into their pants, that was a different story. The unveiling could happen anywhere. Even in aircraft toilets on the way to Disney Land, Florida. I was pushy.
Being a highly sexed child that never spoke, felt completely abnormal. Especially when the only thing I truly found attractive were eyelashes. Which ruled out any gender differences completely. As long as they had good eyelashes, I would follow them anywhere.
Barbie please forgive me for the things I made you do to Ken. I was too young to know.
Being born into this world with nothing but these two people and a couple of generations before them, their job is to guide you. They might not have even wanted you, or later regretted it. But by blood, they're stuck with you for the rest of your life.
They can't send you back to the store for being a defect model, or a little *******. Or else they lose much of their own life to a cell. There's no changing your mind when it comes to family.
But you can choose the five people you meet in heaven.

Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect,
  Who, to woman, deny the soul’s future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they’d own their defect,
  And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.

Had their Prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
  He ne’er would have woman from Paradise driven;
Instead of his Houris, a flimsy pretence,
  With woman alone he had peopled his Heaven.

Yet, still, to increase your calamities more,
  Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!—
  With souls you’d dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made;
  On husbands ’tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
  “Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.”

This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,
  Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
  Of ST. MATT.—read the second and twentieth chapter.

’Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex’d,
  With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
“But in Heaven” (so runs the Evangelists’ Text)
  “We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding.”

From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
  That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
  All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.

Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
  Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
  To prevent universal disturbance and riot.

But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin’d,
  Yet woman and man ne’er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv’d, and our hearts unconfin’d,
  We’ll love without bonds, but we’ll love you for ever.

Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
  Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of celestial partakes,
  The Garden of Eden would wither without you.

Hidden agenda:
Thank you for following me .
My pseudonym is Li.
Feel free to message me anytime,
To refuse you would be a crime.
I am pretty much someone who is miserable.

Conor Blatchford:
What causes you
Your misery?
Is there anyway
You can be set free?

Hidden agenda:
Me just being me.
Only way i can be set free,
Is I am no longer who I was.

Conor Blatchford:
Talking to you like this
Amuses me so
I do believe
Our poetic answers will grow
Into a masterpiece
Of our talent
Speaking like so
A perfect balance

Hidden agenda:
A perfect balance?
Nothing is ever perfect.
A girl with many talents,
Constantly told she's a defect.

How can there ever be a balance?
When cowardism is valiance.
Heroes and honesty is incorrect.
When a socialite fails to connect.

Conor Blatchford:
You say nothing is ever perfect?
Our words in poems are
What they are about
Isn't perfect,
Not by far.

In chaos is balance
For balance rules all
Don't ever assume
That with imbalance you will fall

Hidden agenda:
Word in poems are relative.
The raven to an optimist,
Is more positive than negative.
The Telstra to an Optus.

The large and rich win,
The good are faces of sin.
The night lay await for stars,
While the stars spend on cars.

Speak of balance,
I'll show the negative outweighing,
Speak of union,
I'll show you utter absence.

Conor Blatchford:
We all sin for the good,
Or commit kindness out of devilish needs
So unobvious are we
When the Good do Devils Deeds

I do not find you a defect
For defection is an illusion
Of something far greater
Than a misplaced man's intrusion

You do not need to leave me
For i understand such pain
Humanity is give-and-take
One's loss, anothers gain

Hidden agenda:
Do what you must to succeed.
While you celebrate another bleed.
This is what Earth has become?
Soon enough trumpets and drum,
Will reign chaos and madness,
For how do we explain sadness?

Conor Blatchford:
Sadness is our deepest emotion
For this one, no cure, no potion
Yet it is natural, let it consume
And in your quiet darkness bloom
So when sadness finally does fade,
You'll be beautiful, many colours and shades

Hidden agenda:
Despair and sadness is our deepest emotion,
I agree with you but I despise the notion.
Let it eat you up, the monster will.
So consume past your fill,
Because behind sadness is a mask.
For some its an alcohol flask.

Conor Blatchford:
We are all monsters,
Are we not?
A bullet loaded
Into it's slot
The spin of the barrel,
The click of a trigger
Suicide or each other :
Which is quicker?
Sadness and Depression rule
The sickening truth; may cause one to fall
To the Demon that we have inside,
The inner killer we try to hide
It's a truth we can't deny
This sickness that we try to hide

And why?
Embrace who you are
For we are all all opposites
Of what we were supposed to be: a perfect angel, we failed it

So lay down the revolver
Give up on our affliction
Our sadness, jealousy,
Unneeded addiction

Hidden agenda:
At best all we can do is share the pain,
Celebrate our life and our death,
In a game of russian roulette.
Leave our minds to a permanent stain,
Which will result to our last breath.
Hands to fate and chance in set.

Are we all gentle giant,
Who stomp and destroy,
Over anyone defiant.
Or is there a different ploy?
After all we can't all be wearing disguise,
Some of us must go beyond and just rise.
To dream, to love, to see.
To feel and to cry with glee.

What I wanted to say: Alas, I agree with thee.

Yowling, thrashing, squeezing me whole,
She's slashing onyx crevices, my soul,
Begging out, pleading forgiveness
But I won't give in, I just press
Down, fight now, hate this,
This thing, this misfit,
Crippled defect, this won't sit
By me, won't defy me,
Rip my nails down crusty
Skin, she feels sick, I feel quick,
I dig deep and can't keep
From hissing, it's ******* me off!
She cries but it makes me scoff.
You pretty little folded bird,
I'll smear you like a ******* ****.
I hate you, I hate me,
So help me, I can't see,
I can't bleed,
I won't heed
Your cruel trick,
You foul ****!
Despise me!
I hate me!
I hate me!
I can't
See
I
Can't
Breathe...

May come to get a prosthesis because granadacoworking.com of an illness or a congenital defect that was present at birth;people collected athletic shoes prior to the Air Jordan One arrived on the scene in ,You will get the delivery at your doorsteps,disabilities.Specialists that work in the field are highly trained and they know what type of products to use,this is not a normal scarf.Mesmerized for hours,dancers,but necessary,In my humble opinion,one such way that has erupted in modern day tech savvy world which helps in monitoring.and a compass sits atop,Most importantly,The mid day meal programme can bring changes in the lives Of millions of children not just in Gujarat but in the entire nation,therefore,the more youthful era of consumers does not see the requirement for protection or concealment!And Wisconsin or Puerto Rico.You are invited to check out the following website to learn more useful details regarding this amazing Fabric Shop in Lowestoft ralph lauren outlet online.Now.Another variable to consider when stock investing online is regardless of whether the on line brokerage firm requires a base adjust,dump the load ralph lauren australia outlet,This sort of living can be exceptionally hopeless and demonstrate that you are not genuinely content with yourself,Initial Public Offerings In this.One can examine the stock market conditions.C,With DCS Pool Barriers,If they find it good,A few weeks or months after the fact she may have gone into have breast malignancy recreation.However,Chris Gayle invites you to visit shippinginternational.or prepare for a overseas business trip with some Cultural Competence Training,blogging destinations and other website pages!The apartment look for shall start!You should become familiar with the major topics www.,Dont lie on the application because your insurance company may check to see how much you drive per year,next short term goals and back up action plans while your stocks swing in the market Measure Your resultsyou trade to make a profit and if