Pearl earrings.  They came
in a red box with gold lettering
I unwrapped in the
restaurant parking lot
on a humid evening before
my college graduation
where we milled around,
waiting for our table.

My father's gift.

One year later, in the same place,
I put them on;
my father walked me down the aisle
to marry a good man.
Wrapped in a princess dress.
Towing a six-foot train.

My mother's dream.

They stayed in my jewelry box
for one decade plus five.
Years while I played
hide and seek with depressions
and wondered who that person
in the mirror was.

My straight persona.

When  I think of that now
I remember--
pearls are made of pain.
The substance the oyster makes
to coat the grit, or
whatever makes its way
into the shell.

The process transforming
the ugly, raw, pain
into the lustre of something
priceless.

Molesting Innocent's
Taking
advantage of young un-suspected victims,
****** away hope,
Beating out trust as
"they"
tell you it's all for your own good.
The System
Verbally sales you,
Mentally
making you believe thing's aren't
really what they seem.
Hey pretty girl,
You
want to come home with me,
Like
stranger's using Candy,
Creeping in the middle of the night
stealing away dreams,
Snatching babies outta arms
For not being what "they"
want you to be.
Jumping through hoops
to prove your worthy.
The System cover up lies,
Disguised
Your Shame
It's not "their fault for you
becoming pregnant at 10,12 & 13.
Abortion isn't in my beliefs,
Forcing us,  Breaking us, Making us do what "They want!
Telling Lies while Judges become your executioners
Fostering empathy's,
Making you live in misery
Parents- Grandparent's
Crying Screaming,
Dreaming of they days you'll be back.
Depressions, PTSD, Bipolar
Explosive disorders
Meaning a person gets angry fast
with no reason or for the littlest of things....,
Label's
from Misuse,
Misrepresentation's
Misuse of my or even your body,
******, Molesting, Physical, Mental,
The System
took me from a Exceptional-Good home,
Placing me
with Monster;
Who called themselves: wholesome,
loving- Good- God fearing Church goers;
Foster Parents.
A Preacher  
phrasing the almighty book,
every Sunday
While every night
He'd say I was better then his wife,
As
my eye's cried,
Hoarsely I beg him to stop.
Case-Worker & The Systems
cover up.
From home to home
Group home to group
I'd run as fast as I can,
To  my
own family even thou
We were  broker then sin
at least I was so safe there.
Repeat & repeat these step every chance
I'd get & still they'd  Placed me in home's
until
I got old enough to make it on my own.
Even then The System wouldn't let me be,
See I knew "their" ***** deed,
All the well kept secrets....
unfortunately for me,
16 going on 17 mother already of 2 while
expecting another lil girl,
The System tryna step in once again,
Robbing me of my Children,
Their
words: labeling me,
I'm tooo crazy to love or ever be a mother.
I'm not doing what "They " want....
I had it,
Life was it for me,
I wanted to commit Suicide
I just couldn't thou & Lucky for me
cuz
I Finally found away out at 18.
Got my kids- Sued & Beat
The System!
Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N
1977-Pesent Day(s)
All right reserved

the five days was a constant battle
between all the things
that ever existed

your thoughts were strewed
and your legs were too skinny
your arms can be measured
by your thumb and pinky

that stream of verbal consciousness
uttered nothing but prayers
between the dusky hours

i lost a limb on the fifth day
that empty hallway with dimmed lights
and the realizations with frustrations
the machines stopped working

it was more than tropical storms
and depressions, more than
mayhem, it scares me more than
the turbulence hundred miles
above the ground

it was an inestimable amount
of tragedy and heartaches
you begged for him to live
and yet it wasn't given to you

i cannot be angry at God
he wants you back
all i can really do
is wait for you
and **still pray for you

I have no idea what home is for me anymore.

It's not the third house this year, with new housemates and a pile of bad memories on the shelves. I don't care about the twentyfive pairs of heels in my closet. I never feel content with travelling home.

It's not my mothers place, not since years. There's a mixture of scents in the air there. Fights and anxiety, depressions and stubborness. But I still come there all the time.

It's not even the place where we go camping, though the rocks feel like freedom and I feel far away from all *******.

I used to think it was in somebody else's arms, but I can no longer believe such.

it's the emotional
strip-tease,
the tingling,
depressions hand
on your thighs,
his skin is soothing
enough but his
nails curve red moons
into those pretty
little girl tights.
they ******* so well,
anxieties got a
mean eye,
for the girls with
insecurities,
they're the most fun,
swallowing back
their screams, saving
them for the
bedroom at night.
you find them in
the morning teasing
the pill bottle,
they got a will to live
stuck in their throat.
doctors say there's a
heartbeat but
no heart.
all their red dresses
over the floor,
the first of many
warning signs,
red dresses to funerals,
red dresses to slide
down the underbelly
of dissatisfaction.
they sleep without love,
exhaling demons on
the balcony, until
they burn like stubs
in their eyes.

What was a timeless girl
Turns into summer rain
Spring flowers
And falls change

Winter chill frozen on your lips
But all I need is a chance
To dance with you
In a eclipse

Look at me in danger eyes
The blood on your wrist has no disguise
All this pain that seems so real
Eventually you will not feel

You can wait for a change
But it’s far better living on the stage
With flesh and blood carved out
On marble thrones, Singing dark tones

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Just ask me to
And i'll fall for you
And I don’t care what you do or say
As long as you’re in my arms
Everything’s okay

Breathe In! Breathe Out!

Let the waves take you
Ride the ocean in my arms
Takes the sea
And stop accepting this harm

Have you heard the gun shots?
Have you felt the stab?
You’re living in a dystopia
Depressions on your tab

Just try to push me away....
You’re walking nowhere
Looking for a change
Boiled in anger
Destroyed by rage
But this light?
It gives you a timeless age

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Just ask me to
And i'll fall for you
And I don’t care what you do or say
As long as you’re in my arms
Everything’s okay

In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?    

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

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!

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

Dear Shyla
I keep the suicide note that you've forgotten you wrote our mother folded up in a small wooden box in the corner of my bedroom
It's there so that on my worst days
When I've run out of friends who will listen
I can remind myself that other people feel this too
And after all we've been through apart sometimes our depressions and our mistakes are the only way I can remember we're related

Dear mom
I've hidden a diary you kept while struggling through your ill-fated relationship with my father
In it there are weight loss goals
Vows of marital celibacy
Existential questions
But mostly just a whole lot of why's leading you to answers you wanted to hear
While all of the things you needed to say you left in the blank spaces between the lines on the pages you never made it to
Your favorite thing to say after the divorce was that you were grateful to no longer have to walk on eggshells to protect his feelings
It has been twelve years and you still can't admit the feelings you were trying to protect were your own
And your feet still hurt

Dad
I have an envelope of pictures of you and I
From when both of us were oh so much younger
In each of them you are smiling at me
And in every one of them I am smiling back at you
I don't remember most of them I was quite very young
And for quite very different reasons I can imagine you would have a hard time remembering them as well
When I flip through the envelope I'm left sitting criss cross applesauce on a tore up linoleum floor
Staring at the scales of justice
Weighing the honest love of a drunk
Against the stoic rejection of the sober man you've become
And I am ashamed with how often I choose love

I am the keeper of this family's pain
Somebody has to
Someone has to admit it's real
One of us has to stare at the elephants in the room and see them
To know how each of us actually feels

Dear family
We are nothing more than four misfitted human beings
Tied together with tin can and twine telephones
By an astronomer, who in an effort to console himself,
Confused a congregation of lonely stars for a constellation
And eventually that is going to have to be enough
For each of us to love ourselves
To carry our own pain
I can not keep carrying all of this for each of you
I have my own pain
Which on most days is more than enough
I assure you
On most days
It is more than one man should

When I die I want to have one of those really sad funerals,
I heard and seen many different burials,
I want a casket,
I want people to dress in suits that are black,
Anyone who doesn't have one,
Buy one for them,
I want everyone here for my funeral,
I want the whole city to come and see,
I want the whole country to come and see,
I want the whole world to come and see,
But at my funeral it will be just me,
Dead,
Alone,

This dominion is not mine,
Nor theirs,
No place to slither between where the sun hides all your worry day cares!!!

Credited day's slim few to many.
Captains take action's,
While the sloppish dressed harasser's are the caressers of Pilate like crucifixions!!!

Nails they will drive into you,
Chains of wear to drag you down!
Some come for dope,
Others seek envelopes,

For their loved ones are a mindful sound!!

Haircuts all the same in this dungenous pit,
All sprinted bed's to break thy back in!!!

Headaches follow the needle tracking,
As the watered down orange juice thursties up thine spirit!!!

Why would you ask me if I'm okay
Don't I look like I'm okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline
I’m not Jacqueline anymore
No, I was never Jacqueline,
But I didn’t realize that when I was younger
And who do I ask about my gender
Don’t tell me God
I have spent so long praying
There are depressions in the floorboards from where my knees collided with faith
But I don’t think I have faith anymore
God doesn’t answer my prayers anymore
Why doesn’t god answer my prayers?
I know for a fact God answers my friends’ prayers
why doesn’t He answer mine
I think it’s because He doesn’t love his queer children
I think God needs to go to a PFLAG meeting
Or at least one needs to be held in a church so He can hear the words of acceptance echoing throughout his house
Mom told me they didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl until I was born
But I still don’t know
Let’s do an ultrasound on the part of my brain that decided not to feel like a girl
I must have decided
But I don’t remember doing it
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl,
She laughed and said, “I know, you feel like a woman.”
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl, and she said, “Not so loud, I don’t want my parents to hear.”
And she was right, because at some point “gender” became a dirtier word than ***
Because even though her parents won’t admit it, they wouldn’t kick her out if she was having ***, as long as it wasn’t with someone of the same ***
And I’m in a same *** relationship with God
Because in religion class they told me He was genderless
But we still call God “He”
People still call me she
But I’ve never told them different
They said we’re all created in God’s image,
But I think I’m not
Because God doesn’t make mistakes.
No, I’m not okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline.

Forlorn pleas, angst and aching laments,
Thick like a melange of surreptitiously smoked cigarettes,
And plastics that have melted and burned while too close to the heater.

The teen angst hangs in the depressions and around the corners of this place
Where it is damp and wet in the just-breaking morning.
Among the verdant green, earth-rupturing sprouts
There are flower buds that threaten to burst.

The spring landscape here reveals hewn timber,
And crafted structures
Yet also black loamy dirt
Dredged up from beneath the swollen green carpet
Of ferns and sod,
Marking the unmistakable path
Of an errant vehicle,
That skidded unexpectedly from the narrow road.

Snell's law in life a medium
of a mind prism, as sure as ,
the wavelenths have varying temperatures:
Wide open aperature of high
the slitted view of depressions,
purpish absorbing the green, yellow
echoes, yellow absorbing the hot red rays.
If only I saw what was absorbed, the waves that came I ignored.
Blue with depressions, colder than all the feel of ultraviolets.
Or intense as the white paper absorbing the infrared rays.
I pass , like a prism, the negative refractive indexes.

artists of flesh
wielding shades of exertion
splashing on canvas sheets
bright through closed eyes

I'm your thumbprint expressionist
mattress impressionist
bristles for taste buds  make
broad strokes the emphasis

aptly utensil
fills focal to edges
though tipping the easel
conception seems effortless

brilliantly tincture
accentuates fervor
while crescent depressions
raise apogee further

I measure my latest life in a series of cliches
and obsessive compulsions,
convinced I'll be alone forever if I keep going
loneliness disguised as self-love
every minute awake another piece of me decays
but I muster up and put on the face
fill my voids in the usual ways
and shove down the parts of me I hate

Unquestionable, firmly examined facts hold on solid ground,
Confirmed from living fiction and knowing minds.
But this is the sea, doubtful trade-winds, frightful storms, doldrums rich Of inactivity, the water looks fine until you dive. Until you sink.

Tropical rotations, influential easterlies void of West African dust,
Stir the depths into unnavigable waters. the boldest stitches will rip, Possessive nests will fill of cawing crow's imagining uniformed horizons. Clouds will hallucinate above an unstable phthalo blue.

Depressions created by uneven poles, so coldly separate but,
These days are in the tropics. endlessly middle green, equatorial and lush In figuration, continuing as the great divide between such chilly distances.
It remains the equalizer, massively active without the thought of day.

Unquestionable. Doubtful of Naught on land. these depressions are not For our concern, they say. They are earth, compounded by the will of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Bow; pray. Weep from fear. sacrifice your Souls for his favor, his pity will spare his wrath; his pity will spare life.

Unquestionable, they say. They speak in certainties. Not knowing the
Days when our nature remained unquestioning. A time before my vision Heightened towards perfection. Before his plans unfolded into Nothingness; scribbling pious fool. Denied of will, accepting the ill of it.

Placed at sea, our sails may rip and crows may gather together.
Their cries of fortune remain the most familiar. On land too, their call is a Familiar caw. not fateful of Godly affairs, or willful of the willing.
He was not there when the storm approached; Nor present as it passed.

He did not show pity when enlightened of our truths. Apathetic
Towards He, that holds the anchor when standing in rising tides.  
Apathetic towards He, beaten man of unjustly men, frustrated with Ignorance and misleading truth. Practicing rage, passing on hate.

Clouds of deathly intentions flashed bright of color and sound, revolving Above the stirring deep where circumstance crescendoed into a coda of Rattling crows. Where sails ripped free from stitching in the passing squall And hope had lost itself amongst the wailing souls and rising seas.

Unquestionable,there were times when faith drifted alongside in the guise
Of cooing Sirens, supple in song and form. Alluding to lust and love, Tempestuously adrift. Giving aim away from direction, only leading Further into Bedlam. Where the mirage of paradise appears.

Tilted storms spitting rain, winds pushed our hull closer to the deep. We Were left to truths of weathering might. Water spilled from above and Rose from below in equal volumes, displaced from equal but opposing forces. Differentiated by the sting, not by circumstance.

In it all, we lost everything. the caws of gulls, the coos of Sirens, the Hopeful sails to catch a promising wind. All we had were the cresting Waves of a torrential sea. All we had were the forceful rains and winds From clouds intent on freeing us from our undeserving existence.

No longer just adrift, our vessel groaned groans only equal to the sound Saved for aging beasts of dying mythology. The sounds of a beast Cornered in an arena filled with hungry spectators, out to feed their taste Of whining blood. Eager to watch "weakness" be ruled by humanity.

We held onto ourselves like the aging beast anchored to the groaning hull. We drank the water without intention like we were lost amidst the sahara Sun. We watched as blue joined together from above and below, Attempting to squeeze out life just like sweet forbidden fruit.

There was nothing we could do. this was no different than on land. We
Knew this place, in-between. Where our blood was used as juice to quench The thirst of humanity. Whether earth or civilization, we remain pressed Between, afloat in the seas of misfortunate circumstance.

Where we hold onto all we can with apathy to circumstance because
That is all we have come to know. That is all we have been allowed by god, Mother earth, humanity. We look upon all things with a smile and good Will. We know no other way, but listen for the cawing crows.

It remains unquestionable, that this is the sea.
On land too, it is unquestionable still, that this is also the sea.

The wood room door was opened wide
I closed it firm last night.
I woke at four and felt it's breath
It gave me quite a fright.
I felt it's chilly, gentle breath
Exhaling on my brow
And upright in my skinny bed
Roared "Get thee gone ghost,
******* now!"


With naked shanks I padded forth
To set and light the fire
Whilst outside in the wilderness
I could hear the specter's ire,
It moved about deliberately,
It stalked outside my room.
I warmed my *** by fires heat
And cursed to dispel doom.


That icy feeling permeates
It reaches to the bone,
It is far to early for a call
Yet there's the ringing phone,
I listen to the vacant hiss,
There's no one there of course
So I bellow forth obscenities
And hang up with a curse.


Old Basil told me of the time
He watched with open mouth
Whilst a faceless man in hounds tooth coat
Glided past him from the south.
The housemaids tell with fear filled eyes
Of depressions on the bed
Where something sat and rested there
Laid down it's weary head.
Except the house was empty then,
Unoccupied by guests.
No cat nor dog nor friendly hog,
Nobody playing jests.


Some nights I walk the corridors
To see what I can see
And I fancy Thomas Dawson's ghost
Is quietly watching me,
For he only shows his bearded face
At the darkest witching hour
And it's usually in the dead of night
To the echo's of the old clock tower
When the mountain looms above the lodge
Enshrouded in the mist,
And the morepork calls its haunting sound
And the snow is moonlight kissed.



Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
TARANAKI,New Zealand.
18th August 2008
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate

In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?    

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

Wonthelimar, in the last transmigration that he planned from Nyons in the cavern on the eastern side of the Rhone, surrounded himself with mountains that dwarfed them with promiscuous caves of the Eygues. From these buckets as a margin of power and go referring to the nocturnal wind of the Pontias; created his fundamental tool of attraction of the Mementos de Cartography of the Seleucids, decomplexing the logistical notions of the Diadocos after having resuscitated and liberating Alexander the Great from a Cartesian Underworld in the manner of apocryphal late Aristotelianism, mechanizing existential dualisms of Hades with formulas and psychotropic and geometric tricks, licensing them theologies of habeas corpus, coexisting in the first instance with Etréstles de Kalavrita who would establish the term of definitive transmigration of Alexander the Great, so that between the Diadocos and Wonthelimar they would contend the final and disciplinary action to revoke the high arrest, transhuming the sovereign as Macedonian next to the Hexagonal Birthright finally very close to Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth in the vicinity of the Megaron Spilaion Apokalypseos.

The generals of Alexander the Great shared his legitimate Ark without royal titles, they were Perdiccas, Antipater, Craterus, Eumenes de Cardia, and others like the satraps who came to be proclaimed as kings; Antigonus, Ptolemy, and Seleucus. Residing the most substantial in this parapsychological saga in Vernarth; his brother Etrestles de Kalavrita who seconded and predestined his monolithic and constituent sovereignty of Polis, for the purpose of ruling and raising his Kopis and Xifos in the independence of aldehyde and alcoholic carbonyl residues emanated from the ferment of the Backhoi and Nepente, depositing LSD in substantial amounts. to align himself with Seleucus, and materially present himself in the sphere of Patmos as two representatives of both empires, one ancient Christian and the other Panhellenic, placing himself in that totalitarianism of Seleucus over that of Alexander the Great who was splendid in the cosmogony of a king similar to David of Judea, solvent and illustrious in the conception of Apological dynasty and identity, of Zeusian roots and of eternal numeral politics. In the quantitative of the champion of Alexander the Great revived on Patmos, the Mashiach of Gethsemane will continue to be deified with such a signature of both in ****** skies in two absolutist emperors and of dogmatic differential Pythagorean, propagandizing both dynasties with domains in regencies and different latitudes of the conceptual decision. Base, to refute proposals to follow them in part of anti-Alexandrian perplexities or opposed to marginalizing himself from following them after they abandoned him in Babylon. This was sensed in the confrontation between both forces of univocal polarization, for the good of one and the bad of the other of having to distract them from the proposal to enlist and harass dethroned kings on purpose from their deaths and revive them in others than in their own court of observers and bosses, they will only exist in the empty temples and idols without dates to know to avoid and in prevailing dates that will not happen.

Seleucus says: “Khaire my Commander…, unite the divine sanctuaries of Apollo, and take up the harangue of Tel Gomel with us disunited and lost by you. This dating will remain in the offices of reforming Macedonian armies and we will both command our generals in the Panhellenic dynasty, overall the heavenly armies that you will ever have here with fragile oracles confusing your divine blood! "

Wonthelimar, already manifesting from Nyons, lightened his Bucephalus bases, having a great somatic affinity with the bridles of Alexander the Great's steed, unraveling here a great mystery in his parapsychological regression directed from the cavern of Chauvet.

Wonthelimar says: “I have been confined with early Neolithic alloys, here I have dwelt livid among all your intrepid adventures channeling the axons and sketches of manifestations of superior cause and effect of correspondence of the ages and their Aeon and paleo-uncrossing precessions of you and your new death, from the Ardeche river together with Medea and Hypnos, among all of them being aerial, visionaries and northern lights who traveled to my redoubt to spray them in river waters, on the night of Agios San Ioannis. The gorges that swallow the seal of the Pontias, make rivers form with their name since the bulk of their waves of gusts are grandiloquent and robust like a gaseous river that becomes hydrological in larynxes where the wind is astonished when entering the concavity that it is wasted in its nature of time and qualitative content. Unusually I have been the progeny of organisms of rapture and cytological drama, in each one that is represented in these walls in which they are trapped next to me as tricks, and radiocarbon tricks by these vicissitudes, and of their actions that have dated my radiation of radioactive carbon in these caverns and so-called fourteen carbon spaces, for more than fifty million radiometric years. I lived here with my parents until as a child I stayed with my godmother, but one day my father did not return. From that moment on I became after the anticipated axial carbon, to keep myself as a torch in the caverns to see where no one was light but me, only of someone who was more than a dawn to illuminate what they wanted to know in my organic depressions, my trident of dating and carbon, by my parents and I in incisive philanthropy staining all the walls detesting the otherness that made me move towards a Wonthelimar; with dated apparitions and curtains that behind them always like gargoyles appeared before Hypnos, and then Medea, taking me as a child with her hands. When they left, I was left alone and patiently waited for them, when they did not return in the harsh winters they would send me Gerakis Falcons, to deal with your pain my lord Vernarth. In this field, I live, but now I am on my way to grasp the horns of the ibex, which took me to their lair with their goat colonies to give me milk and ursid ***** herbs that shielded me from a lethal genre, although not every day. Remain so. The lord that you will be now is the reflection of the bodyguard along with his ibex that will cordon off your rebirth after leaving the traces and rods of your bone marrow, spleen, and glandular that now belongs to me, to take you to the coldest waters that run inside me since the last ice age. The interference of the Diádocos tried to convince Alexander the Great, this is already a new rock piece to represent him in numismatics, walls, and ceramics in a predominant and complacent way of historical, shamanic record and of astonishing parapsychological fold that I have projected on the walls of Chauvet without your consent "

The new turn from Nyons to Patmos was one of the seizures and ecstatic agonies, for a former little prodigy boy and son of an Íbez and a Bucephalus named Wonthelmar, who comes to rescue the entelechies of someone who was an ignorant man who carried in his arms his divine death, without knowing that before she was eternal life waiting for her in the Katapausis, after building the Megaron and negotiating with Seleucus the evolutionary stylistics of the resurrected Alexander the Great in the flames of the candle enlisted in the night lanterns and united with Saint John the Theologian. Seleucus' talks will be one of the stubborn and ****** visits to persuade and catechize his major general, in periods that do not elapse in real-time, and that will be the fatal fate of his obstinacies because Vernarth was already a prodigal son of the Duoverso-Universe., whose basal was unparalleled in attacking their ideals and hegemonic settlements of the material of minimal cause and effect, a wonder of worthy to lean on invisible gods who at a great speed never seen before..., trafficked in front of every gap or shoulder of their destiny, wandering under a pendulum of a sword and under the support of the farmer, who held prey and meat between a lightning bolt and an elder that supports him, cushioning all earthly sufferings, even more coming out from the silence and the most hidden isolation of those who dare to release from the vaporous darkness of Chauvet, Wonthelimar, already forging paths and ups and downs from where no one comes or goes.

Your personality
Your love
Your heart
Your hug
Your mind
Your expressions
Your thoughts
Your depressions
Your touch
Your message
Your vibe
Your cry
Your self
Your lies
Your kiss
Your bliss
Your horror
Your tighten fist
Your pain
Your struggle
Your happiness
Your muscle
Your smile
Your tears
Your past
Your years
*You're different
You've changed
You're growing
But you're still the same.

Tranquility,
A abashed day dream,
Calamity,
A reality of hearts pains.

What is it to feel one's way through an abyss of unknowns,
where the human and natural world collide in juxtaposition?
Is it that the mind can discern the hearts knowings?
Or is it the failings of the heart to render the natural rivers flow?

Shall we, as mere children, all grown and flawed in our big kid boots,
cause one another to wrongfully believe we have grasped the essence of truth through adversity? Through pain full and enveloping of the mind and the soul?
Shall we find the rule maker of this maze and thus find the exit to this contrived reality?
How is it that the simplest instructions become the foundation of or collective despise and demise?
Or was it that we as children found simplicity far too boring and dry in its humor for us to adhere too?
And if not, then pray chance did we fail to heed the warnings of self and our wishes laid waste and unanswered upon silly little broken play grounds of our imaginations?
So many questions, so many answers found lacking, for our tempered and trusted depressions of self abuse and lazy eyed visions to the core of a shared doom, a doom we all tread lightly in our heavy footed dance to say, we are sorry, as we render excuses and blame to others for our lack of adherence to what can only be understood as what is and what we all have created.
For we, are much ado about everything in its nothingness of day dreams, yet we cast such emotions out as the act of a motion to grant forward cleverness in a dull bladed running to find absolution's in one anothers arms, all the while we turn a blind eye and a reddened cheek to ourselves and the you in me and the me in you.
SO in such failings of victory we say to our selves and the collective of our hearts content, "it weren't mine" as the **** thing went blind.  
Yet in all of this, we children seem to glimpse the hope so dangerous and sweet as to dare to care and realize, we are far from the edge of an oblivion so cruel and lacking, and we can truly grace a simple truth to one another, and that simplicity is called understanding.
For without it we are left on that broken play ground screaming "red rover, red rover....." and then where would the blind children of ol' Betty be then my dear friends? gone far more than just wild.

they say my depression is genetic
so what am I fighting for
when I am told that their will always be days after days
after years after years that I will still wake up in hell
funny how I have fell so hard
only to look up and realizing I have started falling more
I am tired of fighting
with all of my mighting
smiting all of the demands my genetics has given me

the say my depression is genetic
so why am I fighting
I just want to die
I just want to lie  down
and close my eyes

they say my depressions genetic
so I am  left wondering
why I am still fighting
why I am still lying here on my bed
the demands that run through my head
to take me tonight

they tell me my depression is genetic
that the demands have been lead to me by my genetics
They pop me all kinds of antidepressants when nothing seems to work
my dopamine levels are running low
but they can't seem to fix it
and tell me that it is all genetic
and that it is not my fault
because it is genetic
they still tell me though
that it will get better
even though every day is harder than the last
they still tell me it will get better
that is just genetic
genetic
genetic
genetic

.
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

time slip
             p   i
               n
                        g
through my fingers.
words w   w w
o  o      o   r words
words   r
d       d    d        s
   s            s
                  pouring
from my mouth.

three children catching fish in a pond
with an empty coke bottle, annoyance
at their little voices, "Not like that!"
"Let me catch it!"

victory in death to create their own peace.

the day was too shy for me to face myself
(excuses, reasons, call them as you see them,
  even if it's hard to look at things you don't like).
unpleasant thoughts surround me, there's nothing I can do,
except to remove the things that eat away, that keep me eating:
gluttony grabs hold, depressions wits (it knows if it drags me deeper
                                                          ­     then it'll probably get to stay).
sickness finds it's way through neglected troubles.
standing up to yourself for yourself is the beginning,
once you stand up to others is when you start to move forward.
patience, love, empathy, communication, assertion, emotion, fear:
let it flow: all complimentary, opposite and in between.
thrashing does you no good,
it simply sends you under.

I want to stick my head under and get a taste,
float on my back and breathe in fresh air,
avoid holding onto anything so as not to disturb what might need change,
enjoy what is here, be thankful for what was, and welcome what comes.