“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.
When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.
The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…

But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”

gold-laced
molten lava, dripping onto every,
all music
what is it about Bb minor
                                  major
what's surplus? a drum solo?
we tell the truth when it stops raining

& how could you/I turn off Debussy
when he's still learning to make do
in ever-glades of silvery dew
& weeping infinitesimal tears
into broad
piano
strings

© Copyright David Bosworth April 2013

Earphones pumping rhythms to keep apace to.
Relaxed, steady, determined one leg at a time.
Hedgerows gliding past, forever long.

Blood pumping, harder stronger faster.
Chest is heaving, struggling gasping.
Back is tense, muscles constantly contracted.

Focussing on anything else but breathing
Impossible,yet it is lovely.
Like an old friend, thoughtlessness embraces me.
Caressing and Familiar.

Growing up was not in the spoken word of the country of origin,
parental choice was the language of the country of birth,
lost were the years when learned idiomatic expressions would
                                       now be automatic,
as growing would have it,
one language was enough,
and was lavished,
while the parents,
moved and moved,
to a hockey town,
with a mountain named,
after the color of blood,
and another mountain,
like Granite.

All that has been lost,
drags behind, pulling
toward home,
tongues and time,
both lost on this life,
cities and memories
out of reach, the pity.

travelling home alone,
with only strangers to
greet you,
treating you,
like a visitor,
who knows better,
once you say your
last name,
flames of memory
lit and rekindled,
the smile
either stays
or vanishes
as they embrace
or banish,
who your Ancestors
were to them,
lost on the city history,
tongue spoken a foreign exchange,
eyes down cast
never focussing,
like you did locusts bring
and they carried a little of
the past, each one a story
with as many exaggerated,
laughs as honest chuckles,
and your will buckles and
you admit, *this place is my home

when someone speaks to me, i take in their every feature.

i remember their eyes - warm, cold, colourful, bland - all secretly beautiful in their own ways.

i take note of their noses, of sun kissed freckles scatter across the bridge to their cheeks.

but most of all, i watch their lips, as they speak, as they smile, as they frown.

and people find it strange when they see my eyes focused on their lips, but i'm focussing on the way their words fall from their mouths so fluently.

i'm focussing on their emotions depicted through their muscles.

i'm focussing on what they won't say.

Somewhere seabirds pipe and bleat,
gathered on a dark low tide.
Shapes and shadows line the fleet,
cold and calling.

In the shore hide facing north
I'm focussing black ten-by-forties,
hunched against the wall for warmth;
the tide still falling.

Looking out, I'm looking back,
thirty years have ebbed away;
the boy, his joy, his haversac,
his notebook scrawling;

I see him, tremulous, wild-eyed,
among the plovers, curlew, knot,
a loosed dog shakes them and he flies,
the seawall salt sting cuts and dries;
there's no recalling.

The picnic bench foils under the body weight of my half drunk self
There is a cat cuddling up to me, with her tail

Pink Floyd plays in the background, as the cat brushes up against my legs
Brings a feeling like something of the loch ness Nessie

Shirley sits beside me, watching the night sky
And focussing on my presence and cigarette smoke

I pet her, and she stays
Smoke and inhale
The cars bustle by

The final places of another busy day
The wall is built and she stays beside me

But she now has disappeared
Inhale, exhale
Smoke my smoke
And drink my 4th beer

I can still remember the weather, it was your weather, as the whole day was yours as well.  

You called me Tuesday lunchtime. I tell you this so you might know who I am. I expect you call many people on a Tuesday lunchtime so I am nothing special to you. The cup-a-soup chicken dust was in the mug and particles were floating about in the light. The kettle flip was down and the water was just at that bit, post bubbling before the flip kicks up again to show it’s done. Butter out and open, ready and still messy with crumbs like some cross section of limestone showing its history. I could smell the toast was nearly toasted too. Everything was coming to a head, even the clock was crawling close to the exact hour. All these processes were funneling back together into one task, like streams regrouping in a river. I was focussing hard enough that I could feel seconds, and that is when you called.

“Hello, is this Mr. Innes-Jones?”
You said it in one of those recycled voices, and that hurt. I could already see your eyes in my head, I'm a fast visualiser, but with the way that you spoke, scripted, I couldn’t see any life in them. I could see your finger wrapping and unwrapping itself in the phone chord and I could smell complimentary coffee on your breath.

“Speaking,” I said, muting the television, cutting the talk show’s announcement short as to who the father is. He put his head in his hands and the woman opposite stood shouting and pointing downwards at him like a dictator, which, on this program, usually means he, is in fact, partaking in the wonderful adventure of parenthood.

“Are you the homeowner Mr. Innes-Jones?” God, if you could only call me Andy. If only you could say my name as if you were asking me what’s in the fridge, or telling me to move my legs so you could get in close on the couch. I know it’s two syllables but it’s still not too difficult a name to say and in my wildest dreams, sigh.

“Yes, I am and call me… tell me what this call is in regards to.” I’m sorry to be so rude and direct, it still kills me that I may have cut some of your voice from my life by getting straight to the point but I realised it was far too forward for us to be on a first name basis, when, to you, I’m a stranger. I was like a car that swerves and then has to control itself. You could hang up any moment and lose a sales deal, but I could lose you.

“Of course sir.” Sir is worse than Mr. Innes-Jones.

“My name’s Christine.” Christine. You said something else afterward about solar panels but I was still stuck there. Stuck there wondering whether you looked like your name, as some people do, or if you transcended it and it paled in comparison to you, just like when a star is named a number. Christine. Maybe your parents are people of faith and their conservatism in your upbringing has given you a bashful streak. Might you turn in your rotating office chair and blush in the face of a wink or a half smile? Are you a Tina in the world off of the phone? Or Chris? this is important, what is it about you which might influence people in that decision.

I focused back into your voice. I could always leave wondering for later. I’d most likely have my whole life to wonder and knowing how the memory would fade, how I would eventually have to fill it in with my substandard vision of your voice, tone, and intonation, I couldn’t let any more of you slip into static, the hum of space.

“Might you be the homeowner sir?”

“Yes, I am indeed” I wanted to ask the question back and delude myself that this was a conversation and not an interrogation, but I didn’t. The saddest three words right there.

“And you make the decisions there, correct?” “Yes, certainly do.” I’m sure that women like a man of the house, our house, though I doubt your imagination was working as hard as mine. I was still finding it hard not fall into it.

My silenced program finished on the television and you went into my electric bill. The women in the adverts disappointedly displayed their appliances, fell off ladders, came in suits to save people who did, and a myriad of other things, but they all spoke in your voice, spoke to me. Some were called Tina, some called Chris, depending on which name suited their faces. It was funny, I felt that I slightly loved all of them, in different ways, as they attempted to be you. Like this woman with the wonder-mop for example. She had a checkered shirt, and despite still being quite pretty, time had separated her jowls slightly from her chin, so I decided on the more androgynous name Chris for her, Chrissy at best, she has a life away from wonder-mops. She doesn’t spend her days in perfect lighting demonstrating to her husband and kids how, however hard you shake the thing, it still retains it’s liquid. Though I expect she probably gets one for free. I hope she does, they look quite good.

“Sir? Sir?” Chris on screen tells me, like some kind of backward echo getting louder and more real. I gave you my attention back and bear in mind I always will.  “Sorry?” “I said, are there any large trees nearby your house that may obscure sunlight to the panels?” “No.” “Any tall properties nearby to the same effect, sir?” “Can’t say so.” In my mind you were asking me for something in that way that wives do, establishing with a series of questions that there’s no real reason why we can’t have solar panels, so why don’t we. A really subtle supplication, and I played along and allowed it, just for you. I kept it to myself that I live in a basement apartment and the only light I get is when no one is walking over the grate above the front window.

I’d like to write a love poem.
For tea has ceased to give me joy.
And in the past, one of the only things that has,
Has been feelings for a boy.
I know that sounds pathetic,
Like Disney commercials have seized my mind,
But sometimes focussing on something lovely as opposed to my own self-loathing,
Is the only relief I can find.
I’d like to write a love poem
And yet I know I cannot.
For the boy who sees me as nothing but a game,
Is the only one my heart has got.
I’d like to write a love poem
For someone other than him
Whose head is filled with textured thoughts,
And heart is filled with kindness, to the rim
I’d like to write a love poem
Telling of how I adore
His endless eyes, his glistening soul
But his rough edges even more.
I’d like to write a love poem,
But the more I think it through
I realize that I’ll never have anyone
To address my love poem to

We go about each day, telling ourselves the words our mothers fed us as children, “You can be anything you want, you can reach heights unseen and untouched by any other being.” But we speak them in monotone, we see them without processing.  I played along like every other and chanted them with a smile but with no idea of the actual meaning and interpretation. I did not make those words mine, they were merely an idea; an unexplained, unrealized idea. But my eyes have opened and light has shown upon it and the truth to it. I can do anything and there is not necessity for schooling or to go to an elite college. I can do the things I love and with passion because I want to! The flaming passion that burns in my eyes spreads upon those who hear my words and my excitement.  I am seeing the world’s situation in large and each act and each rule and law as changeable. Revolutions and riots have brought change and the rules we live by and each thing we see as so common can be altered and flipped upon it’s buttox if only one sees the possibility, wants it, and speaks the benefits. We are not a perfect society. We are not better than the past. We are not lesser than the future. We are what we have and we have to live and deal with it, but that does not mean to be content with out society nor does it mean to over appreciate it. We can change and we will change. No one is content, and we must realize we cannot ignore the change or ignore the history being made. Do not sit in your homes huddled away and watch the news as if you are not part of it. Step out your door and watch as we create history and we decide what is the best that we can do to be able to do what we love to do as humans. We are so often restricted by society and it’s beliefs on what is acceptable and what is available. As a child we grow up and we see our options as firemen, policemen, doctors, or teachers and then as we grow up we keep our brains in this mindset that those are our options and then we get into highschool and start realizing we know of nothing, we don’t know our options, we don’t know what we want to do with ourselves. Then we say we have time, we say we can make that decision later and then we cruise through our schooling not focussing on anything and then keeping in our head the 5 options of life and occupations that were given to us when we were children. We need to not just tell our children that they can do anything and then give them a few options, they deserve to be shown throughout their whole lives what it means to do the things you love and are passionate about and not having to be pushed into a category of work or life that they “kind of like”  and think that’s what passion is because they haven’t experienced enough to realize what their possibilities are. Life is so much more than what we have built it to be as society. Life is not going to school till youre 30 and then doing work and having a family and going on a few vacations and then growing old with a person you hardly care to genuinely ask how they’re doing. We belong to this earth and I swear to God, I’m going to embrace this earth and frolic upon it’s soil until the day I die because I want to experience it all and I do not want to live in the confines of what society has confined itself to. The things you find social acceptable are your own barriers and the limits you are making for yourself, so do not bash another for going against the grain but applaud them and follow behind them and create your own path as they did. I’m done doing what makes me most financially stable or what the upperclass would respect me most for. It’s not like I did before but gosh ****, I’m not going to busy myself with other peoples fear of change and the unknown.

He used to deliver
Groceries to Mrs
Ushmore as a kid and

She’d say, bring it into
The kitchen, Henry, and
Put it down on the side,

Why, you must be thirsty
After carrying that
Heavy load to my door,

And he’d go in with the
Groceries and lay them
Down where she had shown him

And looked around the place
Trying hard to avoid
Looking at young Mrs

Ushmore who was dressed in
The skimpiest of things
And pretended to be

Looking around at the
Shelves and gas cooker and
Out the large window.

What are you having, she
Asked, Coke? Yeah, that’ll be
Fine, he replied, looking

Over her shoulder at
The wallpaper of bright
Yellow flowers. Have you

Seen my *****? She asked.
Miss Glissy, I call her.
Henry shook his head and

Looked briefly at her. No,
He replied, getting a
Quick glimpse of her *******,

Fighting to escape from
The black bra. Here, she said,
Have a Coke and don’t go

Rushing it now, don’t want
You to get the hiccups
And have your mother come

Over here telling me
Off. No, I won’t, he said,
Sipping the Coke, tasting

Each mouthful, letting it
Rest on his tongue. I love
My *****, she said, but

My husband, Clive, he has
Little to do with her,
Says she’s nothing to be

Too fussed about. Henry
Swallowed the small mouthful.
His eyes settled like small

Butterflies on her thighs,
Focussing where her black
Suspenders met the brown

Stockings and the skin stretched
Out there like nothing he’d
Seen before, not even

Amy Shortdove, showed him
That much for her two dimes.
Would you like to stroke Miss

Glissy? She asked, giving
Henry a wide-eyed stare.
No, I better be off,

Henry said gulping down
The last remaining Coke.
Mr Ashton don’t like

Me hanging around and
I’ve loads more to do and
Maybe another time,

Mrs Ushmore, I can
Stroke your *****. Sure, she
Said smiling, I’m sure she’d

Like that. Henry rode his
Bike away not looking
Back, not letting her see

He was interested,
Not letting her think he’d
Ever stroke Miss Glissy

In a thousand years let
Alone days or weeks,
And he never did see

Or stroke Mrs Ushmore’s
*****, but he often
Dreamed he did and enjoyed

The dream, with him and Miss
Glissy purring and both
Of them licking the cream.

I can´t wait
for the hurt
to finally go away,
waiting for the day,
that i´d wake up without
thinking about you,
without thinking about the day you left me
without any explanation

When that day comes,
I´d celebrate & say
I will never let
anyone in,
Becaus you caused me dirt,
hurt,
you did a number on my health,
You diminished my confidence
My self love,
My life purpose,
My importance wandered away.

But when my pain goes away,
I´ll be stronger than ever,
I´ll be focussing on me,
I won´t let anyone in,
Will not chase anyone
My life will be priority,
Because I´m done with loving too much
caring too much,
for someone, that wouldn´t love back
or do the same

When that day comes,
I´ll rise

Laces that blew along with the wind
Draped around her body that defined her
A beauty carved by nature
She smiled at her friends and laughed at their jokes
Worked hard over every lesson
And also became the college beauty.
Twirling laces and silky frocks adorning her slim body and reflecting a grace that never could be denied
Simple but ambitious at heart
She fluttered her lashes many a time
To catch the attention of the smartest man in her batch
Though coyly posing she sought the attention of many a man  
Sole for the smartest man.
Many a man came for her hand but
She kept on waiting and waiting
Realising her flaw she worked day and night
Covering her lessons, reading many philosophers,
She worked hard and the day of exam was declared
Focussing on her points and shortlisting her methods she systematically covered her portions
Delighted she waited for the hour
The teacher distributed the question sheet and the time ticked by
Cautiously she wrote her answers one by one
She handed her paper and walked out
To her surprise she saw the smartest guy lost in thoughts
When the result was declared
The Tailor's daughter stood first
Unable to grasp she stood silently meditating
The smartest guy without hesitating for the first time noticed her and passed a smile
She jumped with joy conquering her dream
the tailors daughter walked dangling her plumet, velvet clothes floating with laces
and the mild wind kissing her her silky woven dress
and soft brown skin she trotted to the tailor's shop.

I keep wiggling
My toes and
Focussing on
How the fabric
Of my socks
Feels against
My skin.
I get by with
Grand gestures
And some sort
Of wit.
Avoiding
Does not mean
Solving
The problem.
My socks don't match.
Neither do I.
I spilled paint
All over
My insides.
And it's made
A mess.
I keep thinking
It will be
Better
To clean it up
Alone.
I keep holding
People at
Arms length.
But I am
Trying to
Hold them
Nonetheless.
I can feel
My fingers
Slipping.
I Can Feel It.

Senses, vibrant and restless,
Drive into the depths
Of human consciousness,
Myriads of subtle impressions
And kaleidoscopic images,
While memory, ever alert and mercurial,
Recalls every relevant experience
For guidance in changing situations,
Giving rise to thoughts and impulses
That result in action and reaction.
To keep the mind well balanced
In life's daily toil and turmoil,
Intellect strives to harmonize
Conflicting thoughts and emotions,
Focussing them on a single aim,
To still the mind and bring calmness
To unravel the mystery of existence
And sages call this meditation.
            ***  M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India.  mgnmurthy4@gmail.com

It burrowed through her heart like a scared mole
sending ripples of pain straight to her soul
disbelief clogged her eyes as she watched discombobulated
by a lot of images strange and very unrelated
the air smelled of rose flower which scent didn't fit the moment
for her skin was weaved in piercing thorns of torment
her mind was a rim spinning contrary to the globe
as a dull alien sensation throbbed beneath her lobe
she could smell blood as vivid as it tested coppery
and her sky blue eyes turned bloodshot and teary
so much for an adventure she thought
she couldn't place her position in her congested mind
yet she had none but little strength much as she fought
she perspired yet it was darker than sunny
as she regretted focussing on the destination ,not the journey
Entering her vintage car was all she could remember
for her brain was roasting worse than a burning ember
it was like going through hell head first
made worse by the itching sub Saharan thirst
she mourned and cursed but after a time passed
she realised her agony was eating her voice
and instead ******* whispers leaving her no choice
but silence for she was suddenly voiceless and dumb
she tried to lift limb after limb but all were numb
she couldn't even blink as much as she couldn't think
serpentine tears crawled out her chilly visage
yet she could hardly scratch
All she saw was a blurry  image
like she'd taken too much scotch
Had she? Had she tried to drink away her pain
****, the steering pressed into her chest
squeezing her heart, bruising her breast
the agony,despair and pain was driving her insane
she suddenly remembered every detail as the car heated
she was escaping from reality whence she cheated
Did she really think few bottles of bitter wine
would fix her mistakes,that drunk she'd feel fine?

A Baby-Boomer walks so freely through the town
he pays no mind to those suffering around
“Why don’t poor people just get jobs,”
he asks himself,
“And stop bellyaching?
And women need to shut their mouths and stop complaining
the wage gap is a fallacy
they invented to work less.
trust me I am a man who would understand the oppressed,
a man who has always been gainfully employed,
in fact if you ask me I am simply annoyed
that others dare to call me privileged
just because I can afford more than they do
(well that and the fact that because of my face
I can be sure that I will not be chased
by the police unrightfully
or a strange man most frighteningly).”
He walks alone in the darks of night
and yet his bones do not creak with fright
for he knows the world respects his white skin,
his wife, and the money he keeps only for him.
On his wall hangs a college degree
he got from a school in 1983
“I don’t understand why the millennials are such whiners
pull yourself up by your bootstraps while you’re still minors,
yes we ruined the economy, but it’s not that hard
if you just stop focussing on being so avant-garde
and get a job, who do you think you are?
Just kids trying their best to be what they are?
Disgusting excuse,
sell your soul to businesses,
it’s what Reagan would do.”
As he puts his money to bed at night
in the house he bought when the market was still alright
he wonders why kids these days
seem so tired and hungry for praise.

I remember a vision I once had
In the dark of night, after a darkness of day
Laying there, struggling to grasp truth and reality
I felt helpless and afraid,
I panicked in that moment
Only to their enjoyment and sick pleasures
But my gut continued its chant
Calling me to the truth I already knew.

This night, I recall the devilish ghouls surrounding my formless shape
I remember my voiceless cries to you
My breathless screaming of your name
And their shouting whispers, he is coming, he is coming!
Maybe, it was more trickery as they announced your arrival
If so, it was still in vain
My heart regarded your radiant outline in the ever darkening surfaces
My eyes focussing reassuringly as my stare continued.

You are a turned agent
And for that I am eternally grateful, eternally blessed
You were and will always be my savior in dark times,
Everytime you come to me, my love
I feel my body relax in your illustrated presence
Your soft words tickling my skin, inscribed with our love and honesty
Finishing with a spiraling full stop,
Encasing your message, and me, in protection.

Once in fear yourself
You were unable to show your feelings in this world
Where their eyes could see
And where their minds could envision,
But, my love, I found your notes
Concealed in my hairs, that you had recently brushed aside
Etched lightly across my palms, that your hands had just held
Glazed across my lips, that you had just caressed with yours.

Yes, I remember, my love
And with the strength each word helped me attain, I tell you now-
I need no more.
For you and I wrote one that they cannot erase,
Forever it glows, embedded in my everything
Beneath that butterfly tattoo that misses your kiss
The words of incalculable happiness pumping at every heartbeat...
I love you.

oh boy **** me
Not another line more
i swear i'll die
these words appear like aliens!
ok, we all wish World War never happened
And that great man didn't appear like fat chickens in the history book
I wish super man could have an evolutionary story
And comedy central with guns and hooks
I really wish that clock would tick by faster
And that Edison could have found a dart gun
And the best would be instead of him, if it could be me
i could have invented books that could run
i really wish Romeo wouldn't be obsessed with Juliet whole day
But focus a little on his PSP player
And i really hope Math could stop focussing on its X
Because it knows the reason Y!
i wish mom could stop snoring upstairs
And take a break with sleepwalk
i really hope my 11th grade crush shows up tomorrow
Or maybe at night in my house without a knock
i really wish i could stop yawning
And glaring at the midnight clock
I'm done with William Blake or Henry Quatermain!
I need some music, maybe some mainstream rock!
Gimme a break dad
i'll grow up someday
but for tonight
let the mocking bird wait.

It's been a month,
Since I have published a thing,
I miss poetry, want to write but
Motivation is missing.

Guess I was keeping busy,
Out of ecstacy,
Just skipping the feelings,
Life goals em focussing.

Weird but em actually missing those days,
When feeling depressed my heart bleed
Unable to sleep and my words speak.
Soaking pillow and her memories peak .

You...
not needing me
was the beginning
of me...
needing myself..

You..
ignoring me
was the beginning
of me...
focussing on myself...

Thank You....

You know why I wanted you to kiss me?
Because maybe you could feel what I feel when I hold your hand
I wanted you to kiss me because I don't know how else you'll understand.
I know it's not what you want and I'm sorry I even tried
I just wanted you to kiss me, I wanted you to hold me tight
I guess the moment wasn't right.
But here I am second guessing
I don't know what to do with myself
I'm laying in bed regretting
Repressing
Focussing on breathing before I just call it a night

Zooms
Across life's mountains,
Not focussing on the mountains to overcome, but
Achieving each peak's goal,
Running with courage and strength
Into a setting sun that awaits its impending rising again.

its only really beautiful the first time
after that youre leering
look away
take your glance at the trap of perfection
as a sign sent from heaven
that hell only beckons that way
anything theyre selling
the shiny **** theyre telling you
you think is necessary
are the things that keep you
locked in and focussing
processing nothing
but programming
feeding back
into the mouth that feeds
vomiting
its bile into the minds
of the majority
swallowing its tail
in the self fulfilling prophecy
that is the lie
at the heart
of the capitalist democracy

I adjusted the beanie to an exact position above my brows,
leaving swallow wings arched underneath it.
Looking into the mirror one final time,
saluting the bold stare facing back
beneath sooty lashes - perfection.
The amor arc of my lips
painted a perfectly smug expression.

The buzz in the room stopped on cue
when I stepped into the war zone.
All eyes focussing...finally,
on the one person who really matter.

Hesitant smiles, some frowns
and a whole lot of anticipation...
All waiting for my next move.
In my head I hear Sia singing;
”tough girls in the fast lane...”
- the last tune I played
on my way here.

I smiled to the guy who used to be my web manager.
Turned 45 degrees and gave the older gentleman ( that I always get into heated discussions with about ”the better old days” vs life as it is today) a hug and a breathless salutation.
The lady sitting at the end of the table - a quick kiss on the cheek and a warm assurance of her invaluable presence (not).
The top manager for global communication,
- let’s sparkle a bit extra.
Stroking his chin with light fingers,
assuring him in the unspoken
about how absolutely gorgeous,
irresistible he is.

My so called team,
waiting in terrified silence for the meeting to begin.
Quiet little mice - now.
For months, their cocky, ignorant ***** have been speaking volumes
about how they would challenge conventions,
Break rules
Being rebels unheard of,
and ridiculing anyone who’d disagree
with their blown up perception
of importance.

Now they all looked at me - while chewing  chunks of humble pie.
One unified message
- Save our ******* *****!

And then, her...
The woman who've paved the way for me all along.
Teaching me the hardest lessons possible in business.
Because she cared,
she believed, and she desperately
wanted me to succeed.

I walked the few steps around the table to greet her,
folding my arms closely around her fragile frame.
And for the one and only time that morning,
I let true feelings shine through.

Someone turned the beamer on.
I let go of the dizzy spell
from 3 weeks nonstop work,
regular blood and thyroid treatments.
In my mind my demon wings flared out,
strong, potent and invincible.
And the grand piano fixated in my heart, struck the first chord...

i've decided to live my life positively happy
no more the victim of circumstance
smile and do the best that I can, always
Laugh my way through this merry dance

no need for more self pity
there are many with less than I
no more focussing on what could have been
no childish tears left to cry

I am the master of my own fate
my future, my destiny it does await
so i'll rejoice in the love that i feel
for my family, my friends, for they are real

I will venture into the big wide world
with dignity, pride & truth as my guides
my innate spirit is yet to be uncurled
from deep within my soul it idly resides

everything is well within in grasp
I believe in myself, finally, at last
no need, in greedy hands, do i need to clasp
insincere, negative energies that belong in the past

keep my eyes on the road ahead, I will
focus and achieve my goal
ignore words of spite, the less evolved have said
get myself out of this hole

like attracts like, that is a basic concept
and it is my fundermental belief, that I hold true
Negativity I will forcefully reject
in favour of experiencing what is underneath

for all humans have a heart
and some a conscience aswell
we are innocent at the very start
blank pages in a biography, no need to hard sell
I will greet each day with a loud Hello
glad that I am alive and well
I am positively happy, & a little mellow
I forgive & release myself from this self imposed hell

I trust that the universe will provide for me
all I need, to ensure I'm safe and happy
as long as i'm not too needy nor too greedy
as long as I no longer allow others to make me snappy

so today I place my cosmic order
I would like the universe to take note
a safe haven, love, prosperity & good health
Please place me on cloud 9 and allow me to float

She stares into the mirror, shedding a few tears
She stares into the Mirror, to only see her flaws
She stares into the Mirror, focussing on her body
She gives one last look of unhappiness and fear
She puts on a fake smile and prétends everything Is clear

When I say free your minds
let's start focussing on our heavenily father
who has been with us for everyday of our lives
clean it up think about
everything God has done for you
be grateful for some are not able to have a mind
they are sleeping in their graves.
Well to say to you people we are blessed to have the ability to free our
minds lets keep doing so.

I see this world
Of Marshall with his clean face
And white shirts,
Tattoos
BLEEDING through his sleeves
Blue and green and black.

Staring into his face,
Eyes becoming the expansive world-
In the mirror.

Bleeding razor on the sink,
Steaming water rising upward,
Still-

Marshall STARING into his expansive eyes,
Obliterating reality around him,
Slicing and cutting and tearing apart all surroundings.
Focussing on the star stuff within him.

Kim, the Sun, the warmth of each day,
The clean razor face and lotion-massaged skin,
The golden, gleaming colors of life.

Marshall staring at all of this,
Upon his sink-mirror.

Ohhh I fell I fell for you
Can't say when and why
Even I m asking myself why??
Why??
Why for you??
Nothing!!
Yeah nothing!!!
The answer is nothing!!
I hated to see your name in my contact.
Your status.....mean nothing to me means everything to me.
Your each picture saved in my phone....deleted and again saved.
It really hurts when I stare your pictures in my hidden part of gallery.....or the hidden part of my heart!!!!
I know I'm befooling myself.
Your messages not for me but still it brings a vigour in me.
We see each other.....You shake your hand and I hold my beat.....expecting not to reply..... But when you bow I just kneel.
It's nothing for you I know..... But for that I waste my whole sleep.
It's true we are not friends..... but I guess not strangers too.
I can see when you goggling me then and now... I notices your small efforts to make me spell something for you....
I always see when you focussing on my talks....but not say a word....
What should I relate from that....??
What  should I name it??
What should I??
Why should I??