I'm franticly searching for a bit of oxygen, I'm suffocating
these dreams are drowning me,
no surprise, I fall asleep at night stalking along the shoreline
I wake up, surrounded by salt water.
your words sent me asphyxiating
choking on what to say next.
this constant wave of emotions is no longer worth
a relationship that there is no hope in catching.

You put too much pressure on yourself.*  How often have I heard that, from my parents when I used to rip my hair from my head after softball games and school plays because I felt like I was stupid and incapable? From my therapist when I would continuously tell her how much anxiety I feel on a regular basis, like the world is collapsing on my shoulders and literally pinning me to the ground?  Now, from various teachers telling me I will be fine when I have panic attacks with tears leaving trails on my scarred cheeks and cannot stop shaking because the fear for the future and the terror of letting people down seems to be the hands around my neck, waiting for me to black out? How frequent have those words met my ears since I was five and began to look at myself like I was ugly, or at nine when I felt the need to hide what I ate so I would binge in my room, stuff bags of chips in baggy sweatshirt pockets so no one would see me as I cried about my size, but I continued to eat because it gave me some warped sense of paradoxical comfort?  And then at thirteen, when I felt I needed to do something about it so my stash moved from my bedroom to the bathroom, the place I locked myself alone for hours and stuck an unwilling finger down my throat so that all of these things that made me so not good enough would find their ways out of my limp body?  A good deal of this pressure was self-induced, but it was also learned.  You see, being my daddy's girl, every little child's dream, meant looking the part.  It meant passing on the chocolate cake on my birthday even though I had been waiting for it all year.  It meant being publicly ridiculed in fast food restaurants when I would try to free myself from his totalitarian diet regime and I would immediately be subjected to social homicide no matter who was there as a tactic to force me back into my place.  Maybe that's why I still cringe when people come into my workplace and embarrass their kids over petty things that won't matter to them the next day, but will scar the child for years to come.  It meant being taught that my only goal in life was to look pretty, and that because I am a girl, my voice means nothing.  It means learning to think I deserve the kind of love that tells me I am worthless if I am not a size six.  Being my daddy's girl meant that when the first boy I ever loved called me a fat ugly ******* on a regular basis that it was nothing new to me, he was just more frank about it.  It meant that when my please, don't's and my I don't like this anymore's were silenced by a friend's unwavering desires for power and control, I figured it was because he cared about me because that's what he told me.  After all, being my father's girl meant that I was nothing more than a pretty face, a porcelain doll, who was only good for being someone's *****, even if I was combatting against his advances.  
Being my daddy's girl meant sometimes, as a child, I wanted to be a boy, not because I was transgender, but because I wanted to be something of value that was not solely based on the beauty I did not have. Because of all this, being my daddy's girl meant never being good enough.  If all I could be was attractive, and it became clear that I was not, then what was left?  My sister grew into the skinny robot he wanted her to be.  She was my daddy's girl.  I never was, and I used my voice to speak out against every value he taught me.  He was conservative; I became a raging liberal.  He claims to be Christian; I began to question religion.  He was a sexist, homophobic bigot; I am a feminist and human rights activist.  As in all forms of tyranny, they try to shut you down if you shout the truth from the depths of your being.  But my voice will not stop screaming.  Still, how I felt about my looks began to affect everything else.  My father would try to support me in my activities and in school, but when I looked at him, all I could see was a big glaring manifestation of YOU'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH staring me straight in the face.  And while this snowball has been rolling and building up for years, I have to stop believing the lies.  I cannot blame all of them on him; society has taught me that I am not a model, therefore I am nothing.  The church has taught me that I must be subservient to some man and that I will never be anything without him.  In case you couldn't figure it out, that will never happen. Overcoming this is not easy, and while my thoughts still panic and franticly bounce about from corner to corner, while my mind still travels to evil, lifeless places, I must crawl through the darkness.  I must proclaim to the world that I am enough, whether I believe it or not.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your bones, settled deep inside though you can’t seem to recall sending the invitation.
Your rib cage stands like the bare tree of fall, the wind whistling through it’s frail branches, tapping on your window as if to remind you, you are alone.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your skull, in the crevices of the pale blue casing that surrounds your every thought, the broken dreamcatcher trying to keep the evil away.
But ghosts can float between the bars, slip inside your deepest secrets, with no regret or remorse for making you cry out in the night.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your spine, intertwining like ivy on a lamp post, leaving you begging for someone else to hold your own head up for you.
Comfort resides in the hours spent cut off from reality, for at least you have control of that, though the dreams leave you franticly reaching in the night for something unknown to even you.

Some mornings, heartbreak finds it’s way back to your heart, slides through the valves, into the ventricles, mixing with the blood that gives you life. Heartbreak gives you life. Heartbreak reaches every last corner of your body, crippling you and taunting you, but you are still capable of breathing on your own. Heartbreak may be a thief, but you are a statue, broken and crumbling around the edges but still standing after all these years.

Some mornings, heart break is in your body. It seems to make up the essence of you, but it is not your being. You are your being.

My mother is getting ready for work. And I am a child of about 9 years old sitting on her bedroom floor watching her get dressed the same as I would for the next 9 years or so in this house. The house that I remember then use to shake violently from the train a block away and was so glass-fragile and so cold-damp that its walls warped and swelled; making it look like someone had once blown up a large balloon inside of it and the walls curved around it. Even after that balloon popped the walls never managed to regain their original shape. My mother who never complained about the state of our home and in fact rather fancied it would tell me “Isn’t it cozy living in a snow-globe shaped house, and when it shakes we can pretend we’re snowmen in a glass ball.” She would always say things like that. I would always listen; I would always sit quietly with my legs tucked under my *** and watch my mother get ready for work. She would go through the same motions she went through every night and every night in the same order, she did this so often and religiously she had it down to an art, a methodical system of movements that at this age seemed to me more like dancing. I would watch as her dance started in her hands. Her fingers thumbing over the light pale and pink lip paints she saved for weekday afternoons and for Sunday mornings. She instead reached for the bright Chinese red stick she painted onto her perfectly pursed lips. She then reached for her black dress, pressing down the wrinkles smooth as the backs of thumb-tacks, smoothing the fabric over her hips, her thighs, her legs. Next she would sashay over to her vanity, pick up a small container and spread over her eyelids a bright but dusty blue shadow. I love this next part. When she would gently sweep me up and sets me on her bed as she knelt down and told me to sprinkle her face with a shimmery clear powder, giving her the look she always said made her stand out, made her look “unique”. I always thought she looked like she was in the caught in the middle of a snow-globe. Her next step was then slipping her dainty and fragile size 7 feet into heels that I knew would look invisible in the dark night outside our front door, she would look like she was almost floating. I often thought those would hurt her feet as she walked that long stretch of street outside our house.  Her arms then would sway and flick her hands outward, grasping with all her fingers a purple and gold glass bottle of perfume on her dresser. Back then it looked to me like a curious crystal globe of sweet-smelling water that turned sparkly when she shook it. This is my mother’s last step, she presses down the sponge-like pump. I really love this part. The only magical part of my mother’s evening- the part I always thought would make her realize she should stay. As she presses down on the pump I see the shiny and clear purple hued liquid release and bubble out into tiny specks of oxygen atoms, I watch them as they swirl up the golden bottle-the rounded glass holding them in, controlling them, allowing them to eddy and ebb around themselves, to tango around each other within the safety of its bottle. They are dancing, writhing around in their own world, free from the terrors of the outside air, these atoms embrace the chaos and they wallow in the pressure that perpetuates them in an endless looping of rhythmic motion. They enjoy it. They bask in the comfort of the fluid that holds them tight together safe in their glass house, keeping them untouched. I, sitting there eye level to this bottle watching ever so closely as the air bubbles swim closer and closer to the surface until they slowly start to realize that they are being expelled from their bottle. Then they stop dancing and move franticly in a tornado-like motion, they scream and they fight their way back down towards the others like them, wishing to not be pushed up and out into the bigger pool of air they know will surely render them invisible. They wish so strongly to be kept inside their glass world, to always be safe and visible in the enwombing liquid that circles around them in their bottle that reassures them of their existence as a single being and not as a part of a whole. To be separate from the mass of air that awaits them, the air that only yearns to add to its girth, by swallowing the tiny air-bubbles. I want them to stay. Stay in their snow-globe and live forever as air bubbles safe and few, to not swim up to the world that will gulp them down whole. I know they are dainty and fragile and I want to keep them safe. I want to always see them dancing separate and unique and never leaving, yet they do. I want them to stay, yet they do not. All in an instant, faster than the blink of an eye, the once dancing bubbles are gone and are now sprinkled sweet across my mother’s neck. The only evidence of their existence- a lingering scent flowing out of my mother’s bedroom as she grabs her purse off the couch. I want her to stay too. And as she grabs her bag and slams the front door it shakes our house like glass around me. I remember a younger me, left there feeling liquid and weak in a snow-globe house now void of air.

That face I once knew,
so utterly alluring,
those eyes magnified beauty,
oh how time flew,
I must go back,
not a minute goes by without you in mind,

I built it out of love,
memories true,
feelings absolute,
franticly I make this machine of time,

Time with you,
so priceless and evident,
I must go back,
your absence,
my hearts deepest casualty,
you were true in it ALL,

I've never felt so correct,
your kiss,
a mouthful of euphoria,
holding you eternally,
so tight,
will make it I swear,

I built it out of love,
memories true,
feelings absolute,
I'm trapped happily,
in my time machine,
Oh my time machine,
Oh my time machine,
Oh OUR time machine...

My heart
a ticking time bomb
beating faster and faster
louder and louder.
Until it began to sink
in a wonderful way.
A time bomb ticking
faster and faster
louder and louder
now with the weight of it’s heavy anchor
pulling deeper and deeper
downward
or maybe inward.

White knuckles on the steering wheel
gripping tight at ten and two
all I can do to calm the earthquakes
stemming from my chest
and radiating through my finger tips.

My stomach is tortuous
twisting and turning
in an effort to keep out my frenzied heart.
A turf war
as the anchor drags it downward
threatening to invade occupied territory.

Now faster and faster
louder and louder.
My heart is banging on every inch of my chest
desperately wanting my attention.
Franticly, screaming and banging
begging me to be rational.

Or maybe, just maybe
my heart was bouncing and screaming
as high off the adrenaline
as I was.
Maybe it smiled as it ran
eyes closed, scissors in hand.
Perhaps the cool façade
I held
only held in my expression.

In the dark of the night
the sun found its way to my cheeks
as they burned
hotter and hotter
until the sunburn left
its brand on my skin.
The only visible sign
reflecting my inner state.

Outside of the car,
the only light shone from windows lit up
by families
ignorant to the
earthquakes, turf wars, and ticking time bombs
so close to their safe
quiet homes.

The earthquake spread
its destruction to my legs
as the right one focused
slow and steady on the gas
and the left bounced
at a pace to match the my heart.

The car crawled forward
past the families
safe in their homes.
I was a frantic fish
desperately dancing in the unfamiliar air
begging to be released
in the center of the calm,
peaceful lake.

The car stopped
and there was silence.
The radio played,
the engine hummed,
the cars sped by.
Awaiting the inevitable mass destruction,
my breath was taken,
it all stopped.

The cold hand encompassed my cheek
and the lips pressed against mine
with a contradicting force and gentleness
stopping the earthquakes
the turf war
the sinking
and shaking
the faster
the louder
and the ticking time…

My mother is getting ready for work. And I a child of about 9 years old sitting on her bedroom floor watching her get dressed the same as I would for the next 9 or so years in this house. This house, I remember, that shook violently from the train a block away and was so fragile and damp that its walls warped and swelled making the house look like someone had once blown up a large balloon inside and the walls still held its shape. My mother who never complained about the state of our house ans instead would tell me, “Isn’t it cozy living in a snow-globe house?” So on the damp floor I would sit and I would watch my mother go through the motions, the same motions she went through every night and every night in the same order, she did this so often and religiously she had it down to an art, a methodical art that at this age seemed to me more like dancing. She started her dance by thumbing over the light pale and pink lip paint she saved for weekday afternoons and Sunday mornings , reaching instead for the bright Chinese red stick she painted onto her perfectly pursed lips, next pressing down wrinkles smooth as the backs of thumb-tacks -on her black tight dress, pressing over her hips, her thighs. She next sashays over to her vanity and picks up a small black container to paint over her eyelids a bright but dusty blue shadow, then gently sweeps me up and sets me on her bed as she kneels down and tells me to sprinkle her face with a shimmery clear powder, giving her the look she always said made her stand out, made her look “unique”. Her next step was then slipping her dainty and fragile size 7 feet into heels that I knew would be both black and invisible in the dark night outside our front door. That I often thought would hurt her feet as she walked the long stretch of street outside our house.  Her then, grasping with both hands a purple and gold glass bottle of perfume on her dresser, which then to me looked like a curious crystal globe of sweet-smelling water, that sparkled like a snow-globe when she shook it. This is my mother’s last step, she presses down the sponge-like pump. The only magical part of my mother’s evening- the part I always thought would make her realize she should stay. As she presses down on the pump I see the shiny and clear purple hued liquid release and bubble out into tiny specks of oxygen atoms, I see watch them as they swirl up the golden bottle-the snow-globe holding them in, controlling them, allowing them to eddy and ebb around themselves, to tango around each other within the safety of its glass. They are dancing, writhing around in their own world, free from the terrors of the outside air, these atoms they embrace the chaos and they wallow in the pressure that perpetuates them in an endless looping of rhythmic motion. They enjoy it. They bask in the comfort of the fluid that holds them tight together safe in their glass house, keeping them untouched. I, sitting there eye level to this bottle watching ever so closely as the air bubbles swim closer and closer to the surface. Until they slowly start to realize that they are being expelled from their bottle. They then stop dancing and move franticly in a tornado-like motion, they scream and they fight their way back down towards the others like them, wishing to not be pushed up and out into the bigger pool of air they know will surely render them invisible. They wish so strongly to be kept inside their bottle, to always be safe and visible in the enwombing liquid that circles around them in their bottle, that reassures them of their existence as a single being and not as a part of a whole, to be separate from the mass of air that awaits them, the air that only yearns to add to its girth, by swallowing the tiny air-bubbles. I want them to stay. Stay in their snow-globe to live forever as air bubbles safe and few, to not swim to the world that will gulp them down whole. I know they are dainty and fragile and I want to keep them safe. I want to always see them dancing separate and unique and never leaving, yet they do. I want them to stay, yet they do not. All in an instant, faster than the blink of an eye, the once dancing bubbles are gone and are now sprinkled sweet across my mother’s neck. The only evidence of their existence- a lingering scent flowing out of my mother’s bedroom as she grabs her purse on the couch. I want her to stay. And as she grabs her purse and slams the front door it shakes our house like glass around me. Me, left here feeling liquid and weak in a snow-globe house now void of air.

Screaming Spades Scare Spastic Diamonds,
Clumsy Clubs Carefuly Cut the Deck,
Horrible Hearts Hum Hymns from Hell
With the Jokers and Jacks, where the Demons Dwell.
Twos and Threes Tear Through the Trees
While Fours and Fives Flail Franticly,
Free Falling From Far-Fetched Facilities.
Six and Seven Slowly Sufficate
As Evil Eights Eradicate Everything on Earth.
Nasty Nines Need Narcotics and ****** for
Terrorizing Tens Tendorizing Tremendous Tributaries
Feeding the Fifty Five Forrests of Fargoth

How are you still here?
Are you locked in a maze of my memories?
Trying franticly to escape and
screaming your way into consciousness

New pills but the same tunes
It’s been so long and yet some days

It feels like I’m still trapped

In the personal hell you constructed for me

You owned not only the key
Nor the concrete windowless walls
Nor the velvet-thick darkness surrounding me
as I begged for you to let your light in again
but you owned me too

You didn’t even need chains to keep me there
My heavy heart held me down more than any metal could
I can’t even say I escaped
Because you

let me go

Twice

Both times reopening the deadbolts to call me back
And obediently I came crawling in

And then you shoved me out again
This time without warning

The light burned my eyes and my skin
My hands bled as I scratched at the door
Tears choking all the words back to my stomach
And when I couldn’t feel anything anymore
I grabbed a knife

and carved a map into my skin
Desperately waiting for you to call me back again
But you didn’t

And I’d like to say that I’m ok now
That you no longer torture me
But I’m not.
And you still do.

Of course she helps
I swear someone sent an Angel
And I’m not worthy of her
But she still loves me
And I’m terrified that one day
my demons will tear through her wings
just like you tore through my heart
And though she helps mend it again

It will never be whole again

Because you stole a piece for your own sick collection.

Expounding on the concept of energy in motion
Compounding to the group like skin does to lotion
Surrounding myself with strangers an commotion
Heart pounding at my nerves with tepid demotion
Abounding to the waves just like riding the ocean
Confounding my words and their goal of a notion
Astounding even myself with this crazy devotion
Resounding thoughts change to words in e-motion

People watching through the glass
Just Inches away, but worlds apart
Remind myself, this too shall pass
Want to quit before I can even start

My mind is muddled as I contrast and compare
I"m left utterly befuddled, as I accidentally stare
So many thoughts in my brain I'm dying to share
I"m alone, I can't believe we breathe the same air

From a rowdy loud crowded bar
To a franticly crazy coffee shop
Stuck on a cramped subway car
En route to a lounge on a rooftop

They will stick to all their clicks
Avoiding all direct eye contact
Like momma birds to their chicks
How dare I even think to distract
May as well be a wall of bricks
Cementing the non disclosure pact

I wanna break the wall down
Demolish all of the barriers
Black, white, yellow, or brown
We"re all red blood carriers

Waves of freedom reigning down with power
Comfortably numb standing under the tower
Free of thoughts on the rocks amidst the ocean
Have nots drift away down a hole with e-motion

Adeptly wading among the chaos and disorder
Decisions being weighed as I stand at the border

Cold and motion less frozen into absolute solitude
Old is all relative and my energy is finally renewed

sounds slide slowly
past palaces pitted
against aggressive
kings
          constantly
killing
           cowardly
farmers franticly falling
towards towers
of
endless eroding
pillars piled
with intentions of a sinister nature
built only to lead fools to die in a room with no light

As she runs through the forest, smitten with excitement, she passes tall pines and even fallen pines, in an effort to find the lover ahead of her.
He walks in a daze, as if stuck in a daydream, rendered useless by the magnification of her beauty and the way he feels with her arms wrap as tightly as she can around him in embrace.
She stops to call his name, never thinking of who, or what, else may come calling instead, for she does not fear the woods, but the thought of never seeing her love again.
He begins to become impatient with not knowing the locality of his precious love, and he begins to quicken his pace in his most confident direction, feeling only with his heart.
She is having indecision in her selection of direction, and doubts her current course, stopping again to ponder the true path she should take....creeping thoughts of the forest come after unfamiliar noises arose.
He is in full sprint, looking franticly in each direction as he runs, yelling her name with each possible breath he can spare, sure to find her quickly reserving no vigor for potential encounters.
She is starting to despair with the thought of being lost and never finding her prince, she cries such tears, that she creates a stream with the tears for her lost love.
He begins to tire and feels distraught over the whereabouts of his love, he know she is alone in the forest, and in his anguish stumbles upon a stream, he splashes the warm water on his face washing away grief.
As night falls, she begins to realize that she may never find her love, and she cries harder, until her tears and herself...become the stream in her bereavement
As shade covers all, he sees her in his heart, but fears he will never see her again, and to avoid cold he finds refuge in the pools of the warm stream....becoming a tree in his sorrow.
Ages pass...a young boy sits at the base of a very large tree and watches the stream of the warmest water disappear into the tree...living together forever...one is the purpose...the other the life.
The tree cannot be without the water......but the water is not needed without the tree...

My legs and arms flail
franticly, I propel my body
across the sand.
We are being pursued
by Killers.
I hear my brother’s screams
As his murderers rip
him apart.
I must reach the safety
of the water.
My stalker cries triumphantly!
He dives, I dive.
Mine is the victory!
Death has been cheated
It’s not easy
being born a turtle.

.                                      

                        ­                 How is it that                            when you need
                                   something - anything -           from me, I run franticly
                              to your side to aid your desires...But when I just ask for a
                               little compassion, a little distraction, a little satisfaction.
                                You look right through my pleading eyes to the person
                                    behind me and seductively say, "Hey, could you do
                                        me a favor?" And that's when I melt inside. I feel
                                          misused, abused and yet I can't wait until I'm
                                               reused. Because I believe that next time,
                                                    will be the last time, the final time
                                                          when you realize that I might
                                                           ­  not come running. Instead
                                                         ­        I'll be waiting for you
                                                             ­       to miss me by your
                                                            ­           side - like I miss
                                                            ­               being there.
                                                          ­                   *Someday

A Night for a Rose



The arrogance of passion
Touch me in places I didn't know existed
A gallant prince silently Hunts for the stars
Midnight brought Feathers descending slowly
On stray wave thoughts hang on the balance of peacefulness
Deliverance bottled up inside the pain
The thickness of an iceberg
Keeping a glacier glue to the sky
Insane minds swinging with the sharks
The discovery of your eyes in the middle of a blossom rose
Strings of my life squeeze a breath of air
Your hands unlimited creation, a rhythm breakthrough a kingdom
Swift passage through earthly possession, franticly speaking
Fear has left me breathless, reneged against the machine
The exception of a butterfly, the ways of the moon
Straight face keeps false pretence of many eyes
Unpreventable desire of lust
Continue their journey upstream
Deeply pondering, my words became clouds raining on your parade
The door close behind the red lights igniting my way out
Surrender in front a passion passing you by
For a longest I can remember love walk away from my senses
The letter awaken your nakedness in front of the mirror
Softly I lay beside a broken lover
For miles I believed the touché of my lips will heal you
The strike of a guitar playing with the stars
Shine a knockout blow for the undesirables
The wave unveil the true meaning of lost
But the light always shines bright
On my heart…



Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010

The glorious morning
The peaceful night
Why anticipate for the paper view fights?
These guys aren’t Mohammed Ali
unless they got better records than I see
He would knock them out like one, two, three
He wouldn’t even have to have his eyes open
But why won’t theirs open?
Oh now he marks his territory for the millionth time
But sometimes you have to reiterate yourself again and again
That’s how he felt
From the days of early youth to the day he could wear his own belt
You can’t surpass him easily
I’m still looking for a contender
You can tell by the looks of the Bartender
Waiting for the old tapes to render
He shakes his head while he wipes off the ***** cups
Wishing he could make up
For his past mistakes
On quitting boxing
His grades were below the Mendoza line
He reassured his Mama that he would be fine
But little did he know this would set him back further than a state fine
Reading between the lines and not over them
He became one of the common crayons in the box
But a little darker than what we hoped for
And now he’s got the memory of the Prison Guard knocking on his door
Letting him know he can come out for recess
But all he wanted was to be the best
He hated the white walls so much he redefine the word detest
He just ended up like the rest
That at that moment, he wished the prison guard would shoot him dead
Numerous attempts of trying to take his gun
The consequences were the antonym of fun
He had miles and miles to run
Before they let him go easy
But that whole time was far from it
He just thought heavily while he heard the horrible sounds
Why do I feel like I deserve to be worse off than the people laying underground?
Will anyone bother to play a game of lost and found?
Just like those kids in those cliché films?
It was great relief to him when he was starting to think better thoughts
But he knew he had a lot of ocean to cover
It was the space time continuum for him
The Enterprise had more to bargain for than the high prizes
Seeing his own waters rise
Not to any of his surprise
He woke up franticly in the middle of the night
Hyperventilating, panicking
Knowing it wouldn’t be alright
The nightmares were wrapped around his mind so tight
It felt like two anacondas gripping him stiffly
He could escape
All those transgressions he made
Were coming back from the graveyards he once dreamed of in his wake
Right from the lakes
He couldn’t even eat the smallest portions of Frosted Flakes
Without breaking down like an old building
It’s thrilling for the mind
But only for it to let it all out
It wasn’t easy to overcome
But it took plenty of years of therapy to rewrite the story that he really wanted to tell
Telling the world how hard he consistently fell
No big deal, just a few scars and small quiet thoughts
But nothing worth a horror plot
It seemed like his worst days were behind him
To take that literally would be logical
A word many of his peers did not understand
They were either locked up or already dead
He overlooked the warnings of his teachers in school
But he just became another victim of Mr. T
I pity the fool, he chose to be an inept tool
Not the dull ones you buy at a department store
But the ones that need repairs and somehow make their way out
With no improvement at all
It can be pretty apparent why our proposed empires fall
The pitfalls can engulf us extremely
If we don’t handle things supremely
If I never had the guidance I received, where would I be?
Not writing these rhymes
Not telling you the times
Regardless of my previous struggles, I think everything will be fine
He went from prisoner to bartender, which may seem like it’s crossing the line
But knowing his past, the way he was doing time
He was just thankful he had a job
Now, who wouldn’t?
That’s the question I want to see answered
It’s going to be crickets for a long time
So I might as well stay here until I hear one
Because there’s no chain to be undone
Nowhere left to run
Let’s rebuild the lives of those who had nothing to begin with
Because if you were put into that place, I don’t think you would handle it too much better than them
Your life is amazing compared to them
But it’s not the cleanest gem
There’s still a few black holes here and there
But you shouldn’t mark out the reasons to care
There’s a lot more wisdom to be shared
The rest is up in the air
I don’t expect anything from the world
But I just expect better from people
That’s what encourages people to become teachers
So you can do better than they ever could
Instead of being caught in the middle of the hood
Being dangerous, mental and misunderstood
That’s the worst way to be as a human being
We’re just looking to help
Hoping to make an impact
More so than a meteor if it wiped out Earth entirely
But these kids do so when they decide to slash a cop’s car tirely
What’s that under your shirt?
A gun?
Well, Momma isn’t going to like this
You should be thrown in jail but I’ll bestow a probation
And an immense amount of community service
This isn’t a play, so I won’t rehearse this
So tell your Momma like it is
And change your life today
Because with this type of activity going on, there won’t be a Sun to look up to
There won’t be a freshly cooked meal by someone who deeply cares for you
There won’t be anyone who can take you to the Zoo
On days and weeks repeat
There won’t be a fresh batch of wheat
Sliced for you
In the requirements that must meet
Or the brand new sheets replaced weekly
What life will I live if I continue to play with fire?
Will I be unemployed and be stuck from hire?
Because that’s what happens when you play with fire
You get burned
Not from these verses
Not from these lines
But the way you go about your actions
You’re paying a permanent fine
That won’t ever wash away
So choose the lighter side today
Maybe people will overlook the bad choices you made today
And go along with their days
Like nothing happened, still entrenched in the back of their minds
Seemingly impossible to find
Going onto their morning grinds
But nowhere close to what you’ll be doing when you pay for your poor choice
The game of chance isn’t forgiving
It will take you over and pay it’s bidding
Keeping the smokers from quitting
The cheating players from winning
The happy pill participants from grinning
And the aspiring cookers from grilling
But I know that’s not the biggest culprit
But as long as I know it
I’m not going to bring it up again
We’ve seen that printed before
My central themes pop out galore
Not giving the other side too much more
Now I’m trying to experiment a little more
And not be the broken tools in those department stores
And trying to find what excites me more
Than the same old drag
That floats in a plastic bag
I’m starting to loathe people who think I’m a couch gag
I’m really not into shows like JAG
They just don’t resonate with me like they should
Some things are triumphant and grab me more than what most things ever could
And I reference them like I should
I don’t always follow the classic formulas
It’s not like I never could, but I see it as I never should

Our breathing quickens as we touch,
Kisses mingle in perfect harmony,
Wet and deep and lingering.

I stroke your warm nakedness
And shudder in disbelief.
Tracing the lines and curves,
Of your form, one more perfect,
Softer than the next.
And I shutter still more.

Tasting then each other’s
Ultimate intimacy,
The salty-sweet nectar
of human love exchanged.
Tongues and wet warm mouths
moving as if they are possessed,
Having minds of their own.  
Our mutual excitement pushing
us both to nearly explode!

You whispering words of love
That deepen my desire even more.
We are actually panting now,
I can feel the intense beating
Of the heart within your Chest
And it matches that of my own.

Our bodies’ moving ever closer,
Deeper to the object,
Of our collective desire,
My head spinning,
Dizzy in response to this,
Our compelling growing excitement,
As we franticly rhythmically dance,
In Loves penetrating embrace.

The loving complete,
Our passions spent,
We lay exhausted,
Wrapped in each other’s arms,
Both of us clinging as if unwilling,
Or perhaps even afraid to let go.

While everything of beauty dies,
And you can hear the wild bird’s cries,
A squirrel runs franticly from branch to branch.

His red-gold fur gleams in the shining dawn,
As he gazes down at a young fawn,
Loping peacefully among the colourful leaves.

Red, green and orange crunch beneath him,
He gnaws at vegetation on a mere whim,
Then he flees at the sight of a burly hunter.

With a short bang and a soft thud,
The deer’s fur becomes matted with blood,
The hunter proudly advances to claim his prize.

Tying his dinner to the front of his truck,
He drives home cheerfully through the muck,
Later that night the tender meat will be a stew.

As the children bounce around the house,
The mother screams at the sight of a mouse,
A tatty little friend who shivers in the corner.

Die hard hipsters
Wildly clinging to images of
Adolescence
Regaling epic fables
Lost inside **** infested minds
Grazing shoulders with the
Super cool young things
Franticly plunging ahead
Towards perceived sophistication
Bearded dudes
Heads cocked at a jaunty angle
Whiskey in hand, lust in their eyes
Confrontation
Just one sip away
Painted princesses
With ***** smeared lipstick and beguiling costumes
Stealing glances in the direction
Of anticipated adulation
Dreamy trumpets from bygone days
Colliding with breakbeats
Deliciously intoxicating
Shimmering
Across dance floors
Bodies blending
Contorting in need
Cheeks flushed
From a desire to complete
Glorious in their absurdity
Pretension festers
Brilliance diminished
Hidden within conformity
And a compulsion to submit
Its Friday Night
The pressure is on
To 'be seen'
Where intention is necessary
But the encounter
Is
Everything

(C) Pixievic 2016

I'm franticly searching for a bit of oxygen, I'm suffocating
these dreams are drowning me,
no surprise, I fall asleep at night stalking along the shoreline
I wake up, surrounded by salt water.
your words sent me asphyxiating
choking on what to say next.
this constant wave of emotions is no longer worth
a relationship that there is no hope in catching.

He held the sword ready, standing very still,
The seconds ticked by.
He charged towards me,
I was taken by surprise,
His sword casually slicing my forearm.
Covered in dirt, I howled in pain
As my weapon fell fo the ground.
I danced back, trying to stem the flow of blood.
He brought his clenched fist down on my shoulder blade,
As I tried to move in for a throw, he shifted his weight slightly, sticking out his foot
As I went tumbling, the smell of venom entered my nostrils.
I coughed and fell back again, struggling to breathe,
Franticly searching for my gas mask, I grab my weapon.
Just as my enemy goes to pick up his cutlass,
Another shoots my right shoulder
Gasping for clean air, I watch
All my comrades explode before my eyes
As I lay slowly, silently, slipped out of consciousness,
I could taste the invisible death upon me,
Choking, panting, wheezing, blind, fear, trembling, cold,
Absolute horror, as death slouches upon me....

She is a moon
Satellite woman
Orbiting
Ostracized
From a world
        Full of people
She is the last
Oil and honey cookie
Lonely moon face
Abandoned on a plate
Sweet as she is
        No one will accept her
She is a shoe scuffed and worn
As those carrying her
Franticly fragilely
To her bus stop
But it will not wait
       And she will walk alone
She is a worm
Craving home soil
Braving the careless bite
She chances the apple
Aching to be part of this earth
        But she is a moon

On a Wednesday I bit down hard
Into an apple.
The red ringed hues of crimson
I thought would taste better to my mouth
Than to my eyes
Until the sweet juice dripped down
Onto my chin
Leaving a sticky residue that ******
On my fingers when I wiped it away.
The one bite of flesh I held in my open mouth
Less open than my eyes
That first saw that thing.
That half of a worm that
Still wriggled for life
Hung half out a hole in my apple
Like a drowning man hanging out of a
Bouie waving his arms franticly for help
But underneath the water his
Legs still and deader than what
I can either assume to be the head or end
Of the worm still in my mouth.

I want to hurt you, desert you, socially disgrace you,
Shame you, break you, and publically deface you,
Simply and quite easily displace you,
But I can’t,

I want to beat you, delete you, silently defeat you,
Spite you, fight you, locally expedite you,
Gently and easily overwrite you,
But I can’t,

I want to kick you, flick you, psychotically brick you,
Nab you, grab you, franticly jab you,
Smiling as I lovingly stab you,
But I can’t,

I want to grin, watch blood soak in, laughing within,
Delighting in my sin, comfortably rock...in,
As, I picture you in your coffin,
But I can’t,

But I can wait; I’m at the gate, of fate,
Don’t be late……………

I'd like to take this moment
to apologize
For the mess we made right out of the gate
and the world we'll leave behind

But of course when it was given to us
it was already in a tail spin
Without a shadow of doubt closer to the ground
than we could have ever dreamed

Soon enough to own it in a matter of moments
being first to the crash site
So fasten your belts as it quickly goes south
with us all franticly waving bye, bye

This is winter. Low hanging leaves wear frozen dew droplets. Crystalline dots dangle precariously above the thin layer of snow. My boots sink slowly in to the soft slushy earth. Whiteness permeate the air, a cold but beautiful glare cascading across the infinite horizon. Across the flat field folds of snow sparkle like diamond dust but twice as precious for their impermanence. When I go inside, I know I will be blind, but it is better to be blinded for a bit and see such a spectacular view then to never see such a wondrous thing.
Off to my peripheral there is a giant ball of snow with bits gravel, grass, and mud checkered across its’ body and a trail of bare earth following behind it. Someone was either trying to make the biggest **** for a snowman, or just wanting to see how big they could roll a snowball. It reminds me of the old cartoons where some crazy character would roll a huge snow ball down a hill but the ball would bounce back and crush them.  
My feet finally sink the last inch in till they meet solid ground. The snow rolls over the top of my boots and then inside, melting through the socks, and sending a shiver of alertness through me. I crunch through the white expanse running franticly to free my frozen feet from cold and soggy socks.
A patch of ice loosens my tread and I slip slightly towards my front door. It feels almost like a carnival ride. I stumble struggling to catch myself, then fall back busting my ****, but it is ok. I brush some snow from my backside and laugh. The only damage done is to my pride and that will pass.
It has been a spectacular day. Deer darted across my landscape, stopping only long enough to chew on the bark of an old oak tree. The white specks on their brown fur dancing across their backs and sides. I love their black noses and wonder if it is wet like a dog’s nose.
Though I was distracted by my minor musings I still managed to see a snow owl swoop down just in time to catch a white rabbit. The earth spit up its cold dandruff from the impact. Bad luck for the rabbit despite its foot but an amazing thing to see on this end.  
Now the snow that stuck to my pants is soaking through straight into my underwear. I slip my black leather gloves off to pull out my house keys. Rummaging through each of my many pockets.
What a wonderful day. What a delightfully wonderful day.
Oh, ****. Where are my keys?

Killers
of men, women and children
animals, vegetation
and finally of ourselves
for nothing better to do
out of boredom (pain)
a second of fun

Lovers
pationate and yet tense
always ready to abruptly burst
into dreams of others and play
(and let ourselves be played like)
with our prey adoring the moment
more than eternity

Poets
romantics at heart
each keeping our own faith
in god in reason in nothingness
franticly chasing some long lost lives
trying to extract the secret to live
instead of living our time

and if nothing’s set and nothing’s proven
then what are we?
a cloud that longingly rains upon the earth

...and we’re gonna rain until the last drop

Circling through this cavity I call a cranium
Cycling this radioactive water like uranium.

Splash a bit of color on this canvas called life.
Watch it jump out at you like bumps in the night.

Rattling fragment sentences with no complete thoughts.
Franticly thinking stupid, stuttering, ramblings, till I see dots.

Visions come quickly to my sanity bouncing back from reality.

Grasping onto my love for this one girl, is driving my life down in this porcelain swirl.

Sit back, relax, and drink this karma.

Her lips were so bitter sweet, dana could have made my heart skip a beat.

Fall asleep eyes, all night you have fought,
Keep your hostel mind at ease, hello deep thoughts....

the air is dense
with guilt

smoke we made
that threatened
to devour us both
has gone

but our exclamation marks
still loiter
like unwelcome
dinner-party guests

we’re red-faced
and aching
from the tsunami of garbage
hurled franticly
about the place

but our eyes connect

our apologies
ready to float like balloons
from our mouths

The peace and confort that surrounds you as you lay to rest

You lay there blanketed on your bed

Your heart eases at a slow pace, I sit here and wait for you to wake


Wake from your dreams which you have in the in between

Bewildered and lost in every fantasey

I listen to the sound of your breath

The air that cirrculates deep within

I stare at you hours on end

As I watch you lay to rest

I wait for you to awake, so we can meet again

Then as you wake, a smile crosses your face

A glimpse of Heavens light I start to embrace

As you pull me in for a morning kiss

A fuse of electricity rushes through our lips

My heart throbs franticly, my hand clutches your neck

Our bodies begin to intertwine within eachother

Lets get lost forever

Just like the waves in the ocean that starts and never ends


The calling of each eagle that soars through the wind

Just like the sun set that ponders over the sky

The ultimate desire where you fall forever

I fall forever in your eyes

Then night falls once more and you lay to rest

The peace and confort surrounds you again

A light kiss to your head

I sit here memorized as I watch God's creation, blessing

Bring me prosperity, more happiness

Your chest rises and falls with each breath

I remain sitting on your bed

As I watch you lay to rest, til you wake and we meet again