Obsession is a gun.
It points right to your head, willing to shoot.
It either glues your heart together or shatters it through.
You feel ecstatic, yet you feel blue.
It's an addiction, you were brought to.
Nobody gets it, you feel alone.

Your mind is scratched with a name that repeats itself endlessly,
It hurts to your core, it's also your ecstasy
No you can't grasp it, they're fake, they're souvenirs.
And by souvenirs, I mean they're *******,
You like it for a while, then put it on a shelf and in the end, dispose it.
It drains your time, you think it's real,
then in a month, you're done, it's sealed.
It starts confusion, you swear it's love,
you think it's happiness,
well, you are wrong.

Saltwater Poet.
Waves washing over me cleanse my soul.
Salt-soaked sand glues itself
to my skin,
it clears the cobwebs in my cluttered mind.
Anchoring back near the coast
is my ultimate goal.
Reaching others through my words
with the help of my
Nautical Muse.

My life is a brilliant and vivid mosaic of failures. If depicted horizontally, it would span countless walls, each with its own tapestry. Intertwined in each image would be a visage of myself in yet another battle of me, metaphorically David, and the vastness of the woven problem, here named Goliath. The only difference however, I don't succeed. My slingshot, as it were, isn't good enough.
     "Almost" is a callous and cold word, however it is the most veril word I know. It shouldn't just be something on my body like a tattoo, but rather etched painstakingly into my hardest bones. Always. Always "Almost" is not a fulfilling way to live.
     My Father once said something along the lines of "The only way I wouldn't be proud of you or that I would be disappointed in you is if you did something or made choices that lead to your unhappiness." With that, I feel as though he couldn't have been proud of me in quite some time, and further, there is no evidence that it will change. I am unhappy all of the time. I am disappointed in myself.
     I am afraid, fearful, of the hatred inside myself at times. I try and use it to my advantage, to prove my "worth", to try and do better at the current task (whatever it may be at the time). But as it usually happens, I get so angry, even vengeful, with no explanation. I sit and think about it, come to nothing, and am scared of what I am becoming.
     I am breathing, organic garbage that, because of sentience, assumes too much of, and from, my existence. I am a ******* paradox. I am realistic but full of wishes, longing for what I know does not exist; I am pessimistic, yet full of hopes, or false hopes rather, that I know fullheartedly are hubris and lost time. Whenever I need logic, emotion takes control. Whenever I look for my heart, my mind conceals its help.
     I believe in absolutely nothing but who I think I am, but I doubt myself to my bitter, black core.
I have achieved nothing with what I have been given (everything) and therefore deserve nothing that I have.
     I Am A Fake. I Am A Lie. I pretend to understand, to know, to help, to listen, but I have no idea what the **** I'm doing, who the **** I am, or why the **** I'm even here as undeserving as I am. With that, what right have I at all to "help" anyone else when I, myself, have no idea where my words will lead them? That itself makes me worse than half of the people that have killed others because at least they know who they are and what they were doing.
     I find it hard to believe that I, personally, was crafted in the image of God because I can't imagine that I resemble (in spirit, mind or matter) anything like the Perfect Being that I love and pray to. I am handcrafted debris, trash, attempting (out of place) to be something more.
     I was once told by someone I truly loved, "How can you love someone if you don't love yourself?" It's pretty easy. You first look at them, think of all the things they do and all the things they represent that lead to them making you happy, and you fall in love with that. it isn't a choice, you just do. I do nothing that makes me happy successfully, in the end, I try and fail consistently whereas someone I love is victorious repeatedly just by being them self. Why wouldn't you love someone for making you happy, yet love yourself in spite of your inability to do so?
     I don't believe anything I've ever encountered or experienced in my, as of yet, short life has prepared me for the utmost feeling of loneliness that creeps like the most dark and shadowy oppression. No cigarette is long enough, no vat of bourbon deep enough to escape that thought. Even in upbeat company that fact lingers, and of it, I am afraid.
     Why must I settle and "stay the course"? Why hold onto a sinking ship? I don't mean in terms of living versus dying, I mean in terms of living in insufferable struggle versus changing the reality. Why is this made to seem so impossible?
     Why am I in constant debt before even being old enough, experienced enough, or brave enough to even make decisions with that debt as a possible outcome?
     Since I was old enough to formulate my own opinions of the world I live in, it's been the epitome and meter of one resounding conclusion: "I will try my best and fail, suffer, but in doing this, I will have no choice but to think one day it will get better, and I can hope in my time of struggle that when that day comes, I Might Be Able To Be Happy.
     I'm in love with someone who is half a country away. She even knows, She might even feel the same, but it is for naught. I justify this by telling myself every "writer" needs a Muse.
     I lack the natural talent required to achieve my dreams in this current world. I was born with a gift I should have kept the receipt with; something I could have traded for something more realistically useful.
     Those closest to me have no idea who I am. They are the only thing that glues my sanity, and I'm fearful if they fully knew what I am, they'd leave.
     I've condensed some of these thoughts and feelings into spoken words to those I trust the most, hoping and praying they might say this is normal, that everyone goes through this, that we are all fighting the good fight. Their deaf ears betray their silent mouths.
     The rhythm in music, the voices in plays, the words to poems, the flow of my pencil, are all I have to escape this solitary confinement. But upon realizing the only things I have to help me feel "normal" are inanimate and incapable of understanding, it only further drives me into the chasm.
     I have become everything I hate. A petulant, assuming, and undeserving child ******* about his life when it's not even fully begun, and worse, has been given everything along the way and pitifully has done nothing with ******* any of it.
     I look at my Father and my Mother, and mouth agape, am stunned at their character, their perseverance. Compared to the two people who made me, I am grovelling ****, with absolutely nothing to complain about.
     I have never made a serious decision in my life unless I fully knew the only outcome before the decision was made. This makes me a coward. Logically it might make sense, but this is real life, you shouldn't do that, and **** logic.
     I always have an excuse, I'm not a real man, I'm afraid to take a fall because it's just another piece of the prosecution's evidence pointing to the guilt I possess in relation to my long record of failures.
     I'm cast outside "normalcy" because I don't believe in society. I'm not afraid to die, death actually intrigues me, a lingering curiosity. I adore the macabre because I believe there is truth of humanity in the darkness that everyone ignores exists. We profit and capitalize on procedures that **** thousands, but because it's not us they target, and usually not until the long run, we pay no mind. I believe that more than half of our so called "society", myself included, are no better in most senses than Dahmer or Panzram. At least they were honest about the monsters they were.
     I'm obsessed with thing that don't matter; theories that wouldn't make a difference in the world if proven true, questing for a Love that I rightly don't deserve and that likely doesn't exist, searching for acceptance of anyone but at the same time and equally, in paradox, caring about none of it, especially myself.
     Most nights instead of praying to God as I intend to do, I find myself wondering if I deserve His forgiveness. I know, on some level or another, if the Holy Father, Himself, came to me at any time during those sleepless nights, I would not have an even close to decent answer arguing for His forgiveness, but rather, a full of tears and chopped up, pathetic plea for it anyway.
     I dream of someone to love romantically just for the sake of being able to love someone for exactly who they are and because doing so makes me happy. It has been so long passed of this being even close to a chance of reality, that the thought of ***, or even intimacy, without that love does not even interest me anymore.
     I'm twenty years old and every job I work wants one-hundred percent of my soul and time. Is this normal? Am I not allowed to be a responsible but stupid kid for a while before I have to settle with the reality of a mundane and mind/body numbing job that takes so much of your day that at night you can only imagine the freedom of sleep rather than having a spare few precious seconds for thinking that dying has the upside of never having to show up to that ******* place again? I have no problem with working at all, in fact, I appreciate anything that has a general task and goal that is monotonous enough to keep my mind focused just enough that anything I've written here, the things that upset me, don't leak in and ruin the day, but realistically, how can I give my soul to cutting lawn? To stocking a ******* shelf? I am part of the worst generation on Earth so far, I have potential to be better than ninety--nine percent of the drooling unfortunate vertebrae we call "society", and this is what I'm supposed to wake up for? If this is what I need to accept and I'm just going crazy, fine, I accept it, but in doing this, you need to accept that if I'm crazy, you're batshit ******* nuts.
     I find myself not ever wanting to wake up. I'm not even close to suicidal, I don't want to die yet, I just can't see a logical point, or an emotional reason for any of this nonsense to continue. Can anyone identify with that? Don't misconstrue and worry yourself with me being honest with myself, I DO wake up. I wash my face, but I look in the mirror afterwards and ask "Why?", and I get the day over with anyway so I can hurry up and get home to get ready to do everything over again exactly the same the next day the exact same way, the only difference being the date on the calender and the minutes of the one life I get slowly building themselves into hours and days that will now be an empty black void of memory in my head that could've been used for something worth remembering. Why? Why settle to sulk and squander in ***** and depression when you haven't even tried to bathe in gold and happiness?
     I hate almost everything. The way things are, have been, will be. I hate the faceless sheep that complain yet attempt nothing to change their circumstances. If there is one thing to look on with pride, it is at least I'm better than that. At least if I failed, by default it means I ******* tried.
     I lack the capacity and the capability to voice these kinds of thoughts. As well-spoken as I am, I choke the hardest when I try to speak about any of them. I have to scribble and usually type them, and further, put them in a format a possible reader might be able to understand. Alas, I have failed at that as well. I put my heart and thoughts into my poetry, but anything resonating from within me that I've pounded into the countless pages I've written is lost in a sea of meter and rule-abiding rhetoric as well as aesthetically and audibly pleasing metaphors and rhyme-schemes rather than just blunt structure. No one reads anything with nothing left to the imagination. And justly so, why would they? Why try to decipher someone's heart if it doesn't also apply to you? Why read an ending if you know you won't like it unless it has "happily ever ******* after"? Why not emulate the thoughts and endure the cramping in the thumb an forefinger if it's not something you already know or something you clicked "like" on to impress the friend with the independent mind that was the one who told you to read it in the first place? I may sound bitter, I am, and hateful, but at least I am not a liar.
     If I had one absolute thing, one pure thought, one controversial heading, one cry to all who have ever asked me and I have failed to explain it better; If I can leave you with one thing; If it were possible for me to speak one line to the empty church at my funeral when I die someday and move on to peace, it would be this:
The Words I Seek With Which I Wish To Express My True Misery Elude Me.

The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****!

Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!

If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!

He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!

I’m going through a phase where I put glitter on everything
I went to a craft store and I bought like five different colors
And some brushes and glues so I could just paint ******* everything with glitter.
I don’t want to just paint some pencils and notebooks or some shoes and headbands,
I want to paint my **** walls with glitter
I want to paint YOUR **** walls with glitter
I want to sew glitter into your clothes
I want to sew glitter into your skin
Get a bunch of sewing needles dripping with shiny blood
Get red and sunshine under my fingernails
I want to have *** with a boy
(in his car or wherever, I don’t care)
and when we’re done, I’ll throw the ****** away and then toss some glitter in the air and cover his torso with sparkles
Because then no matter how fast he moves on
He’ll have to deal with me for just a little bit longer
And he’ll have to give me just one more thought,
at least when he’s washing the glitter down the drain of his shower.

Men who look like ferris wheels
every color representing different aspects of their personality

The first three words don't have to be beautiful
they just have to make sense
like connecting dots on paper

men who love with their fists
and hate with their mouths
who once were boys taking things apart
like remote controls their own fathers used to beat     Obedience into their small bodies.  Left them with a fury tattooed across their hearts
Just to give them the challenge of putting themselves back together

They buy their wive's flowers after
a four day bruise isn't so glaringly purple anymore
not so accusing-
kiss her broken ribs
and tell their children midnight stories

children trained as mood detectors
human robots
know when to shutup
speak when you are spoken to*

Men who speak like cutting boards
Every slice of the knives in their toungues leave
hollow aching missing parts
just to teach their children that not all
things can be put together once taken apart

whose daughter glues together the parts of old telephones
to spite the missing pieces
so every welt he beats into her bones
she sings herself unbroken
until she stands robust and imperfect
there are holes in her armour
but she holds it together

with her fathers fists.

a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs*

my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.

burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^

she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.

she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.

a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a  e  i  o  u.

you can hear what I heard too.

after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.

I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.

but not so well.

I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.

here is how it comes all together.
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.

oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.

these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:

this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.

I could live without
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.

but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.

So you see this poem is about
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.

In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.*

you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.

I hate the way it curves up
Each muscle in your face aching to be released
I hate your smile
Only because I know its fake
You don't even realize it anymore
You've become so accustomed to it
Nobody can tell the mask from your real complexion
Not even your reflection
I hate your smile
When you hide the frown
I'd rather you let me try and make it real
I hate the way that bright red lipstick
Glues it into place
The way the mascara seems to stain the edges
From every midnight love attempt from your pillow
Ending only in failure when the sun reaches your window
You can't hide from me
I can see through it all
I hate your smile
Mainly because it resembles mine all to much

A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.

Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..

Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
don’t
look
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.


I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.

Clear, simple blue skies.
Unnerving negative space.
A girl decorates.

She stitches and glues.
Flying machines of all kinds.
A girl must create.

Colors shade sunlight.
Wind gifts them the breath to dance.
A girl must hold on.

She pulls a heart string,
Knots this to her creations,
A girl unravels.

To the skies, she goes
Free in flight, she whips and spins.
A girl, so rootless.

Never withdraw,
for that is surrender.
Such impact from question,
such hate from contender.
Uncomfortable mission,
The deed is now done.
The silence is haunting.
The silence does stun.
An answer is spoke,
it glues one it both.
A pulse gives up pulsing
as words are now oath.
Heart is to blossom
from seeds that do lay.
Yet nothing's eternal,
and the heart always pays.

Creating false hope,
dancing with fate.
I allow myself less
than my heart would now take.
I'm teased with elegance
beyond what I've known,
like a cancer with spite,
you've dismantled my throne.
Woeful misjudgements.
Harsh disbelief.
Your mind can not poison
what love can not chief.
But dear do I love,
despite all the rest.
I'm aware of mortality
too much, I confess.

...in noon cafe, we may hold hands together for a while
but love chemical is so strong
glues both hearts forever...

happy to find it's irresistible...

How could I,
Let myself be oblivious,
Miss all the red flags,
Ignore the warnings the universe was sending me.


I got cut.
A million shreds of pain stuck into me.
The way he looks at me glues to my hair.
His words became needles thread through my skin.
His touch on my body became tattoos of pressure.
Seeing him alive became my biggest fear.


I want to peel off my skin,
Start over again.
Untouched,
Unharmed,
Un-youed.
So I bought a new bra,
And rebooted a brand new me.


But no matter how new I am,
No matter how many bras I buy,
I keep falling back.
You've got me leashed.
Trapping me,
Until I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.

I

can't

breathe.

Call me naive.
Blinded by a honeymoon phase
and sickly sweet jest

Because I want to keep
this blindfold
pulled down over my eyes.

I don't want to know
what time it is—
day or night, stars and light —
but this comfort
wraps my body and glues me to my bed.

He likes me
He likes me, not
the me I always try and hide behind
but the me that's real.

And he's honey sweet
and golden feat,
how I managed to find him
I'll never know.

He tells me once
twice and again, actually,
that they couldn't have made
a better half for him in a lab
if they had tried.

I'd lift my blindfold to see
you and your gorgeous honey blue eyes
shining through the dark like a moon,
and what we bake together
might just be the most delicious cake maybe ever.

If my words were sugar
I could have told him then
and there, his lips on mine
tasted sweet.
Like everything he says to me.

But I'm bad at baking cakes with no sugar
and all the store had was keyboards and pens
so I wrote him this instead;

To my perfect other half,
Each joke you make resounds
laugh for laugh, I sculpt you a present
epitaph commemorating you... for you
with words, to say

I think...
I might love you?

Cranes fly as earth cries.
Land of rising sun gathers,
glues fragments shattered.

Through towns and through cities
he roams with his crew
At one time or another
they were likely near you

White face and red nose and
green hair and wide eyes
the clown they call Bob
and his three loyal guys.

His brutal lieutenant
Contortionist Clive
Just a baby in a basket
and barely alive

Taken in by a couple
two elderly folk
She smelled sweetly of marzipan
He of pipe smoke

They cleaned him and fed him
like he was their own
they schooled him and loved him
and gave him a home

And fed well by their kindness
Clive grew tall and grew strong
but on his seventeenth birthday
things went horribly wrong

You see Clive became spoilt
and expected a gift
of a trip to the circus
it was this caused the rift

for his mother believed
that the circus was cruel
and he would not be going
it was her only rule

Clives face grew all twisted
his eyes shone in the light
of the candles lit specially
to mark this dark night.

When the neighbours were asked
by police what they'd heard,
though many were too scared
to utter a word,

A picture emerged of the
untimely demise
of a Mr and Mrs with
old kindly eyes.

A Rumble
A Tumble
A Stumble
A Fall....

A Crashing
A Smashing
and Dashing
down halls....

A scream that turned into
a horrible cackle
a smell of smoke, orange glow from the window,
crackle.

In the cold light of day
there was no sign of clive
though firemen struggled
to believe him alive

For the windows and doors
had all been locked tight
on the night Clive went mad
burned his house, and took flight.

I've developed a theory
of just what went on
given the profession
into which he would spawn.

You see one window WAS open
the one in the loo
though too small for a man
big as Clive to fit through.

But we know Clive is
somewhat of a twister
a slippery sleeked
and devious mister

and feeling the heat
of the flames on his rear
he achieved the impossible
and squeezed himself clear.

And somewhere down the line
Clive met a clown, name of BOB.
More of him later
For now, back to his mob.

The next of the gang,
this stays between me and you,
is a curious chap
who they call Mr. Glue,

At seven feet tall
and massively thin,
since birth Mr. Glue
could stick things to his skin.

As one might expect
this caused him some issues
when eating a biscuit
or passing some tissues

or using a toothbrush
or driving his van,
and all this made Glue
quite a miserable man.

So one day he started
inventing a suit
to cover his body
glue head to glue foot

with holes made for each
of his glue fingertips
for these were the parts
that helped him to grip

onto walls and to ceilings
and drainpipes and sills
for climbing on rooftops
and acrobat skills

so he wasn't so miserable
all of the time
he was happiest most
on a difficult climb.

He climbed mountains and towers
and buildings and people
he perched on the point
of the worlds tallest steeple

and spending hours and hours
perched high above town
he began to dislike
the thought of coming down.

So he stuck a large tent to the small of his back
and climbed a tall building and didn't look back
and knew in his head he would never be back
with the people who lived down below.

and one tent soon grew into three and then four
and one level grew into five and then more
and soon Mr. Glue was in need of more floor
for his tent house on top of a building.

And he looked to the building across from his home
and had an idea, that with wood and with foam
and with glue from his hands he could easily roam
quite safely, between the two towers.

As this castle emerged high up in the sky
the people below couldn't understand why
and their fear and confusion turned into a cry
that sent chills to the heart of tent kingdom

And Glue could but watch as they gathered below
and the flames of their torches burned bright through the snow
and as ladders emerged, though so very slow,
the people were coming to see him.

Mr Glue cried out, and begged them to stop
No use, they said, we're coming up to the top
and there in the crowd, Mr Glue saw his Pop
and the good Mr. Glue's heart was blackened.

What happened next
I saw for myself
from my car parked
down in the street.

And the crowd
in a panic
ran wildly around
as tents fell and crashed at their feet.

Mr glue was destroying
his heavenly home
piece by piece
tossed it into the depths

by the moon silhouetted
he raised his arms high
and in the snow,
Mr Glue wept.

And then the enormous seven foot frame
took several steps back, crouched down and took aim
and building by building, his heart full of pain
he disappeared into the darkness.

and wandering countryside, village and town
Mr Glue could find nothing to upend his frown
then one summers day, he bumped into a clown
and Mr. Glues life changed forever.

To be continued.....

He is a tinkerer.
Through his eyes he sees only cogs and turning gears,
His fingers, they feel only bolts and nuts and screws,
He's doesn't understand her, he doesn't get her tears,
To him her sentiments, they are nothing if not new,
So he tries to fix her. He pieces the broken shells of her heart together,
Together the shells weigh a pound, but individually they float like a feather,
He glues and welds her heart together with his mixtures of metals,
But he doesn't understand that these shells are like rose bud petals,
Delicately they flow, and the slightest touch makes them break,
But in time, they bloom prettier than a sunset on a shimmering lake,
No, he doesn't understand. So he welds and forges the pieces together,
He is a tinkerer.

He tunes his piano
She ties her pointés.

He sits on his stool
She takes center-stage.

He plays the opening note
The spotlight flashes on her.

He can only hear the crowd's loud cheers
She can only see eyes upon her regal body.

He glues his eyes to his sheets
She fixes her mind upon her movements.

His fingers move mechanically along the keys
Her limbs sway to the tune of precise timing.

He has played this score hundreds of times
She has rehearsed her steps to faultless perfection.

He lets his memory guide his fingers
She lets her limbs free to do their own work.

He steals a glance at her
She opens her ears to lilting melody.

Those sheets of notes cease to exist;
He's busy composing his heart's birdsong.

She is no longer a puppet in the audience's hands
Her soul leaps joyfully towards new-found release.

She is his music
and he's her dance.

Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,
Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo,
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.
Women are like the Arts, forced unto to none,
Open to all searchers, unprized if unknown.
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,
Another fowler using these means, as I,
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.
Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these,
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then
Idly make tham apter t’ endure than men?
They’re our clogs, not their own; if a man be
Chained to a galley, yet the galley’s free;
Who hath a plough-land casts all his seedcorn there,
And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;
Though Danuby into the sea must flow,
The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.
By Nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov’st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me?
Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do,
To make us like and love, must I change too?
More than thy hate, I hate’t; rather let me
Allow her change than change as oft as she,
And so not teach, but force my opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land is captivity,
To run all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters stink soon if in one place they bide,
And in the vast sea are more purified:
But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this
Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,
Then are they purest. Change is the nursery
Of music, joy, life, and eternity.

The first was in the corner of the smile of a fourteen year old girl when I asked her to be my valentine. Apparently you’re meant to ask before the day. I still think about her. Hers forms the basement in my jar of stolen heart pieces.

The second time, it was holding my hand when reality met nightmares. It carried words like “alright” and “fine” as arm candy. And even though I wasn’t alright or fine, a maybe was enough for me.

The third time was when I asked my grandfather if I would see him again. I half expected a “not” after it. He taught me that making choices is easy, but living with them is hard. Although his lessons were more things not to do, than things to do, he’s still one of the best teachers I know.

The fourth time, I met a girl with surrender in her lips but escape in her eyes, she seemed to laugh a lot. I always knew if I pulled back the curtain of her laughter I’d see broken heart fragments realising tears isn’t the best of glues. She left like the ocean leaves the shore, slowly stealing grains of sand, knowing she’ll either come back to return it, or she’ll always have something to remember me by. A maybe for the former was all I had left to hold on to.

The fifth time, I carried it in my hello when I talked to sis, although distance separated us I could feel her tears drop on the shoulder of my voice. I tried to act like I knew what I was saying, but a maybe seemed to end every advice I gave.

The sixth time, the man in the mirror asked if I had feathers for fingers. How I made words seem so fly. They would lift off pages and tickle ear drums till a smile was the only response the body knew to produce.

The last time, I heard it somewhere in her blush, somewhere in her smile, somewhere in her laugh. And I thought, maybe she’s the one. I can’t promise I’ll always feel like this, but a piece of me will always only show goosebumps for just you.

as her glass heart beats,
it cracks little by little
as her chest caves in.
she closes her eyes.
her deep, slow breaths
restore her aching body
as her chest straightens.
the cracking suddenly stops.
her soul glues the cracks
and her heart is whole again,
stronger than ever before.

Hair whips your face
as you cruise away from life,
from *******, from internet & TV.

Thank God the windows roll down automatically
in your hotbox of a car, because
You don't have time to waste thinking
about rolling down windows -
the weather is hot and sunny,

You need to get on the move.

And besides, your music is too loud
to even manage thinking about
well, anything. Blast off.

Sun-scorched leather burns your thighs,
sweat glues you to the seat.
It's not glorious,
it's swamp ***.

But I'll take it.

S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
I had to count twice on my fingers to be sure of that.
It glues together many, many words.
It fixes people to the walls.
It shrivels fruit in the bowl.
It sticks us all in the same soup (****).
Let's swim.

You have 19 reasons to die,
written out like manuscripts in manila folders  
  populating a small cubicle containing your confidence
   pasted to the walls, and neatly nested on the next door desk
     at least you told someone.
The logic of your feeling breathing life into the spreadsheet,
The simple clicks of order covering up the shame of dead weeks
Day in Day out working toward a little more
Waiting for the future where the ability to break out is yours.
Cage around each arm. Suffering in small doses.
Never overwhelming the epicenter.

I have 19 reasons to die.
Scrawled in sidewalk chalk on 17th street.
  Ringing in the ears of all my close relatives and their next of kin.
   They say, "Hurry up and usher in the next generation so we can stop worrying about fixing yours."
The crumpled cover letters in my compactor spell pure love, and the reasons it's never noticed.
  Simplicity in disarray, a life of static colors. Repugnant sorrow odors.
I am the only town crier left in this town.
  Always complete but never fulfilled.
The sad sequel to a Mexican standoff with a self-referential story.
  Narcissism and narcotics.
  Nihilism and Mnemonics.
Space and the stuff of the stars.
Love and the war of the heart.

S is the 19th letter of PSEUDOPSEUDOHYPOPARATHYROIDISM
No it's not but what a great word.
No it's not but aren't you glad you tried to count?
No it's not but aren't you satisfied with yourself for trying to decipher?
No it isn't and wasn't it worth it to try to speak the sounds?
No it is not and wasn't it the sibilance in your mouth worth every second?
No it is not thank you come again have you had your fill when we're only 19/26?


Reasons to live:







Seemingly unneeded. We're here aren't we? Doing what we could only be meant to do.
R is the real 19th letter.
One more would have been S.
But you'd never know if you didn't count.
So let's count.
Ready?
3...2...1...

The door towers above,
looking down at the small girl,
glaring red.
The little girl’s knees shake in fear.
She clutches the small blanket to her chest.
She’s too afraid to take a step forward,
to open the door and see what’s inside,
but her curiosity glues her in place.
She is frozen, conflicted.
Wide, innocent eyes stare up in awe
to the tall red door.

Anger echoes beyond the walls, calling to her
yet scaring her off at the same time.
Her small hands are stiff
with a frightened grip.
Her feet won't move.
They don't run back to the safety of her own room.
They don't step forward in courage.
They just....stay there;
Forcing her to listen to the monstrous,
beckoning roars of what hides behind
the red door.

This is the highland spring
Let us in the mountains sing
As a deep Scottish blues
Glides and glues
Dispelling scattered fears
seeking to keep us weak  
There is no need to seek
Let all Scottish clans
All join their hands
Claiming all  their lands
Thrown away by old elite
Such history
If we could only delete

As we honor the gallant  
Men with freedom
Boiling and brimming
In their limitless hearts
Greater  , than any  life
As they spill over their freedom  
As  Scotland here  baths
In their unforgettable souls
As they still  resonate
In the trickles of
Scottish streams
So let us all hear
As silent mountains nestle
In deep blue skies
As they merrily enchant

Let all nations slip away
From tricky triangle
And clumsy squares
Where dishonest intention
Live on elevated corners
As we carry them on our back
While in their deeds they feed
The beast of paranoia
Slitting love affairs like wood
I wish this was understood
As their sharp corners
break straight lines
Where intimacies once lived  
And smash large circles
Like breaking glasses      

But let us live in precious circles
Where all nations float freely
Like lilies in a pond

How bright is the lone desert tonight?
I’m at my store to catch a sight,
Hot and cold fantasy there upright
I’ve never been in such hungry delight.

I walk the Cuban café with blues
Eyes on albums and letters on glues,
Your bits rushing my lips like juice
When my brain pass me your clues.

I have not seen you in a while for now
But the sturdy and shy love you sow,
Far into a fierce gone hair on blow
Has set my calm waves on crossbow.

Reasons beyond seasons and time
Giving myself to your heart not dime
The world has shrugged to your chime,
I've finally found my home, Oh Valentine.

One very sunny day,
I went outside to play with friends,
Playing games with no ends,
We ran down roads with bends skipping,
Each one of us tripping,
Falling and a-slipping with joy,
Coming up with a ploy,
To catch that dreadful boy with glee,
Prank him like he did me,
"Lets tie him to a tree," Fran said,
"We'll leave him there in dread!"
How punishing for Fred, how bad,
That would not leave me glad!
"That would make me quite sad," I frowned,
"But we cannot back down!"
Then we all looked around for plans
"Lets tie his shoes to cans!"
"He'll make so much noise, and he'll blush"
Said Verutica Klush.
"We'll do that, we must rush to him,"
That plan is not to grim,
So we sent Mary Kim for shoes,
And Patrishia for glues,
Starting to work in crews as fair,
All got in on the dare,
To join cans he will wear to boots
Hearing many hollers and hoots,
At his door we placed boots with cans,
He wasn't fooled by our plans,
You just must understand one thing
And oh, the dumbness stings
We didn't hide the strings to the cans