My castigation was decided long before my backslide. And that is inexcusable, the righteous might declare "unfair". But I don't want any belligerent accusations against this 'unjust watchfulness' from above. Some entity must have understood that I didn't need guidance; I needed walls: some forcing to reach my destiny. Without my jailer, I'd have chosen one of three and let them lead me into a darkness that the pitiful call 'demons'. Claws and teeth? No, each monster was irreplaceable and I loved them. If possible, if they could comprehend a 'love', I vow they would have loved me. But the Warden took them: my punishment before my crime. Perhaps the disposal of these beasts seems considerate, but toss aside those foolish illusions because the burden has not lessened rather, it is unfamiliar. Omitting strength, for I  lost my foundation, I stand in fear with this hole. The Three aren't returning; I'm left with loose bindings - the knots are the songs of my memories. Beautiful Terrors, do I need you? Let me tell you their stories.

Number One:
I remember his voice calling for me. "Daisy! Flowers for you." It was our little game, and I'm sure he made girls jealous when he handed me a bouquet of roses.
My name was Petunia, but I hated that name, and I loved all that's yellow.
So when we were little he took my hand, and we went into a treefort, and he dubbed me Lady Daisy.
He was 7 and I was 4, and there began my adoration.
Then I was older and heartbroken, and I was calling him. "Waldon! It's hurting me."
He arrived so soon, I was still in hysteria - that of a 14 year old gone through breakup.
Then I cried harder because somehow my brother presented me with a tulip and declared, "It's an early present from the only boy who's going to love you more than I do."
17, and I understood fascination. And Willow (for though it's girly, I liked it more than Waldon, and he let it be) was entranced by a wild girl. She was a shockbomb - a warm sungirl that rocked stilettos and never littered nor waited past a minute.
He fell for her so hard from so high.
One day that girl kissed him straight on the lips, then jetted off to England.
Said he could follow her in spirit.
I couldn't hate her because she left his body, but it was hard to appreciate his body when the government took even that away, insisting he be laid beneath cold dirt. Then too many questions: "Why did you hold his hand for three days? Were you thinking of following? Petunia, why won't you buy flowers for the gravestone?" Then there were horrified eyes when I asked who Petunia was, because I had forgotten. Or, truthfully, there was no Petunia, only Daisy. And Daisy had Willow. The Flower and the Tree: that was supposed to be the story. So I refused to buy flowers, and without any sort of ceremony I stopped being 'Lady' and became 'Crazy Daisy', who talked to her demons. Now you see why I never wanted to part with Number One, because although he was a monster (you can't deny the terror of a body with no spirit), he knew me best.
Dear Warden, I've no suicide in me, and there's none left could lead me there, and it may be that I've grown taller, but I'm practically blind.

Number Two:
She was weak since I can remember. I'd say her vulnerability was pneumonia, which I can only presume led to my hatred of 'Petunia': two words incredibly similar when reason encounters a child.
And I liked her name "Maribel" because it sounded like a flower.
I mimicked my brother, but he was persistent that I must call her mother.
Again, this made no sense until 8, when I had a revelation that all this time I'd had no family. At least not in the heart of a girl, because Maribel wasn't a vibrancy to look up to., though she was my one relation.
There was just her in a bed. Sometimes a man visited but I never knew why Willow grew tense; all I saw was my mother acquire spots of brown. How I loved brown, because it seemed as though she was genuinely Mother, like all those other moms that the sun tans, or that could be given filthy hugs that left patches of dirt. In turn, I always welcomed that man, and he was a 'saviour'.
And Willow's father.
Death found both Willow and that man (I know, now, the difference) before I understood 'abuse', and try not to blame me because she never complained and I thought abuse meant people were unhappy, but I saw both of them smile. I laid her beside him, but with space inbetween: a ground for my casket. Because I'd gone slightly crazy and I was telling Number Two that if I awakened as a zombie, I'd need to be able to find his hand first.
That was nuts. But Warden, I don't fully understand. You stopped her bleeding, but I'm left with nothing. I hear their voices in my head, telling me I'm healthy, but I know I'm barely breathing.

Number Three:
I dealt Three tragedy. And in doing so, I guilted myself into worthlessness. Classic to the moral law is: it is not acceptable to introduce a roommate to a shady character. But I ignored the concept of shady - applauded my nonjudgmental attitude, because with my twisted past I would have also been a shadowy figure. With a sweet, sweet smile, I handed that bright girl over to a Peacock who promised to give her 'a good feeling.' And I ignored her tears, because he said he'd please her.
Maybe if I hadn't been loopy, the only way I could "be" with One, I might have noticed that me and he weren't the same, and I could have judged him like the others.
Annie, I'm sorry, please just shine once more.
Even if you're afraid of me and my wickedness, don't be ****** into the gloom, because I can't offer advice to resurface, when I think there's none.
Now, there's Zero for me to turn to, because that's what I am. I am empty. I suppose that's what happens when I trust a boy who leaves, yearn for one who's weak, and think I've the durability to rely on myself (but I've equaled a pitch black crater for a while now).
You're more clear now, Warden. I can understand why you've taken everything. Since nothing I had would give me my fairyland ending. But where's my reward? I need my gift first, because these feet don't know which direction to head, and it's more like I was holding onto rocks that cut me while they warmed me. My feet kick against the waves, but in this half-in half-out position I can't get a good momentum, so a hand now would be nice.

My stories, did they surprise? I hear all this chatter about monsters, but I think we've got them wrong. Monsters simply have a hold one you, and there's no release before you've no choice but to part. They are strong, and it's true that I saw nothing stronger than the Willow.  Only my jailer saw my potential, and he directed me to Zero. He asked for recognition so that I knew my task was not optional and he raised my walls until I stood there, lonely - pushed into belief in myself. But now I am the strongest I know, and I am walking on wind, and from up here I cannot see a single barrier. But Warden, don't you ever leave because if those walls break for a second and I see my demons, I know I'll lose flight and beg them to come back. And that would be the end, because there's no chance Number Four.

An Open Letter To The First Boy I Loved

Alternatively known as “An Open Letter To The Boy That Calls Me Crazy.”

The first words you ever “said” to me were in a facebook message,
A picture of your lined arms attached, reading,
“Hah, I’m sorry, but I saw your picture of your scars and felt like showing you these.”

The first thing I should have done was run.
Not only were you immediately trying to make me feel bad
Before I had even uttered a word,
But you were already one-upping me,
Making me feel like you had been through so much more.

I admit my mistake of having shown my weaknesses online
At such a young age,
Hardly 14,
But having grown to a world of romanticized trauma,
I felt it was only normal to have issues of my own,
Whether they were exaggerated or not.

The saddest part of these issues having been forced upon myself
Is the fact that at one point I did not need them,
But now I feel like I would be nothing without them.
I do not blame you for their worsened behavior,
But before I met you,

I had never felt like a ****.
I had never actually made myself bleed to the point of soiling a shirt.
I had never actually attempted to take my life.

Though knowing I had these scars,
It seemed you knew how easily I’d fall into you,
Fall for you,
Looking for comfort in knowing I was not alone.

You persuaded me into kissing you.
You persuaded me into losing my virginity in the back of your mom’s car
While she was in your house on a cold September night.
It was rushed.
It was rough.
There was blood.
And you did not care.
“It’ll be quick, don’t worry.”

In the six months we were together,
I willingly had *** with you twice.
Every other time ****** acts occurred,
(which was over forty times)
You guilted me.
You told me that you deserved it.
You asked if I really loved you.
You told me I needed to show you that I loved you,
You told me that it was what love really was.

I never told you how many times I cried after you left.
I never told you how many guys I kissed after you,
And how every single one made me cry
Without saying a word.
It was the simple intimate touch--
Lips, even if gentle, pressing together--
That sent fear rolling through my body.

It was three months after you broke up with me.
Three months after you admitted that you cheated on me,
It was the day you asked me to go on a walk with you.
The day we could become friends again,
Start over,
Ignore that I still loved you,
Try again.
You insisted you still loved me
(Though now I doubt you ever did).
You insisted that you
Never wanted to hurt me,
And bent me over a tree in the woods
Behind the high school,
And said it would
“Just be in and out! Once!”
And I begged you to stop.
You slapped me,
You called me a ****,
And when you finally finished,
You started to panic.
You were begging me to say that
You
Didn’t
****
Me.
Through my own tears,
My own confusion,
My own pain,
I assured you,
“No, you're okay. It'll all be okay.”

It has been over two years since that day.
Since then, I have opened myself up to one person.

That man has since left me.
One of the contributing factors
Being that he was worried I was not over you.
He kept receiving messages from you,
Messages you sent claiming I would never stop loving you,
When this is the closest thing to hatred that I have ever felt,
Messages you sent claiming I would always think of you,
And what’s terrifying is I can’t help thinking of you--

It's only because I can’t get the nightmare
Of your touch
Out of my aching skull
And I don’t want you to feel victorious,
And it terrifies me that you do,
Because not only did you push me,
Not only did you threaten me,
Intimidate me,
**** me,
But you insisted I’d spend the rest of my life with you,
You disoriented my visions of love
Like a bad LSD trip,
And I’m so ******* scared it will never ******* end,
Because every time I see myself trying to hug,
Kiss,
Love,
Trust someone,
I see what you did to me and I know that it’s
Baggage to them,
But a ball and chain on me,
And I’m petrified.
These memories are bars keeping me from moving onto happier things,
Keeping me holed up, waiting for you to finally let me go,

Stop telling people that I’m crazy,
Stop whispering my name when you pass me in the hall,
Stop following my social media,
Stop following the people that I try to let in,
Stop ******* with my life,
Stop ******* with my head,
Stop ******* with me,
Leave me the **** alone,

The first words you ever “said” to me were in a facebook message,
With a picture of your lined arms attached, reading,
“Hah, I’m sorry, but I saw your picture of your scars and felt like showing you these.”

I never thought I’d have more scars than that.
Over 146 scars,
The police department proved it when they showed up at your house
The night you tried to **** yourself,
And told me it was my fault.

The scars I have aren’t physical.
Not all of them, at least.
But the problem with scars is they don’t just go away.
They go away with time,
And it’s hard to let them heal when you’re still leaving them there today.

I’ve tried telling the police what you’ve done.
I’ve tried telling counselors,
They haven’t done anything;
There was never enough proof,
It happened too long ago.
I can’t do anything to prove it.
Instead I’m left to see you daily.
Instead I’m left to hear you whisper about me.
Have people ask me questions about the things they’re hearing
Things you say.

This is an open letter to the first boy I loved.

I say boy, because
The only thing I’m certain of anymore,
Is you will never
Be a
Man.

There’s no grace for a sinner here.
In this little white room,
with the little white girls
and the good little boys.
They all cast the stones, cracking
my fragile bones,
and making my dress quite black.

There’s no place for a sinner here.
Where they all look the same,
all out to tame us,
damning us all to hell.
Technicalities steal pride, and
Legality’s crushing tide
forces our dignity to fall.

There’s no room for a sinner here.
You’ll do as you’re told.
Dare ask why and you’re bold;
never to make much in life.
Backsliders are peered on
over pretty noses apparently smeared on,
by simplicity and a bit of wine.

There’s no peace for a sinner here.
Perfect footprints are left over,
those lively blueprints we pored over
through many a midnight candle.
Both innocence and experience
leave them incensed and indignant.
keeping our consciences guilted.

There’s no rest for a sinner here.
Enjoyment is frivolous,
laughter is selfish,
and love must be evil incarnate.
If this is what perfect,
must look like, then I’m perfect-
ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.

I.

Up the stairs Suzann without an E went.
8" X 10" bright white rectangles dotted
the yellowing and dusty walls,
clean reminders of bad family photos.
Her parents, Bob and Theresa,
had picked out wallpaper. Lilacs
and vines and oranges. Why? She
didn't know.

She tossed her backpack on the floor
at the foot of her bed. Her senior book
was still on the night stand. Charity and
Faith, her sometimes friends, had spent
the last two weeks filling out every page
of theirs, printing hazy images on cheap
photo paper at their homes and sliding them
into the plastic holders or taping them to
the pages without.

They coerced boys they
had liked or still liked or would like if to
fill out pages. When the boys simply signed
their names or names and football numbers,
they guilted them into writing more. Give
me something to remember you by.

Suzann liked to look at only one boy,
Casey Stephen Fuchs, pronounced "Fox,"
though you know that's just what the family
said. She didn't want him to write in her
senior book. She enjoyed the space between
them. She knew what her peers didn't:
she was seventeen.
She knew she didn't know
the right words yet. She knew the heart-bursting
flutters she felt were temporary--enjoy them, she thought,
shut up and enjoy them.

Her parents set her curfew at 10:30. So
this Friday, like most Fridays, she stays
home.

She opens ****** in the City of Mystics,
a novel she's burned through. Fifty pages
or so left. She likes detectives. The methodical
stalking, the idiosyncratic theories and philosophies
that allow them to connect dot after dot.

She shuts her eyes and sends herself walking down
the streets of New York, where hot dog vendors
whistle and say, "Nice legs." She flags down a cab.
She sees Casey across the street. What are you doing
here, stranger? She waves the cab on.
The driver, a brown-skinned man from some vague
country, throws his arms up. "C'mon."

She cuts across the traffic, dodging a white stretch limo,
a black Hummer, a hearse.

Casey's straight hair hangs over his left eye. It's both
melodramatic and troubled. There's a small shift
at the corners of his lips, the corners of lips, this
is a detail she writes of often in her journal--why?

She can almost hear Casey ask her, "What brings you here?"

"Business."

"What kind?"

"None of yours."

He takes this as an entry for a kiss. Not yet, handsome. No no.

"Make whatever you want for dinner," her mom shouts up the stairs.
"There's stuff for nachos if you want nachos. Some luncheon meat too.
Only one piece of bread though."

"Okay."

"Alright. Just whenever. Dad and I are going to go ahead."

"Okay."

"Alright."

Get me out of here. Suzann's whole life is small: small town,
small family, small church, all packed with small brained, short-sighted people. She wants New York or Chicago. She wants a badge--no not a badge. She'll be a vigilante. "You're not a cop," they'll tell her.

"Thank God," she'll say. "If I were a cop then there'd be nobody protecting these streets."

II.

She's read mysteries set in the middle of nowhere, small towns like her own Kiev, Missouri. They always feel phony. Not enough churches.
Not enough bored dads hitting on cheerleaders.
No curses. Every small town has a curse. Kiev's?
Every year someone in the senior class dies.

As far back as anyone she knew could remember
anyways. Drunk driving, falling asleep at the wheel,
texting while driving, all that crap is what was usually
blamed.

This smelly boy named Todd Louden moved out of Kiev
in the fall semester of his senior year a couple years ago.
Suzann was a freshman.

A few months after he was gone, people started saying
he'd killed himself with a shotgun. First United Methodist
added his family to the prayer list. They had a little service out
by this free-standing wall by the library where he used
to play wall ball during lunch. People cried. Suzann didn't know
anyone that hung out with him. Maybe that's why
they cried, unreconcilable guilt--that's what her dad
said.

Then in the spring Todd moved back. The cross planted
by the wall with his name confused him.
He'd just been staying with his grandma. Nothing crazy.
The churches never said anything about that. He was
just the smelly kid again. Well until late-April when
he got ran over by a drunk or texting driver.
They hadn't even pulled up the cross by the wall ball site
yet.

III.

You call it the middle of nowhere, a place where the roads didn't have proper names until a couple years back, roads now marked with green signs and white numbers like 3500 and 1250, numbers the state mandated so the ambulances can find your dying ***--well if the signs haven't been rendered unreadable by .22 rounds.

The roads used to be known only to locals. They'd give them names like the Jogline or Wilzetta or Lake Road, reserved knowledge for the sake of identifying outsiders. But that day is fading.

What makes nowhere somewhere? What grants space a name?

The dangerous element. The drifter that hops a fence, carrying a shotgun in a tote bag. Violence gave us O.K. Corral. Violence gave us Waco. Historians get nostalgic for those last breaths of innocence. The quiet. The storm. The dead quiet.

IV.

It's March and not a single senior has died.
So when she hears the front door open
around 2 a.m., Suzann isn't surprised.
She doesn't think it's ego that's made
her believe it'd be her to die--but it is.

She hears the fridge door open.
Cabinets open.
Cabinets close.
She hears ice drop into
the glass. Liquid poured.

She clicks her tongue in
her dry mouth. She puts
a hand to her chest. Her
heart beats slow.
She rests her head on
the pillow. It's heavy
yet empty, yet full--
not of thoughts.

She can't remember the name
of any shooting victims.
She remembers the shooters.
Jared Lee Loughner, Seung-Hui Cho,
James Eagan Holmes, Adam Lanza.
No victims.

She hears the intruder set the glass on the counter.
He doesn't walk into the living room.
He starts up the stairs. His steps are
soft, deliberate. What does he want?
Her death. She knows this. He is only a vehicle.
Nameless until. Has he done this before?
Fast or slow?

He's just outside her room, and she doesn't
remember a single victim's name. She hears
a bag unzip. She hears a click.

If he shoots her, Suzann Dunken, there's
no way the newspaper will get her name
right. Her name may or may not scroll
across CNN's marquee for a day or two.
If it does, it won't be spelled correctly.
This makes her move. Wrapping
her comforter around her body, she
tip-toes to the wall next to her door.

She hears a doorknob turn.
It's not hers.

He's going into her parents' bedroom.
They're both heavy sleepers.
She opens her own door slowly.
She steps into the hall. She sees the man.
The man does not see her.
She see the man and grabs a family
portrait. The man does not see her,
and he creeps closer to her parents.
She sees the man standing then she
sees the man falling after she strikes him
with the corner of the family portrait.
The man sees her as he scrambles to get
his bearing. She strikes him, again with
the corner. This time she connects with his eye.
A light comes on. "Suzann," her mother says.
He tries to aim the gun. Again she strikes.
He screams. He reaches for his eyes with
his left hand. Now with the broad side she
swings. She connects. She connects again.
The man shoves her off, stumbles to his feet.
By this time, her dad reaches her side.
One strong push and the man crashes into
the wall outside the room, putting a hole
in the drywall.

He recovers and retreats down the stairs
and out the door into blackness.

Her mother phones the police.
She pants more than speaks
into the receiver.

"Suzann," her dad says. "Sweetheart."

Suzann looks at the portrait, taken at JC Penny when
she was in the sixth grade. The glass is cracked.
She removes the back. She pulls out the photo.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

This photo. Her mother let her do anything
she wanted to her hair before they took it.
So she, of course, dyed it purple.

"That's right," her mother says.
"It's about half a mile east of the
3500 and 1250 intersection. Uh-huh."

Her dad sits down next to her.

"How long do you think it'll take them
to find us?"

There's a shift at the corners of her mouth,
and she nods, just nods.

Seriously??
You're seriously bringing that up now??
After everything you've put us through,
You're going to hold this over my head
Right now??
I can't believe this.
I knew you were childish
But this is reaching new lows
Even for you.
I mean,
Who brings up a mistake I made
Ten years ago when I was legitimately a kid.
I mean,
Who doesn't forgive a child
For not knowing any better
And messing up huge that one time.
But you never were one who fought fair.
You used every ***** trick not in the book
And then some.
You
Lied,  
Manipulated,
Schemed,
Guilted,
Violated,
Demanded,
Demeaned,
Degraded,
Beat,
Beat,
Beat,
Me into the ground
Until I believed that
I was shorter than Thumbelina,
And responsible for all the chaos in your life.
Blinded by childish hero worship,
I trusted you when you told me
I was the reason things weren't working out.
But the child is not responsible
For the failed marriage of her parents.
The child is not responsible
For her parents' lack of communication.
The child is not responsible.
But you're still living like I am.
So I'm not gonna take this anymore.
I'm not gonna sit here, stand here, stay here,
And listen to your convoluted messed up reality.
I've got my own life to live.
My own memories to make.
My own mistakes to learn from.
My own family to find and have and raise.
And I sure as hell don't need
Someone like you coming back in
And telling me I'm less than I really am,
Cause the truth is, Mom,
I'm a lot more than you'll ever be.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

               Guilted to the Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant

                          The dead with charity enclosed in clay

                                             -Henry V IV.viii.121

I did not want to go to the cemetery today
And do things with Hobby Lobby flowers
Made in China plastic $8.95
And floral foam in chemical green blocks

The streets of my youth are rubble and weeds
The woods of my youth are now trailer parks
The church of my youth is a hollerin’ place
For even they have lost all dignity

The soft wind sighs over our people’s graves
The stench from the sewage plant sweeps in waves

"Life is all about choices."

But I don't recall choosing
The struggles I've had to fight to remain moving and breathing,
The rough path I have no choice but to keep walking,
Or the situations of which I've dealt with
Some I was born into
I don't remember ever being given the option
To choose

Coming home from school, to a household that automatically changes your mood
Forget living, let's call it existing
It's all that's being done under this roof
And it **** sure couldn't be compared to any thing resembling a choice
It's rope and a guilted conscience
That keep me bound to this place that raised me
Fighting against the knots tied abrasively around my feet      
Only to be overwhelmed with remorse
At even having thought about leaving
And unknowingly, I strengthen their hold

Life, once again, making choices on its own  

They never tell you it'll be easy
So caught up in dramatizing the difficulty of the journey
It's forgotten how easy it is to give up
How easy it is to judge
Constantly looked down upon for things out of my hands
But the number of misdealt cards in the past doesn't control future bets
It just strengthens the desire to win

And that, Life
Is my choice

I've never wanted to roll over and die though I admit there're been mornings I rolled over and cried at the thought of ever getting up again
But I did
Low as rock bottom on the ocean floor but refusing to be swept away with the tide
I stopped living in pointing blame on trivial irrelevant things
And slowly broke the chip off my shoulder that was a mile wide
Though sometimes I still feel it's phantom weight
Taunting me about the things I cant
change
And I never had the choice
I couldn't pick where I came from, how I was raised, who raised me, I can't control the missed opportunities my upbringing has denied me, or the battle scars my past gave me
But finally living instead of existing?

That is my choice.

I’ll light another cigarette
As the Roman candles burn,
Lace the atmosphere with lamented regret
And tear it away before it slips into the chain of deterioration.

I’ll cut out my tongue
While there’s something left to say
I’ll retain the mystery
Whilst the rest is lost to history.
With adoration as a breaking point
I’ll feel each part of me disjoint
Under the pressure.
I’m just another guilted plague-
Haunting the crypts of nature
When the morality bomb drops
I’ll collect the shards
Use poetry as a Perspex,
Desire as a casket
I’ll build wordless pyres
Under motionless fires
And choke the concordance
With a suffocating breath of ecstasy
Until my lungs are transplanted with ivy
Disrupts the chemistry
As hydrogen tears through me
And we burn under element number one.

She lingers,
She speaks-
She sings in my mind.
For she polishes these windows,
My eyes-
How divine.

Yet sometimes I’m a puppet,
Her precious marionette.
At times I want to cower,
Wish only to forget.

For those words she speaks freely,
Cage me up like a bird.
Making me feel less of a human,
A soul-
How absurd!

Yet even though I’m aware of this poison that she spews-
Sending chills to my bones,
Leaving me internally confused.

For I’m aware of her games,
Yet I’m completely content-
With knowing the consequences,
Still I don’t repent.

Yes, it’s killing me slowly,
Forcing myself not to breath.
Figuratively and relatively-
Casting my body out to flee.

For the porcelain in my sight,
Calls my name like a god.
My body’s screaming for mercy,
In and instant-
She applauds.

Released and freed,
She whispers in my ears.
Slowly and surely,
But she’s housing all of my fears.

For this voice that sang sweetly,
Praising me for the days-
Of vacancy of my body,
Turns my mind into a maze.

See her words create hallways,
One intertwining with the last-
Of memories from my present,
Being guilted by my past.

Leaving me feeling so helpless,
So alone-
So afraid.

But that same voice brings be comfort,
Satisfaction-
For all of those days.

Yes it’s confusing in a sense,
Perhaps even to the eye.
But for me this is a daily,
A struggle of the mind.

See my body is strong,
Yet I feel internally weak.
For these words that I’m writing,
My lips can hardly speak.


                     Alysia Marie 2018 ©

The taste of repetition tickles at historical ignorance. The Queen is dead, the Queen, the Queen! Centuries of colonial empiricism brought into the dark corners of the metaverse once again. Heaven is empty. Hell has no vacancy. So why do tyrants swim so well. Why do they sit in their golden, guilted chairs, grinning through their teeth with smug acceptance of their blessings from god? Is the sun still there? Does the ocean still spray waves of destiny? Are the creatures of marginalized society so cruel that they would oppress and condemn as they feel they have been? Was there no lesson? Does man not have its place is history or is the last 100 years enough to **** the need? I hear the mosquitoes buzzing and zooming past my ears. So I gave my blood with reluctant pleasure. This is my new role.

The mirrors whisper secrets
Little tidbits of advice
Reflections of a washed up zealot
Being optimistic to pull me from this ever-clenching vice

Torn, tattered, broken, battered
Claimed exaggeration from these hushed murmurs
Self destruction evident, nothing really matters
Tugging on my mind; the zealot’s cheery sermons

“Happiness is key
And the key is universal...”
But no one ever thinks to be
Something ultimately omniversal

A tool to be used constantly for general amusement
A tool to be ignored when no longer needed
A tool to be picked for sadistic abusement
A tool to be deluded, guilted, always twisting to the greeded

And like the calm before the inevitable storm
The tool dances to the tunes the varied user creates
Suicidal pursuit nightly, heart never warmed or warned
Staring back at the zealot is me; whispering dogmatic secrets of self-hatred.

Am I doin' alright
Am I doin' okay
Feels like I'm fallin' away
Can't trust myself; don't know what to say
Am I feelin' this way
Because I know what others say
Or because I know that I've strayed from your way
I don't care what others say
Just wanna be okay
Don't wanna stray from your way
Just tell me:
Am I okay?
Am I doin' alright
Don't know why I'm feelin' contrite
Guilted by others
Or knowin' they're right

Gavel in hand
and eyes that cast shadows
on my face
Who are you?

The world is full of double standards
unforgiving
holding ever so tightly to
a false image of god
Hateful
Inhumane

Curse you robots accustomed to dogmatic belief
Your counterfiet
Half assed
Rehashed
Evolve already!
my mind trails....
down different paths
curse me
crucify me

I love to love
built to need another
to feel
to think for myself
to love being a women
and the power that comes with it
My conscience
clear

How's yours?
Guilted into life
Worshipping death
**** off the ones that disagree
metaphorically
and play your role "right"
In the big machine

I am more than rust or grease
a lever a pully a tool to please
and the day I die I'll rest with peace
knowing I operate differently

i was in debt the day i was born.
the nurse said i was a natural red,
mom didn't believe her
boy
did i
show her

indebted to the woman's womb i struggled out of
the man's genes i inherited
and they dare to ask me
"are you a natural
red?"

the color of my blood is a natural ginger
just enough in my father's mustache

i am in debt
naturally
sometimes i can still feel
the umbilical cord
that she guilted me
into keeping
attached

i was born in debt
i am in the red
naturally
mommy
won't let go of me
i tried to get away
twenty
years ago
she could show
you the scars

I am unfortunately out of practice,
I have given you into the hands of my laziness and neglectful nature,
They are unkind masters,

They like to make me forget that good things require attention,
Else good things grow tainted with tarnish,
Your polished glory was only known when I remembered to care,

Must I communicate with you,
Resurrecting you from the dead?
Or are you my communication and I must learn to speak again?

As sleeping beauty,
You are sleeping inside of me,
Your lifeless form is sustained by only the guilted glances from my mind,
I acknowledge you existence,
But something hinders me from shaking you,
Waking you,
Ripping you from your slumbering prison,
To replace you to your seat of importance,

Why hold back?
I know the reward of your company,
Yet I am content in complacency!
I am the one sleeping,
But beauty does not grace my bed,
I am betrayed by the unfeeling safety l cling to,
To work,
To make an effort,
Not only is it hard,
Exhausting,
But it is a risk,

Fear of falling,
Of failing,
Of losing,
Of letting down,
This fear has replaced you as my best friend,
It drives my actions,
My passions,
It claims my best interest,
Delusional,
Self-centered,
It looks out only for itself,

“You know better.”
Whispers,
As though talking into my dreaming,
You insist truth,

Truth is the only thing that might overcome fear,
If one could just let the truth in,
One could wake up,
I could wake up,

You, thought to be the sleeper,
You are screaming from my heart,
But Fear also screams,
Fear is afraid,
It chokes my heart,
Trying to silence your pleas,

The war in my chest breaks my trance,
Wake me up!
Oh for God’s sake, wake me up!
I want to live again!

Was life granted only to sleep in safety?
I was made to feel!
To speak and express and converse and love and use my gifts,
Fear be ******!

I was made to be with you,
You are my heart,
Hold me tight and never let me forget you again,
Never let me fall asleep.

How can one grow a plant,
And only water it when it's wilted?

How can one turn to love
Only when it is feeling guilted?

How can one change its ways
After years of growth stilted?

He must learn to overcome
Every obstacle, every day

Love should be respected
I feel I've only neglected

guilted into yet another
late evening dog-walk
after too long spent
indoors and weighed down
by endless introversion
trudging an unlit path
free of the imposition
of street lamp
     and headlight
with nothing except
those familiar constellations
and a degree of
     lunular exposure
to guide our path
despite the cold and
that lingering feeling
of obstinate lethargy
we firmly planted
our mud-caked boots
upon the saturated ground
unstable and clogged
as it may have been
in order to marvel
at that moment
of unexpected perfection
perhaps it was simply
a case of fortuitousness
or sheer coincidence
but to us it seems
the universe is offering
more wishes than we could
ever have hoped for

What a strong grip that you've managed to keep so long
How does it still feel in this moment?
Realize now that the grip was too strong
It's gone too numb to feel if it still constricts
Emboldened by the lies that cross the threshold of those lips

You get what I give and I give you what I deserved
You reap what I sow, but I know what you think I don't
Believe me, you know you've deceived me

You seem baffled as I start to roam away from your reach
Wondering where went the chain you've anchored
What of the lessons you've attempted to teach
To keep me guilted, controlled and manipulated
So you can seek all you want from the others you've lied to

You take what I give but I get what you deserved
I've reaped what you sow and you know that I don't
Believe you, I know you've deceived me

So come clean to me
Bare all your guilt
Set me free
You've already abandoned me

Still you don't resist
To continue so disrespectfully
You keep your secrets disappearing
So what is it that you still want from me?

So come clean to me (come clean, come clean)
Bare all your guilt (what you hide from me)
Set me free (your cage no longer fits)
You've already abandoned me

So why should I stay by you?

©July 2024 Neal Emanuelson

perhaps
if i made myself
scarce, scared
sacred--
i'll become
wanted
uninhibitedly.
i already am.

a look of entendre at
intelligence,
perhaps deeper than
my own [but mountains
are enormous]-
those giant eyes
i only wish were on me
always but only with
love always

a look of anger, admittedly,
but only for a second-
think i saw
you slow down as i focused
on the floor, your speech imposed-
my glance, again- of sadness,
now,
for he who i'm so scared
to love
gives me another tiny fright.

neither of us broke even
we both walked out with
pockets extracted from pants
validated parking,
painfully pounding out a new
way home.
our past, unchangeable.
mistakes are made.

i know i know I AM.
i AM- or at least i
feel like i am-
realizing when the ***
is too hot, when to
take my hand off,
when to use a ***
holder.
lately though i don't
feel like i can crack
an egg on your edge
let alone cook a meal
without you burning me.

a fan quickly sweeping
the trapped air of
breakfast nook, spite &
malice. reduced to what
holds my interest,
that which i am guilted
for most.

a hand held is a hand held
not held to a handheld
- a hand that won't let go
but its hard to love
when- almost to the
point of thinking- you're
looking up to what's looking
down at you.

"I don't know if you're going to read this or not but, looks like you used your Bandcamp profile recently.......and I've been thinking......your a ***** .....and I never got the chance to tell you. You can ******* off thats fine, its been a couple years and you just completely wrote me off. I understand you may have wrote other people off because they did you wrong, but you wrote me off on judgment alone. I did you no wrong! You deemed me unworthy of your company as if you are somehow the dictator of all social interaction, because you didn't agree with decisions I made about my life. **** move....you could have at least had the decency to say, "Hey, I don't want to hang out with you anymore.....or even speak to you for that matter." It would have ******..... but it wouldn't have been a **** move. plastic blood indeed"




You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting in my lifetime.
I was a ******* kid back when I knew you man, **** I still am in a lot of ways. The truth is that my father got really upset when he found out you were smoking **** with me in the car and guilted me into not making music with you, and being a stupid kid I handled it as well as I handled everything else. After that it just seemed awkward to try to say hi. I'd figured you either hate me or move on, and either way we both probably had lives to get to.
I'm living in Cleveland now, been here for three years since my father kicked me out after we got into an argument. It ain't bad. For the most part though, I've kind of quit on music. I make a CD here and there and record a song, but I'm just really tired of trying to impress people.
Nah, I still think you're one of the coolest people on the planet, and I did make a **** move, and wasn't even the last in a string of **** moves I'd have done to a lot of people, and I did do to many.
I'm sorry. You made me a better musician, and person, even just by knowing you, and you deserved better than that.

Laughing my *** off because Louis Keys called me a ***** today,
Austin Heath.

I'm angry when I see you yet its been years since I loved you
I want to pretend that we were never "in love"
I want to pretend you never touched me
I want to pretend you never guilted me into doing things
I wish I could forget everything we shared
I wish you never lied to me
I wish you never saw me so vulnerable

I'm angry when I remember you sliding your hand up my thigh
I want to pretend you never kissed me
I want to pretend I never enjoyed it
I want to pretend I never wanted you
I wish these memories would fade.....

i'm found guilted by only the
misconception that maybe life
will get easier. i find myself
alone late at night even when
surrounded by the people that
should make me feel worth, but
i only seem to find melancholy.
it's easy to let yourself be sad.
it's not easy to get yourself
out of that same sadness.
i whisper goodnight to the people
i love and say goodbye just in case.

even if they don't hear it, at least
somewhere off in the darkness
where my thoughts wander off,
maybe, just maybe, someone will hear.

The air matches the forest deep.
Its Auburn glow weaves congestion into thick dimensions.
The grass, and leaves, and trees coexist in this moment of surreality.
A sepia trim around a coordinated portrait -
The eye cannot adjust to a moment irreplaceable.
A melting slathered teardrop falls slowly.
The tree's push this far into the sky -
Not pushing, but holding, rather.
As a weeping mother catches her child and slowly descends them.
She cannot hold forever,
and the red of scars, disaster, and reflection advents.

She let’s the child wander;
Developing.
Enveloping.
And black does become the night.
Delicate, and sluggish, this darkness falls.
Her arms can bear no more,
as the sunset-soul consumes an arcane definite.
Droning below the lake,
of which no hills sit near.
Charcoal weighing down the once prepossessing light -
of nature’s *****.

A soft whisper,
And death.

Dreams…
And guilt.

"Free us of his torment!”
Cried the leaves: post-wilted.

"He’ll devour us by his own light!”
Shrieked the trees: un-guilted.

"Why entwine such sedulous melancholia?”
Squealed the breeze: pre-juilted.

Oh! Do despair in blessedness!

Oh! Does the flora mourn for her exaltation!

But…

Oh,

Does his darkness revile the ***** soul -

In impassioned ecstasy.