The great New York metropolitan
stretching its  vibrancy
trafficking its wears.
Car horns combating in contemptuous arguments
habituated eardrums unwittingly pulsating

Great buildings upward; towering behemoths in grandiose splendor
This great asphalt jungle sprawling its electricity for blocks,
for miles
The jazz of the city continues the chanting; the sounds of bass and the blowing of the **** sax, the horn, the piano
and the drums drumming on its rhythmical beat

Beating hearts feeling the vibrancy; the shock waves of nuances echoing the great hustle
Multitude of voices singing praise to the different tongues;
vibrant in diverse rejoicing, the poetry of men and women
Metropolitans claiming the world condensing into small
blocks and listening to its RHAPSODY.

I wished for too long
to live in a space
built especially for me
where I could stroll around
and stumble upon my
innate favourite parts of living.
A place, different shades of hues.

And I did,
did live in that space;
every time when you weren’t asleep.

Darling, open your eyes;
I want to come home…

Tonic and breweries.
This home is beginning to resemble a boy again.
I don't remember moving in but
I don't think I'll ever forget each wall
As they stood around me, and
how unsafe I felt within them
Without them really knowing that I was there.
I've always had this theory that
Non-habituated houses collapse more easily
Than the habituated ones.
When put through a hurricane, you were the non-habituated one
And you didn't recognize my presence inside of you.
When we collapsed you only felt your own pain,
But I felt mine as well as yours.
I don't know if you know that I still feel it.
I don't know if you know that I feel it every single day.

The first time I looked for shelter again I found one of your floorboards
In the space where my heart was supposed to be.
I didn't know how to cordially invite you
To walk all over it again-
So long the creaks it would produce wouldn't scare people away.
It gave motivation to the dreams however,
I was in an empty home and you were always sending me postcards without a return address.
You claimed you were always just about to move in with me, in these postcards,
But everyday it said the same thing.
It was a recurring nightmare.
I hope you never need a return address.
I don't think I can stand the pain of feeling you smell my tears on paper from 100,000 kilometers away.
I thought I could, but not anymore.

The scent of your presence always reminds me of tonic and breweries.
Because you drink when I'm there and you drink when I'm not.
I don't know how I associate heaven with the scent of someone
Who loves to fill bottles with secrets and then swallow them down with someone else's pride,
But I do.
And now and again I still wait to see if heaven will keep me sober enough
To watch me get drunk without actually drinking anything.
We burnt down bars, night-clubs, wine-galleries and cupboards of bottles,
But I don't know why I felt the same euphoria then when you threw me into the flames.
Maybe heaven was really a smell after all-
I'm still trying to find a way to love its wrath without smelling its scent.

if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist

what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon

what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice

the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub

the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening

the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming

it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive

then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva

then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel

the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality

if their frequency be touched  

then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured

by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon

the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite  

it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt

now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees

why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded

those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their *****
also make friends with the group-photos

now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone

i have anxiety
undiagnosed.
well that’s not true i’ve been to therapists, psychologists.
many, so many doctor appointments.
i have old medications for it, i haven’t kept up with
i don’t like the way they force my brain
to conform to the usual and to feel a certain way

sometimes it feels like my head is stuffed with an overflowing amount of crumpled paper *****
piling up crowding the available space in my frontal lobe
the things i never said, the things i should have never said,
the things that someone never said to me.
that special someone that holds hands with the prettier girl
about two feet away from me.
she’s a better fit for you. i guess
the grade that i got on my last math test but really don’t care about
because by this point i’m habituated to the sting of failure.
i sit in my room and cry by myself because my nerves feel like they are ripping apart
or maybe it’s the sensation of exploding
similar to the creation of a star, or i guess in my case,
the painful closure of a life well lived.
of a time far too stressed.

my brain feels very full while simultaneously existing almost on empty.
i wake up from a drowsy late afternoon depression nap with
my neurons firing too fast for me to catch up with and a weirdly powerful
and persevering sense of anger or maybe it’s frustration.
i feel like i’m stuck in a crevasse between the cliffs of successful and beautiful
but maybe i’ve always been here
living in the pits of my insanity stuck under the weights of my anxiety

all of these things are written on these crumpled pieces of paper
there are so many of them, i used to be in control, not anymore
the world feels as if it’s tumbling out of my hands
rolling down the hill and crushing my motivation with it
there are so many things on my mind
right now that no more would be able to fit 
in my brain, it’s overcrowded like an LA rush hour
with time speeding by, with me just sat there working from my tower.

i have reached maximum capacity
and yet i can't stop thinking things,
i can't stop saying stupid things,
i can't stop wishing things. 
i sigh, i reach up to my forehead and i swipe away remnants of exhaustion
and bend down to pick up my backpack that weighs far more than it should
with my shaky hands caused by a high intake of caffeine
that i now require just to stay awake in class
i’m tired but as i sit here avoiding responsibilities
and the anxiety that often travels along with it

i'm hoping that one day when i get to this place
of unbearable tensions in my shoulders
and stress that pulls the insanity directly from my mind
that translates to unrelenting tears falling from my eyes.
the top of my head will crank itself open
and all of these crumpled pieces of thoughts and worries
will pour out into a neat little pile
on the floor 
and disappear
at least for just a while.
that would be nice.
as my arms let go and the tension falls away along with my body
letting go of the stress and the pressures of
holding those pillars together
and fall through the sky
just so i have enough time to
take a truly deep breath.

here’s to a peaceful ending,
a crumbled paper ball fate.

The dog firmly placed his chin upon the old
man's knee, stirring him from sleep in his chair.
The only light in the room coming from the
television screen. The dog's gentle message
being, "Time we go to bed" dear friend.
A ritual event occurring more often now
and most likely tomorrow night again.

As the man slowly stood the dog pranced towards
the door, to go outside and do his required business.
The man also to the bathroom did retire, brushing of
teeth and to attend to his own urgent business.

Six years of twenty four seven companionship had
bonded them forever, each knowing the other as
only best friends or family can, both fully habituated
to the other's needs and routines.

The dog sat upon his own bed, close by to the man's
bed,  patiently waiting as he always did. The man leaned
down and took the dog's face and head into his hands,
forehead to forehead they paused while silent endearing
messages were, like every night, conveyed and mutually
affectionately received. Love as real as any.

The man climbed aboard his own bed, donning his CPAP
mask like a pilot before take off and arranged himself
in his fully-automatic-adjustable bed, then clapped his
hands twice to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table.

"Good night buddy, we'll have some more fun in the
morning." the man murmured, closing his eyes to sleep.

Another day ended as most now do, as will, all their
remaining shared tomorrow's.

I hardly remember
the sensation of not care about something.
On these days,
I'm habituated to link every action
to one sincere purpose,
but not always has been like this.

You know me well,
I'm not a builder
but when you wanted one
I took my tools and made a bed for your dog.

You know me well,
I hate go out on bus in the morning
but the once you need me at 6:00 o'clock
I took three for arrive to your home.

You know me well,
I keep mistaking a lot,
and I'm still a liar and a coward.
But even knowing that
I can't not speak the truth to you
and I can't not fight for you.

But you may already know that
'cause you know me well.

The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations;
heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second,
filed and cast aside,
except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒
for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste,
for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears,
for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui,
all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes;
The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards,
exhausted, habituated, unquestioning
of the heaviness of such emptiness
within
their starving hearts

Aim well, aim true
A refurbished face,
From a cry and hue
A bottled song just for You

From a stretch of tissues
From inches of a grin
Oh hark the heralds
Extra! Extra!
For Dobbie is free from the ******* of sin!

That's all I can stands, and I stands no more!
Mis-sized forearms can cause a little Thor!

A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance

1-2-1-1, 1-2 to 2
Pure heart hits turned the black birds into blue
Jab-straight-hook-straight!
Straight!-straight!-straight!
Fo­r bad romance it was always never than late

In arms a-clinched,
In needs of each other's cleave
Oh but stand up for the Greatest Warrior who ever lived
This habituated mantle only craves for;

A clean slate and a comma,
A rid of blight
I won't strap-out without a fight
On a zero to none I could still stand a chance
Place your bets on the duel of a pure heart and bad romance

Alas, after the bout the canvass had its slain
His subtle dance, a downpour and in vain
Raise your arm on bell's a-cue
The winner of this match; it's up to you

as the reflection of the trees roll off the
shined roof of the hearse I follow to the
cemetery, my mind becomes scattered
with the thoughts of our last moments.

a face so sodden,
her hand to mine, my body seized with
a contemptuous blanket of emotional
disdain. a person I loved, a person I
trusted, snatched out of my life as
fast as she changed it.
her barren body clinging on to life sent
chills up the very arms latching on
to the hospital bed, shaking, with
the thought of denial ruining every
hopeful aspect of my mind.
this
can’t
be
happening.
I stare at her urn, sitting atop her
now entirety; the quiet whispers of
the funeral priest echo about the
walls in my mind, everything is silent,
white noise consumes my thoughts,
I’m shutting down, the ringing in my
ears is slowly overtaking the cries
of the siblings, the mothers, the fathers,
the cousins, and all of the friends who’s lives she’s
truly impacted. my eyelids bare weight,
my sight is becoming dull, and the tears
are building up as the content sobs are
becoming more and more copious with
each sympathetic clutch on my shoulder.
I say my final goodbyes as we make our
way out. I whisper reverence
“I love you”
as a blind man
attempting to feel colours
i touch your urn,
that’s all I can
say for what you’ve done for me and how
you gave perspective to tunnelled vision.
the cars weep in unison departing the cemetery
with the trees spinning the roofs
after 11 shots of whiskey
and with that comes a habituated
sadness.

I slip into bed, knowing that 5 miles away
there will be an empty left bedside next to a
man whose life revolved around her, a lonely
man, a broken man. a pillow she laid her
head on not 24 hours prior, the scent of her
body; still embedded in the sheets he now
uses to wipe aside his tears,
statin sheets
enticing the walls
inward

why you?
why not me?
thoughts of abstract
painted to a pillow
eight hours i’ll lay my head stagnant;
sleep not
to the morrow i awake
and you nevermore

paradise may you rest

habituated within the confines of woe
accompanied yet felt lonesome,
the mere must sets forth tomorrow,
my memorandum is no hokum.

there was more than meets the eye,
but any has felt, not just I,
dispatches of melancholy comply,
for must I say goodbye
-- for now...

seek wholesome where it was borne,
restoration is the new.
nay mourn, nor fret, nor pout
and shall come back, subdue.

in a quixoticistic sense
we are not found lacking
but do long for an end to endlessness

visions of grey crowds coagulate
the lab rats of statisticians
habituated to coagulated grey crowds
habituated to statistics

death am become news article
come of putrefaction indifference
life partitioned from non-life
growing from stagnated

the information of our age has not changed us

spirits made flesh
ghost operated organics
programmed; pristine

we confront

fractured assemblage ritualism
vacantly bored holes in billboard confessionals
mounting dull glossy vibes on the highway

it says

to eat our tails
pray for return to our pasts
and love our niche

**** that

here's to breaking the mold
here's to seizing the day

I will not wait

It is not my instinct to love a woman
who speaks with ease
It is not my instinct to love a spider
who hunts in trees,
But I

could tell you one thing:
When I was young,
I hated spiders
I also hated cooked carrots

Then I learned
to give things a second chance

How do you do?
I might fancy you...
or him, or her
or them

What was once detested
is now invested
in my meal
in my life

Who was once just a passerby,
I now sit and wander why
not infuse love in them?

Like tasting new fruit,
Like trying new things,

Must we always reject
what remains
after we cast out our pleasures
and resist our pains?

Could a man's lips to a man
be something so vein?
A woman's ******* in her hand,
something so insane?

We fear what we cannot grasp
We laugh at what is not funny
We do what we are habituated to,
but life is more than old and new

Acceptance is obtained
when one accepts
When one accepts,
they can run miles,
can be anything, anyone
What fun!

Gayety is great
*** is good
Different kinds of trees
make different kinds of wood
When one learns about wood
all wood seems good,
because all wood is good

After realizing this fact,
a weight is lifted
off the shoulders
and into the light,
where all can see

Those left behind,
will worship ancient shrines
with answers from yesterday
yearning to explain today

Those picky,
those sickly,
the one's who hate veggies
the one's who can't see
what a shame to be...

To dismiss the colour pink
when one grows up as a tomboy;
as a  stubbornness  
with a covenant
of no change

Homosexuality as a learned behavior,
Heterosexuality as an instinct;
Objektophilie...
vise versa, vise versa:
who cares! Nowhere

Like tasting new fruit,
the acceptance of taste
will form
what was never there before
If not,
this fruit will disappear,
never to exist in your presence
without hate

I was born to love everyone but I loved so hard the insides of my lugs tore apart. Sometimes I love too deep. In a city too dark to love in, we overlook the mountain and hedges that have pricked the life of us with thorns, banished us in places that see silence through congested thoughts. We sing Like a humming birds. Singing in attempt to abolish the very existence of our stars and the stars we shared yet, we lay quilted in stardust and the silhouettes of our shadows. They burst into flames or kaleidoscopes, a beauty, complimented by the prophecy of life itself. Sometimes we hope to speak like our words have lost themselves in the coils of our tongues but we hope to live with strength not habituated in settings of frost and snow. Our worlds don't intertwine but our hopes do. We seek refuge in prayer during the midst of our foggy minds and the very cosmos of our thoughts. We recite the soft speech of the holy book to excuse us from the blackness of the universe. Our souls wonder naked from emotions and exposed to our own destinies created with incompatibility and dissection.

Was all bright and warm
Ran around a cold pond
A structure of knowledge
It had all the ground
Hope abounds …
for a few coins in the pond
I (WE) habituated a few clicks away
At lust we think that way
Cast a line in looking for a strike
A hit on this and then a hit on that
Got a bite … it wiggled off
Some where too big to reel in
Did I use the right bait
Maybe I would look better in a hat

Systematically, we are looking for truth in all falsehoods.
Never fear the pursuit of knowledge or that of reason.
Spite such hard times; we need to fall back on art.
Only in such equity can we measure tranquility.

Singular as inquired, some traits are more bold.
Inspirations of love, politics, and freedom are not found-
in the classroom; only through art, culture, and equality
can this be achieved.

Educate and inform our youth; as they our greatest aspiration.
Build into them, culture and love; make sure it becomes habituated.
The dreams of prophets defeat the minds of oppression.
Break this mold supporting a slave mind if we seek progression.   

May they bring us justification, and flourish our culture.
May they be wise, and hold back the elevations of tyranny.
May they be able to grow into philosophers, painters, and prophets.
May conquest not be for world *******, but of  peace and knowledge.

Our past father's will sleep gently, to know no war drums.
In the age of total enlightenment we cannot be alone.
Sharing is our greatest gift to the world, we need teachers.
May we foster those who seek it, and educate those who love it.
Never should we shy away from the prospect that is our youth.

To have an affair ... is different than to cheat
cheating is bad but the affair has it beat
My affair, not one that had been planned
It's something i'm ashamed of ...
I musn't ... I cant.
the pushy counselor pressuring me to talk, let it out, she predicts that it'll fell good ...
she has no idea what's about to come out of this messy confession. an affair, coming from under the trunk of this hood.
i'll be the first to testify of it's illusion
opposite of its face value,
misery and loneliness will be the only winner.
Like dying and going to the medium place where utopia does not exist, contingent to utopia's disappearance it only makes sense that hell would delete itself as well?
haven't we longed for the day when there'd be no such thing as hell? Then we'd be free?
Life's twisted humor,
everything has an opposite, an article of faith
being positioned isn't possible without opposition to accompany its lifeless soul,
It preys on the thriving, takes from the present, holds the living hostage as it meets up with  fear and justice, freedom and sadness. birthing the first of many to come,
dicontentment is born and swooned and rocked, fed and held, growing so strong
these thoughts in my mind ...?
you see,
i thought were mine were mine that I could actually be SAFE for ONCE the only place i am safe and free of interference, has been compromised...
discontentment has spread like a wildfire this morning, the remains the evident unsupervised testimony.
and as conciousness demanded an invite inside my mind, I insisted i would clean and make space first, denying my insistence of alone time.
i opened the door, my body quickly analyzed a familiarly foreign emotion,
My mind, the mitochondria, could detect a feeling like this in a crowd of a million waldo's,
This home has felt plenty of drive by emotions all of which fall sorrowfully short,
Relief, one  emotion i've never known well, but good enough to  consider an aquantaince, My higher self, the God dwelling in me
is only awaken by my ego's alarm going off at the maximum volume alotted,
My ego has always disappointed me and always will, a true representation of its impulsiveness no awareness of self control
Demons survive,(yes survive) the lowest level of vibration due to it's subsisting unvarnished truth,
shame and survival are the vibrational levels of those who die,
living and surviving,
"He who is slow to wrath has great understanding,
and unlike my actions, he who is impulsive exalts folly"
God says it himself, a fool will never see the gates
those pearly gates, I pray, will be a presentiment that the abuse i've endured on earth has always been accounted for.  I pray my damaged,not to mention, and terribly fragile sixteen year old learns to stand up for herself.
I'm sorry for the fear I put her through and all the criticism, My God i don't even think it's normal the tight leash i set before my, adolescent at the time
I snap out of what seemed like a continuous paralysis where i cant stop vomiting out my emotions.,
"I feel .... not good amie,"
Of course this is your ego denouncing its reign, you better believe it's stopping it's feet like mad,
I get what you're getting at Doc, but that's not the case for me,I work in recovery so i know how tough it can be to let go of ego's control.
If it isn't you ... tell me more about your sixteen self, what happened to you? why are you sorry to her? How did you hurt her?
the real inquiry to be at is, was that you that hurt her? you an innocent teeny bopper,
I know you don't see yourself as innocent,because you felt all grown up,
or maybe you've felt misunderstood since a child which is it for you nisey?
she notices the sting of silence,  must've been chilly for a princess like her
she probably has never known a cold night, i think and quickly think better of, once i feel the green-eyed monster creeping up, my enemy, the one i resist
so with that said it is the one that pursues, I know it is because I delight in it that it has an extraordinarily special control over my ego
"Or maybe, my sixteen year old snapped I am exhausted of justifying my actions to people who never listened"
I am the party that shame and depression loves to crash late at night, whenever they spot out happy with their
laser beam focus and their macular degeneration"
God acting as an Implantable Miniature Telescope,
as I unleash my arsenal of scriptures, he sits with his mouth pursed, his pursuit to relinquish his pain and hate, written all over him, his body vocalizing all the hate he refused to articulate through linguistic expression as his special form of punishment, wrapped specifically for me
I give the gift a home and take it as an
accolade of the abuse my ego thinks i'd win for staying.
water and oil.
needless to say, these enemies are not holding one another hostage, instead their proverb differing in hindsight,

Their moral compass, primarily, astray from the "good" commandments".,
the same commandments seen as good, although there is no such thing as good or bad, obviously i've had one too many philosophy lessons,
Now like every great philosopher I delight in inquiry,
It used to bother me amie,
surpising to those who know me as goddessnisey, my altar ego that is ingenious in its successful attempts at imitation of my authentic self, minus the flaws, has people fooled,
My inauthentic self, the one that needs to know everything before trusting, the one that misses out on opportunities because she let's impulsiveness govern her actions.
To that little girl, I owe the grandest of apologies, I'm talking like the kind the cops owed rodney,
the one's that took hold of me,  Covered me in shame and loneliness, .
dolizing
finally got on top and now it's my *****, only thing is
now habituated by their entire nation of people go by the saying birds of a feather flock together, they do not associate, because they are opposite.


Where did this relationship go i ask amie, my,newly discovered personal guru, that i'm paying a **** load to vent to,!?
like the housing of my body I am inconsistent
personification live in the flesh, as absolute irony and it's downer cousin named realistic, tag along to keep this broken law of language a secret,(only writers will get what im saying)
GASP* a breath of fresh air  reveals itself in the highest light promising that if you choose your freedom, and reveal your secret, she will personally bring you freedom and peace.
neighboring discontentment,  I am a survivor of fire at it's wildest,
Like an incurable error the pilot finds in the computer's main frame,
I am that pilot as i begin to confess, called it a day...
beckoning for professional help
but they were not my doing
long time enemies and both close to me,
old-time cliches they love to preach ....
"you'd do best to keep your friends close that way it
distracts your enemies from the intentional tenure you have on them."
weighing my options i decide to speak, silence is death, im smarter than that
I just can't tell you how sorry i am, I told him
not because of what i've done
but because i'd do it again
His mouth was closed,
But he wasn't quiet I could hear him,
The sound of his heart begin to slow,
and for every woman out there, this is when you know...
heart-break is real.
He refused word of mouth but that did not forestall the howling of his heart, an injured wolf
true to character, injured, no forced deal.
His eyes spoke everything that his genetically encrypted ability to stay poker face, failed to exceed at
it took for him to shut his mouth, and just listen as he'd promised
we may need a doctor over here stat,
I know once I've told him that if given a choice ,
Him or her ...
he'd end up disappointed .
he had a way of upholding his secret self hate from childhood,
just like us all, carrying across our baggage, picking up more and expecting to climb mountains.
converting it into tortuous rituals and facades, he wears it across his chiseled countenance so well, you'd think this is who he is.
My problem is , so does he...
I tell HER about him all the time, in hopes that the buddhist teaching will be the key
They say what you hate is a reflection of what you resist in yourself.So i know he'd maintain face, at least until I got on with the confession,because I'd do the same,
that's the honest painful truth... an artifact in this raw and true moment, The highest self in me has decided I am ready
for yet another piece of wisom,
every year,
a new piece watching as if they were refereeing the play offs.
then i realize, this is the play offs I am the main star and I have the ball, the therapist told me herself, it's my turn to talk ..
worry filling the abyss in the center of me, as nervousness takes over my anatomy, triggering negative feedback and certainlymy body breaks down in an immediate cry for ventilation,
Then it dawned on me, I am the negative feedback , an excuse, a sad one.
Catlystic I am it's true, negative feedback, the return of part of an output signal to the input
blaming my conditional love on a lack of attention on your part ... wow excuse me for the foot,
the one i put in the door when you begged for my explanation and my honesty,
putting out the foot has been the biggest aid in our demise, I know how bad i hurt you,
that's the thing about a fleshy soul,
we tell our stories through our eyes.
so worried of what others think of me that I can't focus on
That's what's important to you isn't it? saving face i wanted to yell, but preserved for another time, when yelling could raise the stakes far past what I could gamble.
when we sat to write with a pen in hand,
a private affair began.
I' was afraid,
afraid that this would happen,
fate would force a baby shower that would give birth to the haunting of my heart, my secrets befallen.
As the doctor proceeds to clip the umbilical from my median,
seperating the blood i've shed with the body that is supposed
to house vital fluid but  nowholds senseless emotions.
l a gallery of clips and photos like a drawn out trailer that gave away all the parts you pay for,
  no way to express myself, choosing introversion over conversation... what a bore.
I was afraid this would happen because I know my death is timely,
gambling in these neck of the woods could cost you your family, primely... of course,
some of your loved ones may understand, either way
the other literature sorcerest's don't resist to spill the main course, guess what it's YOU.
This secret could tear me apart and feed me to the sharks,
parallel to satan, its only objective is destruction, insisting i like the dark,
a spell cast upon me of course I hate the dark, this secret can't get out or my friendly facade will melt like a witch dead in a pool of salty raindrops,
slowly burning the witch, as water was foreign,
life without literature is surely foreign to me,
my partner will be sorry if he makes me leave her
tantums, panic attacks and more take her away and a blur will ride her vision and taunt her in her maturity as the blur grows stronger
she will have amnesia
and once my partner finds out that she was feeding us, not aiding in our demise, reconstruction is to come.
like a newborn, failure to trhive, the difference between you two ? I need one to survive
My mind no longer would focus on anything else ..
this affair started between a muse and myself
He understood things without having to say a word
To talk to him all i needed was a pen and a journal.
all faithfulness adjurned.
It was a poetic journey as we entered another element,
a renewal of spirit and soul,
My partner and i would have to call it quits.
A "no trespassing" sign was posted and the door shut
Locked with no key, just us alone
no one to bother me.
It is in this affair that he has given me purpose
on my previous relationship i have closed the curtain
to have an affair is different than to cheat
poetry is the mistress
and has him beat <3

The dog firmly placed his chin upon the old
man's knee, stirring him from sleep in his chair.
The only light in the room coming from the
television screen. The dog's gentle message
being, "Time we go to bed" dear friend.
A ritual event occurring more often now
and most likely tomorrow night again.

As the man slowly stood the dog pranced towards
the door, to go outside and do his required business.
The man also to the bathroom did retire, brushing of
teeth and to attend to his own urgent business.

Six years of twenty-four seven companionship had
bonded them forever, each knowing the other as
only best friends or family can, both fully habituated
to the other's needs and routines.

In the bedroom the dog sat upon his own bed, close by
to the man's bed, patiently waiting as he always did.
The man leaned down and took the dog's face and
head into his hands, forehead to forehead they paused
while silent endearing messages were, like every night,
conveyed and mutually affectionately received. Loving
friendship as real as any can be.

The man climbed aboard his own bed, donning his CPAP
mask like a pilot before takeoff and arranged himself
in his fully-automatic-adjustable bed, then clapped his
hands twice to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table.

"Good night, buddy, we'll have some more fun in the
morning." the man murmured, closing his eyes to sleep.
While his friend also laid down, curled into a ball and
released a contented sigh, as they both did every night.

Another day ended as most now do, as will, all their
remaining shared tomorrows.

It the competition bro, It’s the competition bro.
Its them against us, it us against them.
Reactions rooted in our brain stem, **** them means win.
We compete against our own human skin,
our own akin, Luke Anakin, I’m your father.
Competition have you Kane and Able, killing your own brother.
Competition is division, submission, inferiority, hierarchy, inequality, habituated, into a sophisticated jungle of pleasure and identity.  
Can’t realize equality within a system grounded in competitive mentalities,
the Olympics, our games, who you rooting for? Lebron James, it’s all the same.
You can stand against hate, you can hate injustice, throw you money and morals, type a tweet and rest on your laurels,
but till competition dies,  it matters not what's spoken oral.
It’s all a power struggle, its us against them, and somehow the ideal is everybody wins?
The hierarchy continues and you are a part of what's condemned. Lets not continue to pretend that its all racial,
competition accommodates all ends.    
This dynamic wont change, don’t hold your breathe, number one death is cardiac arrest.
Fatality by food, that’s fear and survival, too much is never enough….don’t be fooled or get political correct tough, competition is cannibal, makes us remain animals,
breeds one to see threat, to defeat and make victory one’s meat, to compete and civilly eat another person's heart beat.

It’s taken years to learn to rhyme, but now it’s time to break the chains, and I wonder ‘will my writing ever be the same?’.  With trepidation I will try to take the first step.  I lack the knowledge to predict success and wonder if this will be a mess.  I note that I am still not free from this seemingly ingrained habit of mine (I speak of rhyme).

Am I an addict, I ask my self?  Is my style of writing out of control?  Am I hooked like a ****** to the seduction of what seem to me to be siren-like sounds?  This is new!  I never knew that verse was worse than ****** or ******* ***, which I have been habituated to at times.  I never knew of the sultriness, the sensuality of poetry until, through imagining it’s end, I begin to sweat and shake, a little.

It is like a fix, and it is cheap.  No need to run around the streets to try to score.  If I stop and think, pen in hand, I can get some more.  

I fear I am still stuck in rhyme, though I have not checked yet.  Do I know what prose poetry is?   I am sure that Google does.  It may be time to stop and turn the tower on.

Sean Hunt  June 8 2016

please help.

i am already habituated
to your
******* lips
and

well accustomed
to your
chromatic eyes
which burn into me

like lit cigarettes.

Writing down the names 
of the silence-breakers in the class, 
I got them lashed well; 
Never failed to put my hand on my mouth 
Wherever I saw the instruction ‘Keep Silence'; 
Learned to be disciplined on the admonition ‘don't make noise'; 
Heard many a time the talk ‘Chatterers and Patriotism'; 
Hung on the wall the pictures of those 
who ordered ‘hold your tongue and do work'; 
Practiced regularly special yoga for taming the tongue, 
And got habituated to vow of silence. 
Now my tongue owns the endurance of saying nothing 
On seeing or hearing anything. 
I haven't wasted even a single opportunity to escape 
With the adornment of silence. 
I live in total silence excelling the dumb 
Now life is perfectly happy. 
The fear of assaulting those with dissenting voices 
No longer affects me. 
The only discomfort is this: 
An uncooked piece of flesh lies across my mouth, 
Unable to spit out or swallow. 

Poem by Veerankutty mhfil

"WHERE AM I " I ASK MYSELF
i find myself covered with darkness and
in habituated people surrounding
crying for me
and my soul
they want
to devour me and
eat me
i am helpless
even  when i try
i am dragged down
i could only think of one thing
if i die here what would happen
then
a strange voice replied
"you will be like these blood thirsty,
bloodthirsty people"
i asked who s/he was
but there came no reply about that
he just asked me
to follow him
when i reached out
out of those darkness
the being came
into view
and
i was
astonished
to find myself
i surprisingly asked
"who are you?"
he said "i am you"
"i am the one who lives inside you"
then  i thanked him  for saving himself
and me
he replied me"that was my duty being you"
"i had to show you these paths so
so you may never
never
stumble upon it again"
i was thankful for
myself as i began to descend
those dark paths again
as i realized
what i need to do
what i should do
and
how i should do
how i need to avoid these
blood thirsty people
how i need to be myself without
having fear
i re-entered the darkness
to find my own light
own light
which is me being
together with
my soul
me without stumbling
and falling
and finally
me being me

Find paper and a pen to start,
A timeframe lost unto my heart,
A flash of me before the blur;
Or a moment 'I' came up for air?

Time and drugs have past since then;
I've habituated lust and lost some friends
Truth is I've felt higher since
But this journal appeals to some sense -
- That truth is recieved and noted, studied and quoted, to enlighten a mind until it's floated

These first few pages scribbled in haste
Jigsaw pieces; acknowledged, embraced?
Before the pills and powders, ***** and waste
Until time grinds these pages down to paste -
- Was there ever value in self-righteous grace?

But what to do but scribble sorrow
As power plants burn up tomorrow
This book goes back in time;
Paper pulp to trees and leaves
As I crawl forward;
***, drugs, relief?
I'll star no role yet achieve my goal
For doomed to die is every soul
'They listen not' - my wont to sigh
As the earth turns to the sound
Of a million doomed birthing cries

I cannot be the universe of everyday occasions
the talky talky world a show with a host everyday
leader of the pack says how to pick your nose and wipe
your *** on that special soft paper that makes your ****
not stink so the whole world will like you and not
reject you the shame of the game is that most people don't
know they're playing they think they are in charge
with free choice being as much of a given as fingers
and the natural experience of life they produce but
free choice ain't like fingers its more like non-existent
until you've worked on it for a long time so if you haven't
worked on it for a long time and then kept your mind steady
everyday through effort then you don't have it it has not formed
in your brain and this is the way most of us are
which is the most common form of consciousness which is
conditioned thought and conditioned behavioral reactions
everyday and the people who want to sell things know this
and use it to shape a human being into an urge to buy
with the money to back it up this is not hidden but nobody
looks at it or believes it because they want to think
they are naturally free and the people who try to create
the purchase strings want to be in control so they tell you
you are naturally free everyday as they try to shape a
formation and alignment in your neurons everyday with images
flashing in your eyes equals flashing in your brain and next time
you see a flash of the name in a store isle you get a reflex
association that is not conscious it is pre-conscious and you
think     oh I want that     and you just automatically assume
this must be your free choice but it really is a conditioned
event and this is the big bug-a-boo with capitalism is that it turns
people into buying machines on automatic pilot so no wonder
the people in other countries hate the USA they are on the outside
looking in and they see the puppet show buying infection spreading
to them and hell no they don't want it we would not want it either
if it were not a part of our social programming from birth but
the good news is is that the brains of those in other cultures and
traditional frameworks work the same as ours so we are  not alone
or special in our habituated conditional lives it is everywhere
and people in other countries are just as much on automatic pilot
as we are but they don't see the puppet show they are in but we do
so the more good news is is that at least here in this country
we are well fed most of us anyway    ever been to India    and
we have decent places to live most of us do anyway     ever been to
Africa     and we have legal rights to a great extent most of us anyway
ever been to Russia     and we can just get up and get the hell out
if we want to or most of us can anyway     ever been to China

I lost my best friend today,
more like my child than
merely a friend.

My 24/7 companion for 9
all too short years.

He could read me, my moods
my health, even my intentions.
We were both fully habituated
to one another that way.

Laugh, oh my how every day  
he could make me laugh.
A born and breed clown that
never lost his puppy inclinations,
his love and joy for life always
on display, even on the last day
of his earthly existence.

In the end though his eyes reflected
his pain, still his love for me remained,
with no words ever required.

Weeping does no good,
the loss and anguish must
be endured. Tucker my Boxer
dog with a wonderful soul,
will be remembered evermore.

His beloved chew and fetch
toys litter the floors, along
with his now forever empty bed.
What shall I do with all these
bittersweet artifacts of his life?
That now have become sad daily
reminders of his demise.

I will have to think about that
for à while.

Because you asked for it I
conjured up magic I
made us our breakfast

Because you asked if this was something I
wanted-- weekend mornings with you
eating at home, feeling family, you
longing like we all hope for, to find the other me
to cook for, to work with side by side thru lunch
to nimble snatches late into the warm night

Because you asked for it I
unweaved our tapestry I
unbounded the Sympathy
drained the alar and cut the threads
that interlaced us to an imagined future

Because you asked for it I
move to be there but you
were already here
hurt, breaking the fast
splintering our finality
with another man's hammer.

Because you asked for it we
lived the long years together
until the children left
and stale taste returned
and the golden years wished
for are spent in separate beds

Because you asked for it our
habituated movements at the Calvinistic
start have transmogrified to a Calvin
& Hobbes' relativism

An alchemy changing holy union
to mundane diaelectrics separating our
storming forces within a
spotless sunshine

You asked for it my mind
to be emptied but still it
blindly seeks us

I don't wanna get habituated to losing people even before they start to love me.

let me in, i'll bury the pain -
               in flames, metaphor.*

when i truly loved,
i truly lived,
  the rest, remains as
a flicker, lost change,
the settled over judas
bribe,
                as ever, with russian
intent: as ever a forlorn qualm,
and a love habituated by
          the exposed cartilage of your
nose, bound to a dread-lock
of your beauty,
encompassed by your dread,
of your fat, petersburgian nose -
you my fat rus...
                  i can only
mishandle you, miscarry you,
"abandon" you,
by simply, loving,you,
skin dipped to utter:
                      may my heart
treat yours likewise, unto a crucifix!
that noble fat nose i'd wish to
nibble on,..
that russian spectacular,
                    how grieving i am bound,
to stake the shackles for the crown,
and you, my lost & only,
               the mirror upon a mirror,
in mirror, within a mirror,
unto a mirror bound and ******* served...
you are the labyrinth i make
canvas of myself to excavate...
                 a lost sight, a blinding,
a tower-head of man mingling with ram...
     usurper, double-courtesy minder...
        lust, love, usurper,
     a sudden minding of a king's lover
making a duke's bride...
    lacklustre, faking the lost admission:
revealing a courier's
lack Apollonian discretion;
   mind you, toy with that area,
                the gods have no mind to dwell in
exhibiting discretion
or care for negligence:
they come when least expected,
and leave when: most entertaining.

"McCleod Ganj"


Here in the Himalayas
Low on rupees with big ego
I see massive rock towers
Lightly salted
And find an anchor for my vagrant
Habituated agitated self-defensive
Mind


In my backpack