Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.

They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.

When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.

There is something undeniable about this new aesthetic:
Barefoot and barely presentable
as I slow-dance in the kitchen at 3am
Nobody but me, my shadow and a gentle grey kitten who patiently watches me pour another cup of coffee.
I stir in cinnamon,
a taste that's heedy and all too sweet against the roof of my mouth.
So strong it makes me want to gag,
and yet I sing under my breath:
old tunes I have no business remembering
and lullabies brought to me on the wind
[singing] all you have is fire
-and the place you have to reach.

My mother wanted a girl she could put together like a jigsaw.
A girl who would sit still and patiently endure
the effort it took to construct
the perfect plat, perfect updo
perfect winged eyeliner, perfect blush
perfect poise, perfect dress,
Perfect daughter.
Instead she had me
a muddled and confused thing
with a tangled mess of curls and eyes that couldn't quite look away.
Something with ***** fingers that knew the give and take of every leaf and blade of grass
something that couldn't sit still on creaking church pews
because for all the beauty they pursued, she'd seen the unmatched grace of rolling thunder
and the indisputable life of the ocean.
While other girls watched the boy chase the girl to a perfect kiss
she worshiped the women who took up their weapons and refused to keep their peace. - A child raised on a steady diet of Victorian poetry, Greek myth and poison. Stitched together with images of Artemis, Scottish women and a heathenish name.

My mother would lead me in prayer each night before bed, hoping against all hope to change what was in me. But my father made me wonder if I could be a knight one day, taught me to sing their vows of honour and justice during those ungodly hours when sleep was far.
The hours when his blood called to us both in its ancient tongue. The hours where his stories became my Bible. The hours when the smell of lemongrass and rain filled the house.
The hours when I would be barefoot and dancing in the kitchen
Barely presentable yet undeniably free.

I find reasons,
I find treason in those who abide by no reason,
I think of means to inspire their demons,
To know what they do,
And desist in their heathenish
Lack of regard for the cause of their seething,

I push peevishly
Forth in my quest to relieve,
To gently correct all they do to achieve
The mess they attribute to forces unseen,
When I know in my bones they are living their dreams,

I acquire their trust,
By enacting their deeds,
I smoke and I **** with a reckless esteem,
And complain of my lungs and transmitted disease,
I say, "There's no love in the world." They agree,

Now I pretend revelations and steps,
Toward a new life, from a darkness, a depth,
And now when I speak they take pause and they seem,
To respect the same truths they once tore ream by ream,

Yea, it's a lie,
But my punishment's painful,
I can't stop pretending to be like the same folks,
That I've tried to save,
Now I drink and I claim,
That my money just slips through the holes in my seams.

Oh, it's not a prison
not in that sense of the word

It traps you just the same
but with a worse kind of hurt

Yes, the bars are there
harder and colder than any steel

They keep you closed in
robbing you of any appeal, hope or zeal

From earth to sky no light can come in
I told you a different kind of prison

The guards you ask?
Why of course they are on duty

Ensuring you stay strapped
watching like your some kind of *****

Always staring down
with their dark hollow faces

Make **** well and sure
you stay in their filthy places

I wonder on their masters
those curious heathenish *******

Swollen gluttonous wrong
they ensure the poison venomous and strong

Always sipping champagne  
from the people's stolen glasses

It's every man for himself
for these  soulless *****

They lock the doors and try to
seal out that blasted light!

Then feed you their poison
for their sick twisted delight

They almost won
but in a fool's haste

They forget the backdoor
The one leading to saving grace

I failed to feel the failure, too stupid was I.
Thesis for thought and food for the mention
With wit we all slumber in sloth to ease the tension.
Pass me the flask, “my operation makes me a new idea”
Stare at the cliff, and wrote a note, nothing comes to mind ill repeat
“My operation makes me a new idea.”
Outward, we march, the drole hole, the spitting imagine-ation placates temptation with a blue rosebud toppling ******* mountain ranges, but yours my dear are so near to my fears.
How dare thy sky turn red and rose and pink and peach and holds the wind but has no heartbeat.
Shedding pedigrees after Fahrenheit stole the slow show
Send off a pigeon but call it a crow,
The bar apart of a far war warning a barmaid for having scar less arm blades worth arming.
Nuke head hyperactively shear sheds at the bleating of Radiohead, bled my radio activity like imagine wyverns with arms.
That’s drag-in like Dragons Racing **** poor lightning…and losing.
Choosing over watching senpai, oh GOD YOU CARD feasting in the deck don’t you process meat don’t I think you think you know thinking…then why am I here?
Peerless lost and still you follow, hello senpai but gone we are. Insert beast mode not follow throughout a breast made of clay cupped by victory in secret. You wont ever look at that brand the same again, I promise.
“My operation makes me an idea”
Floating on you mouse so modest, sails of canvas, flapping in a breeze we made with our lips.
Dips and rolls, folie a deux dec-a-hide-my-heathenish dodecahedron like chest-bursting wound ***** light. Fist deep measurements making three wonderful numbers. One two, and you.
Romanticize failure fluting failings, march with a brother unlike my ukulele, comes with another.
1 two three, 1 two three, sink. 1 two three, 1 two three blinking and she $TOLE the showmakers ***** work **.
IF only that were me…
1 two three, 1 two three drink.
1 two three, 1 two three drink.