from the mind of an anxious depressive

from the time i, as a little girl,
dressed up like a princess
[tiara and all,
pouffy, pink dress and all]
listened to my mother tell me
a fairy tale
of a woman who finds
her prince charming,
and is rescued by him,
and lives happily, happily ever after
in a magnificent palace by the sea…
and i, as a brooding teenager,
insecure and reclusive,
observed a
[now viewed as ridiculous]
romantic film
about a woman who finds her
one true Love,
and he rescues her,
and they live happily, happily ever after
in a beautiful three-bedroom home
where they raise two,
perfect children…
and i, as a young woman,
fully aware and adept,
recognizing the world for what it is
as *i see it,
seeing love dismantle time,
and time again....

i am fully aware that nothing can possibly last for a happily ever after.

the doubt is consuming,
the wall is well-built and
unyielding.
my heart remains too crippled
to possibly endure the grief that
falling in Love elicits.

but,
Love finds you even if you have
given up the notion of it.
it gallops in on its white horse.
has bright blue eyes.
sparks a smile that can illuminate
my somber heart.
has no regard for my opposition to itself.
is selfish and greedy and exhausting.

it is utterly impossible to avoid
being seduced
into the black hole
from which i will never leave
precisely the same.
from which i will surrender
a piece of myself
essential to my functioning.

Love sweeps in like a tornado
[destroying everything in its path]
and so the five stages of falling in Love,
and falling apart,
begin.

denial.
i feign disinterest.
i pretend as if he doesn’t
engross my thoughts
as if my heart doesn’t encroach upon my stomach
when he enters the room.
if asked by a friend,
“why does your face turn bright red
when he dares to utter your name?”
i pretend like she is the insane one
[when i am the one denying my heart.]

anger.
i become enraged.
Love has taken control.
the knowledge that i let Love
dismantle the wall,
that i have spent years building,
and reinforcing,
[brick by brick, piece by piece]
infuriates me.
i let him gradually demolish it.
and now i am powerless and susceptible,
and now he has me by the heartstrings.
he holds me in his greedy palms.

bargaining.
i avoid the fact that i am falling,
yes, i am falling.
oh, so deeply for him.
i watch myself fall from such great heights
straight into the ground
crashing through to the
center of
the world.
i even pray to God,
the one i'm not even sure i believe in.
i tell Him that i would do anything,
anything just to take back control.
to have two firm hands on the wheel.
to be the driver
instead of the passenger.

depression.
i cannot bring myself
to shove off the covers.
to crawl out of bed.
i am miserable and helpless and
he is all i can think about.
he is my first thought
when i am awake.
my last when my mind
finally tires of him,
and i fall into a
fitful night of sleep.
yet, i do not tell him any of this.
he wonders why i am so distant,
so removed from him.
what he does not know is that
he carries part of myself with him
wherever he goes.

acceptance.
when my nerves have finally worn themselves down,
when my heart has reached an understanding with my mind,
when Love does not appear as something to be grieved,
that is when i fall in Love.

never once have i
accepted Love from a man,
Love that could alter
my melancholy mind,
nor have i trusted a man with my heart.
[although i have been forced by Love itself to relinquish it.]

i have been obstinate and headstrong
and refused to give all of myself
in fear of losing myself.
but maybe one day, i will be
rescued from myself.

now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the

I want to be available
to the people who love me.
I want to be there
emotionally, physically, financially.
I want to be their shoulder
their crutch, their solace.
The person who does not drop anything.
I want to give the feeling
of lightness to every being walking this earth.
Every human, creature, and plant
as they grow up fast.
I want to be nutrition,
a steadfast superhuman
so unfazed, so cool-headed.

It infuriates me
that I'm not this person.
It should be so easy to give.
If I just get my **** together,
I've repeated on and off again
the last five years.
But somehow, I always manage
to waste enough time
to get there,
but late.
When I have nothing
left, a hollow person
someone gave too
many tries.

Still, the people I love
tell me I'm wise,
an angel body.
Like they must justify,
who I am,
the imposter
the transient,
always planning,
for when she can
run away again.

Ready and itching
Everything is too far out of reach
Struggling to get further
Telling them all I want out
Losing my ******* mind
Everyone infuriates me
Struggling to get anywhere
Stuck

the devil in hell is constant, reminding as a tombstone -
each and every knock-knock - my imagination resides
in this hellish equivalent of life lived elsewhere -
for the devil in hell is merely a tombstone with
a living inscription that's a clock rather than epitaph and
insignificant dates given Darwinism
and the Big Bag - i.e. 1779 and August
and the 7th makes little difference - or none at all -
oh how welcome buried to be imprinted within
minding anonymous - hell and the tombstone -
an enlarging of life not lived -
or heaven, well, even Dante described Hell
with prefrontal cortex exactness -
Dante's inferno dealt with more detail -
the paradise left to abstracts;
and so the netherworld spoke toward
mortal interests incubated as apt resource
for expression in what aerodynamic was to be
in a lepidopteris catching magritte umbrellas
with accented whirls - like pebble skipping
on the shattering of the Narcissus mirror
to hold sway of reality, worded: how you aged,
while the lake remained standstill intact -
whenever the philosopher inspected you even
more frequently than Sisyphus;
many climbed the highest peak
to only watch the Sisyphus boulder roll with their
bravery downhill -
but so few sat like stones about to be thrown
across the pristine mirage of the awaited
plagiarism of your first inkling into the shallow
depths - for indeed demigod assured -
embryo of thought, missing artist,
missing a self-portrait - what say you
to claim near-role of Poseidon?
i expect you'd only quack van Gogh -
and feel less inclined to imbue thought of mirror
as thought of beauty as self-worth and
the mind preserving it - rather than a mind
inclined to translate the stillness of the lake
into compressed aluminium and chewed sand for
the seen-through; a paradoxical world:
so much worth ascribed to so little -
and so little worth ascribed to so much -
this world is not worth a human zenith -
nor the nadir of insect savagery -
not the curtail phantom of scientific theatrical excavations,
nor the complaint of humanism attached similarly to
the same theatre -
mine assured the Chinese fairy-tale of a poet-drinker -
restless in metabolism, but when auburn comes named
Autumn, or spring and the Japanese cherry trees
of hanami - the low-caste infuriates mindful spectacles
of how to cross a busy urban crossroad of traffic
and look less at app. with additions for a minute's
silence among 15 minutes of modern crave of holy grail fame,
long lost among the objective success no
individual can profess - but specie kindred ha-yah,
ohayō - manga sigh you - conning chihuahua -
they **** and the English limit of theology, pronoun
debacle he v. she - V-she - mate, an E! an E! if theology
is to be so debated no longer the existence is to be debased
and atheism acquired - albeit not Oriental atheism of
Jackie Chew kangaroo karate - more like
addicts in a gym with fast-food exercises joining the
granny club of arthritis and bad joints;
'cos you're a bunch of wankers and that's that -
you smoke those opiates! you do! never was a Pole
more vocal than with the European Union -
embark on inviting the Turk! the coup is over!
invite the Turk! invite the Albanian! invite the Serb!
the Brit is leaving! hello Scootland!

Don't tell me I'm pretty, I did not choose the way my features aligned themselves, or the texture of my hair, or the color on my skin. Tell me I have a beautiful mind, tell me you love my honesty. Tell me the way the rain makes me happy, makes you happy, compliment me on things I've worked on, on things I've developed. Don't tell me I'm ugly, I did not choose the way my features aligned themselves, or the texture of my hair, or the color on my skin. Tell me the way I enter a room like a hurricane infuriates you, tell me my tactlessness hurts you and everyone around me, tell me my inappropriate mouth is offensive and crude. Critique me on things I can change, make me a better person. I don't care how you think I look.

vague games enable and our liturgies co-mingle in an inkling of the I.
your mind succumbs to the soul. the rabid rain is ironic and the font you spell ' god ' with
is all scrawl and scrumptious. you lump this dream into your dolphin of Delphi
and squeak cute symphonies of deep brood.
you choose your Oblivion.
and that's how Angels kiss. they force the Word through your Animus
and greet your weakness with squinty eyes and Lion's breath.
you're the next best thing since that one thing that had no soul for god to play with.
it never complained. you might look and you might not see
what you're not supposed too. but i know you'll be happy with lemon-drops
and long dark naps.

that's how we do,

like a crispy pillow is a cloud with a lobotomy
and all my barbed wire is wine.
Like i'm the king of unbearable sublime. you anoint the fallen. i spike the punch, judy. you sunshine.

eulogies wet the pavement. darth mauls
the halls of our peril
and the dry
sparrows

you had no love but you had a thing that went thump
when you met her. and some other cocka-mamy thing.
and your narrow view
of the wide ha ha and the mute " **** this "
and why not?

we're all caught in the same frame and the gorgons are massive. you have to elect a hero to laugh at Death with and might get a girl.
you're nothing at all and that infuriates the reality you were dreamt with. you have no kin, but your family hasn't been.... you were unhinged
from the stark grim and the tide pool. why do you think i say things that ain't been language but has always been lingua nova ?
why would i lie ? this is the scepter of the vengeful design and the glee demons of first love sipping from a chalice of lost love
with closed eyes. this is the pier and the ocean. the dime store Picasso hanging the velvet Elvis with the perfect circles
with the little
cube inside...

aching for flamingos.

or not.

There's something I need to get off my chest, Liz. Something I've been keeping from you for years. I was cleaning out my closet the other day, and I realized something. The painful thing about phone calls is that every sleepy groan could have been heard clearly if I were with him, and every word he spoke only to me could have been whispered into my collarbone. But what really infuriates me... is that the first person who got to love him didn't stay. Love is staying.

You have no idea how long I've stayed.

"What I'm trying to say is..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm in love with..."

Me?

"Her."

"Oh."

You see, the honest truth is that you're perfect for each other and that I wanted this to happen. When I watch how he lightly touches the small of your back as if he's afraid you'll shatter if he holds you too hard, and how your fingers comb his past out of his hair when you run them through gently, I wonder if your hearts are actually one but were separated at birth. I don't know, I might be lying, but I don't think I am. I don't think I am. All I know is that he was always yours and never mine---I don't know why I hold on, because you're everything he needs. But somehow, so am I.

Loving him and watching him love you has gotten me nowhere except everywhere I never wanted to be. I don't hate you for this. Really. All I ever wanted was for both of you to know what it feels like to have wings on your ankles and morning songs on your earlobes, because that's how I feel when he asks me to help him make playlists for you. I just imagine he's making them for me.

So instead of poisoning myself with hate, I'll teach you how to love him better. I need you to love him better.

Sing him to sleep and sing him awake. There is nothing he wants more than to rise and drift off knowing that he'll be safe in the voice of someone he loves. Sing him songs about mountains. He'll love that.

Bike to the riverside with him and bring nothing with you but a hand-stitched quilt a pen. Find a spot where the wind never stops dancing. Write stories on the leaves and the trees so that he'll know that he has a place to call home after you. You can name that spot if you want, but I know he'll name it after your favorite flower.

When he cries and his past comes creeping in, clutching his throat and burning his chest, don't say anything. Just hold him. Hold him and hold him. Wait until he's stopped shaking then, with your nose buried in his hair, whisper, "I still love you."

Maybe I should write all of this down, seal it in a mint green envelope, and mail it to myself. Then I'll read it out loud and will probably be crying my heart out but at least I'll be stronger.

But don't worry, I won't say anything to him, because I care about you, too. So I'll stay still. Even though I'd like to take a bus to his house right now and leave a post card under his front door with a poem saying that I've loved him a long time. Longer than I should have. But I won't.

Because I know that he doesn't have the strength to catch me.

Deformity of rationale’s depletion of reserve
Cast derelict to the wind,
A vacant stare’s indifference states
A reluctance to rescind.

For terms spat forth in anger’s heat
Have cut the issues thrice,
So reconciliation’s overtures
Just cannot cut the ice.

To bake the cake of spleen so vile
Has soured the very meal,
And words of curt contrition
Now, seem trite and quite unreal.

Retraction treads a hopeless path
Offended ears refuse
And apology’s bland excess
Just infuriates to abuse.

The battle ground awaits you
As the bright red poppies sway,
Do you gird yourself for bloodshed
Or turn and walk away?

Remember, there’s tomorrow
Where a day just could well rise,
To promise reappraisal’s hopes
…Forgiveness and surprise?

To hell with it Methuselah
Let Trumpets scream their din,
I long to sate revenge’s thirst
Make Anger’s War begin!


Marshalg
Approaching the ragged end of anger.
9 May 2013

© 2013 Marshal Gebbie

How can I move on?
Jus how when I fell hard for this boy
This boy that irritates me
This boy I think about all the time
This boy that infuriates my mind
Engulfs my heart
Captures my soul
This power he holds
And he doesn't even know
This love I feel
Can it be real?
It can't be
Because it hasn't been that long
When I meet you and I melted
Your smile lured me in
Your humor stole me away
Your love I so crave
I wait and wait
Patiently
Silently
I wait
Everyday
Wondering am I not enough
Maybe I'm not
Because I thought I was
I thought I gave u my love
My good stuff
I tried to make u feel like a man
My man
But you was jus playing
Right play me was the game
But how can I believe that
When I feel something with you
And I know you feel it too
I know you feel when we make love
Feeling high as the heavens above
Or maybe I'm obsessing over you ***
But no no it can't be that
Bc I crave you in ways
I haven't craved another man
I crave your mind
The very essence of you
I crave your soul
Baby I jus crave you
Every flaw I hate
That drives me insane
I crave your happiness
I pray you succeed
I crave your love
I crave bearing your seed
I don't know its crazy all this love for you I have
But everyone says I'm crazy
Or Lusting
Because you give me things I never had
But honestly the ***
**** it's good
It's life changing
My emotional high
My feeling of desire
And ******* you for days
And oh baby the ways.
The very ways I wanna *******
You can't begin to imagine
So maybe it's lust
Bc I jus want u
Bc no one knows how to make me feel good but you
But I know it's not the ***
Bc the *** is great
But **** baby it's you
I can't explain it
But it's you
Everything about you belongs to me
And i don't know why and how but it does
I want you for myself
And it makes me hate me
Because you make me weak
A **** fool
A fool for you
So every night I pray for strength
The strength to not crave this boy anymore
The strength to move on
The strength to not let his smile
Break me down
His dimpled smile that caught my heart
So I'll jus play this part
Boy breaks good girls heart
It doesn't restart
Bc she can't move on
But when she does
Boy falls apart
**** another broke heart

I need to figure out this whole "alone" thing.
Because every moment away from you,
feels like an eternity.

I am sick with a cold, and cannot take care of myself.
And as tired as I have been all day,
This twin sized bed is too big without you.

This relationship will last.
If even just to prove wrong all those people telling me
that none of my relationships are a serious thing.
I want nothing more than to share you with everyone in my life.

I have moved on from my own past.  Why must the people around me dwell on it?

In one group, you are the celebrity.
Everyone looks to you as the nice guy, the funny guy, and the awesome guy.
To me, you're my hero.
You make me the person I've always wanted to be.
Together, we are invincible.

Around my group, you are the 'other guy.'
I'm supposed to be with Preston still, and I just can't be.
He changed as soon as I dumped him.  
Apparently I wasn't important enough for those changes to happen earlier.  
Or he finally has discovered the log in his own eye.  
For all the splinters he accused I had in mine, maybe now he won't be blinded by his own ignorance.

Yet, you are punished for all of this.
For everything that happened between Preston and I.
I am happy being with you, and you are hardly allowed to set foot in my room here,
let alone stay the night.
It infuriates me how my own roommates would rather me be alone than happy,
because I proved them right.

Both of them told me I was too good for Preston.  
They were secretly the votes that helped me decide to move on.  
But it wasn't their way.  

So why must you be punished?

Please come back home soon.  
I need you beside me, whispering in my ear that everything will be okay.
I need you telling me that we are invincible together.
Logan, I need you.

The remember the child
The shy mama’s boy in glasses
Now, with your tattoos, and curses, and **** burns
Scarred by the sins of rage’s past

You are what I could have become
I love you, my brother
But I hate the monster you’ve become
The one I feel inside me when I look at you

How much I could be like you

This waste ****** me off
Squandering your gifts
God ******, You could be so much more than this broken child
Whose cracks bleed the same blood
And shards reflect the same glow
So different,
Yet so much like me
That it infuriates me

And that wife, you ungrateful *******
Who tolerates, worships you
Brushes off your crumbs
You treat her like ****
And **** on her love
While I worshiped mine
And she betrayed my heart
Choosing money over love

I am really tired of having to prove that I am the good son
Brother
by Ryan P. Kinney

The remember the child
The shy mama’s boy in glasses
Now, with your tattoos, and curses, and **** burns
Scarred by the sins of rage’s past

You are what I could have become
I love you, my brother
But I hate the monster you’ve become
The one I feel inside me when I look at you

How much I could be like you

This waste ****** me off
Squandering your gifts
God ******, You could be so much more than this broken child
Whose cracks bleed the same blood
And shards reflect the same glow
So different,
Yet so much like me
That it infuriates me

And that wife, you ungrateful *******
Who tolerates, worships you
Brushes off your crumbs
You treat her like ****
And **** on her love
While I worshipped mine
And she betrayed my heart
Choosing money over love

I am really tired of having to prove that I am the good son

You hate it when I stare at you
I know.
But you don't understand that
When I look at you
The world
It just...
It just stops.
It stops and nothing else exists except for you
And my eyes looking at you.

There is nothing else.
The people in the room
Melt away.
The worries I have?
All *******.
There's no yesterday
No tomorrow
No differences that can tear us apart
Or tear my eyes off you.
You make everything else
Distant
And insignificant
Compared to the magnitude of my
Love
For you.
And the beauty and depth and wonders
Of the soul that I see
In your eyes.

I see your pain
And your joy;
I notice your laughter and your struggles and all the things that intrigue you
And all of it fascinates me.

I want to know all of it.
I want to know what turns you on,
I want to know what makes you click,
I want to know what you think about
When you have long car rides to yourself.
I want to know what infuriates you
I want to know what on earth could turn your beautiful eyes into fires of hatred and loathing,
Or melt them into pools of the softest adoration.
I want to know your future,
And what you see in it.
And I want to know if you prefer blue Jell-O or red.
And do you ever wish you were short
Just so you could always win at hide-and-go-seek?
Or maybe as tall as a redwood so that you would never have to wonder how a bird sees the world.
If you could go to the moon, would you?
Or would you stay here, in mock safety, to welcome home those who went in your place?
If you could have one super power
Would you care to hear everyone's thoughts
Or would you want to be able to run
Fast as a speeding bullet
Away from here.
I want to know your wildest fantasies
And can we make them a reality together.
I want to know your past
I want to know what makes you who you are
And what brought you here
To me.
I want to know everything
Hold back nothing
But not until you're ready.

When I look at you
I just want to talk.
Forever.
About everything and nothing
And when I look at you I want to sit in silence
Because that's comfortable too.
When I look at you
I want to spill my soul
Because I know you'd catch it.
I can see it
In your eyes.

When I look at you
I draw from your strength
I refresh from your smiles
And I remember who I am.

When I look at you
You are the only thing that exists.
You
And my eyes looking at you.
And it is truly beautiful.
You are truly beautiful.
And that
Is why I stare.

I'm a victim, and;
I'm angry about it.
I'm enraged that I identify myself as such.
It infuriates me to think of myself this way.
It isn't an excuse.

It's not my fault;
That I still feel the betrayal like it was yesterday.
That I still flinch and cower when I think about it.
That my body may be healed, but my mind will forever be scarred.
But it was what I was led to believe.

And I'm ashamed;
That I let myself be angry.
That I let myself feel betrayed.
That I will always bear this scar.
But it is not my shame.

It's a part of who I am now;
It has made me stronger.
It has forced me to find my voice, and allowed me to speak out.
It has shown me that it may always be a part of me.

But it is not who I am.

I am a victim; of your crime.
My anger; is the result of your actions.
My shame; stems from your shameful acts.

After all this time, I realize, you were the victim;
To your jealousy; of my power.

You took away my power;
Tried to claim it as your own.

I have reclaimed my voice; and it is you who is powerless.

I am a victim; of yours; no more.

You hold no power over me.

My voice will be heard.

Heavy Footsteps

There was no greeting;

just strangers in running shoes,

except for Kaitie.

Summer Love

A choice of a boy

or a high I can't resist.

The decision is..

Hills Beyond Hills

Miles upon miles was

a calling to a smile that

he couldn't offer.

I Have To Leave

It was just a week,

a meek test to see your love.

You chose not to pass.

Holding Hands From A Distance

You chose to hold hands.

Close, firm, and knowingly that

it wasn't with me.

Trust Is Trouble

I am a rebel,

trouble could be my calling.

That's why I went back.

School Is Calling

Back with the same friends,

same boyfriend, but now I have

a love for xc.

A Change Of Course

Leaving behind the

“friends”, and joining to run to

friends, races, and YOU.

Fate Delivers Omelets

YOU, but I have him.

Me, “I can ask my parents”.

Now I have a Max.

The Decision Is

Shin splints and you

are both problem and painful;

I can't handle both.

Goodbye For The Greater Good

Trust has to be earned.

There is none for you or my

attempts at running.

Down In A Canyon

Low point: self esteem.

I couldn't compete with her,

You won my best friend.

A Break

There will be no runs,

but I have YOU and your time.

Brothers are great friends.

Love? It Doesn't Exist.

Trial and error dates.

My zipper will stay up and

I will take you home.

Staying Home, Listening to Mom

Time will bring hassle.

There is no need for stress or

crying from your voice.

Eventually.

I can hear “maybe”.

That doesn't assure grief will

pack its bags and leave.

Sun Does Shine

Positives are here,

but they don't plan to stay long.

YOU leave in four weeks.

Appreciation To:

YOU, for many smiles.

Writing, new friends, and fresh hope.

Mix Cd’s and love.

Falling Into A:

New year, new me, only,

my heart can't take heights or cracks.

But it takes the fall.

Love

For Max, parents, and

best friends that keep me going.

I am so grateful.

Toxic:

My thoughts of myself.

My compassion towards others.

The fact that YOU leave.

Realization

I am sixteen now.

I am wild, naive, and happy.

Change is très très sweet.

When It Comes Down To It

I don't ask for much, but can I for once

get something I want?

The fact that YOU will leave

and fall drunk upon cobblestone roads

infuriates me.

I don't want YOU to forget.

Little old me has a name,

it's Mariah, your only little sister,

the one only one that cries while writing this.

The Atlantic Ocean is our barrier,

along with our other hundreds of miles.

I don't want to wake up to

omelets from anyone else.

Trusting that you will remember is the trouble.

Fate is:**

Fun, it's what brought YOU and I together.

Hopeful, my dad didn't lie about the maybes.

Moving on, I hope I can too.

America is an idea
that "all men are created equal,"
with working definitions of "human", "created", or "equal."
America is freedom for our grandchildren
in a manner we will never understand.

It is the founding fathers who died for liberty.
It is the darker brothers who fought for justice from kitchens and pulpits.
It is the poor, the huddled masses,
And their children who have forgotten this.

It is green cards that become blue passports.
It is unlearning the language of our grandparents.
It is knowing how to pronounce Arkansas and Illinois
It is enjoying barbecues on somber national holidays.

It is unbridled enthusiasm.
It is unbridled arrogance.
It is rugged individualism;
It is passionate paternalism.

It is hellfire that scorches deserts.
It is a gust that has fanned flames.
It is a cool rain that puts out fires.

From sea to shining sea--
It is Manifest Destiny
from Louis and Clark to Wounded Knee.
It is Topaz, and McCarthy,
and hundreds of things we would rather forget.
It is D-day, and Neil Armstrong,
and thousands of things we forget to celebrate.

America is a dream that rings from the red hills of Georgia
to the curvaceous slopes of California
to New York Island.

It is patriotism;
it is progress.
It is the blind worship of our past.

It is red. It is blue.
It is red, white, and blue.
It is what half of us say it isn't.
I say it evolves constantly;
others say it was created in His image.

It is everything I hold dear;
it is everything that infuriates me.
It is the warmth that makes my eyes tear
when I hear the Star Spangled Banner
at football games,
on July 4th,
or on September 11th.

It is hope.
It is the promise of a better tomorrow.
It is what ever I am.
I, too, am America.

*I have posted this to another website under the pen name Anamika Nair. I wasn't sure if this was okay. If it isn't, I can submit something else.

I am e and I don’t like p
p really disgusts me
and makes me go eeeeee!
p is a stalker and purposely tries to get close to me -
see what I mean?
I try to keep p at a distance
but I don’t always succeed
look
I want to get a fruit
and I reach for a pear
and see? - P comes to share!
He wants to make a pair with me!
Oh! I just hate p!
Try and get some peace
but that p instantaneously
casts a shadow over my peace,
as you can see...
I can’t even have fun -
I just want a peek - and p insists on being there;
and if I just take a peep - oh p
infuriates me
like barriers in front and at the back
I try an orange
hoping to get rid of p
but as soon as I start to peel -
oh! I hate it! p’s there, do you see?
I don’t mind s, or c or dear old d
but Oh this stalker p
I hate p
with all my life and energy

and even a hates p
for p thinks it’s good company in papa
when a just wants to be alone;
and worse, p is really crude and smells
and s and i think so too
cos p forces them altogether
and makes them ****...
Oh I am e and I hate p
and the ABC Police tell me it’s not within their purview
could I speak with the Numbers Department?
and the Numbers Department says he’s too important
since he’s in pi
O what can me, we do with p?
I just hate p - he just makes me want to puke!
one of these days, I’m just going to double *** on p!

The only natural poem I have consciously been involved in-
The site, not just the reporting-
was when I happened upon a sheep gazing at me
in a field immediately off a motorway in Norwich.

This was not planned, yet it was
disconcertingly poetic.

Life whispers it's potentialities, it's immovable eros
the way billboards make us aware of our melancholia.

"Your hair is flaxen"
No, your hair is just damp. "Flaxen" reminds
us of a language that according our reading of poetry
existed long before our ancestors could read.
It does, however, sound more complimentary,
therefore more sincere,
therefore more comforting
than "damp."

I wear all my pretentious vocabulary and sentimental heart-stirrings
like a cross dangling from my neck
pretty as the plastic emotions I express
Because of my dearth of enthusiasm as opposed to experience
Because of the transparency of my speaking without first attuning
to the spectre of blood which no longer clots my lungs Dominika
but now sullies my hands.

But I wash and wash, and am clean, cleaner than most.
And my cleanliness infuriates you Dominika,
it breaks your back to see me so elevated among the wrecks.
When you speak there is no air that leaves your lungs to pollute the air
there are all only words whose sounds make the other sounds commonplace.
Whereas I am all white, brilliant, brutal air.

I've calculated the effect this has on your sense of self
Dominika, of your progress, of your place in the narrative
and though you hate me for implying so if I explained
You wouldn't understand
Dominika
I made it that way.

The sludge seeps into my marrow.
Filling every pore, every entrance until I’m suffocating in it.
It roils and slurps with its oppressive heat
And gurgles and spits until it wraps me up completely.

It hardens.
The shell so thick nothing can penetrate it.
You chisel, and chisel away and I watch you
And I laugh at you.

I laugh so heartily at your futile efforts to get to my center
I watch you grow frustrated
I watch you get angry
I watch you try by force
I watch you give up and walk away

And I laugh.
Because I drank the hate you poured
And I let it consume me.
There is no hate more hilariously poisonous than yours.

The delicious malice of armor created by you.
Does it make you feel weak?
Does it make you feel inadequate?
Does it make you feel hopeless?

I swim deep in those feelings until I bottom out in the ecstasy
Of their prison.

Bitter.
My return to the present is bitter.
The aftertaste of your shot of hatred is putrid.
It festers and infuriates me.
I want to bathe in its luxury of intoxicating drama
And shoot you down where you stand until there is nothing left
Of the bottle but puddles.

Forget?
I’ll forget when you perish. When I watch the heat
From the sludge devour you inside and out.
When I see the steam rise from your burnt ashes.
When I pull the trigger and see the fire melt your hateful eyes into the
holy oblivion of uninterrupted agony...
When the world burns you as I stand unfazed in your corroded armor of hate...
Then I’ll forget.

Set fire to the ghosts
that held me captive in
skeleton jails and pumpkin cages.  The
time to crush the shell
is now, and it will break
with my redemption in hand and
my heart will scourge
and burn as I dig up through the earth.
Emerge now he who is hidden
no longer a teardrop flame.  To
see the ghosts walk and lurk
infuriates me.  They thought they could hold me forever.

It seems that I have grown so
much, I am no longer silent.

Now I emerge and
force light in the dusk.

the human races
color
separates us
infuriates us
words
divide us
suicide us
violence
drives us
deprives us
if
peace
provides us
guides us
actions
enlight us
unite us
color
eludes us
includes us
the human race

i was going to try to write a poem
but i fail when i try to do anything
i fail when i try to do nothing
i fail

failure is relative
who taught me this warped definition
taught me a fake identity
tried to make me impossibly inhumanly
errorless?

why is it that i cry?
why is it that anybody would
WISH to die?
WHY why why why are there so many
questions ringing in my head,
and all of yours too
(I recognize the agony
just like inside of me)
Why why why
why is it that I cry?

I force my anger into mirrors
and breaking them, almost
as easily as breaking people,
but it doesn't take away
anything.

The thing that infuriates me even more
is pretending
it doesn't
exist.

And I cry.

It infuriates me.
It rejuvenates me.
It frustrates me.
It creates me.
It kills me.
It fills me.
It weakens me.
It strengthens me.
It deceives me.
It receives me.
It IS me.

How can you love him more?
I took care of you from day one.
No sleep, tired, frustrated but true to you.
I have ****** up along the way but im with you all day. I do everything for you and your rude to me, even when i do nothing or speak gentle.
Today you went crazy and not silence could stop you. All it took was his voice and you calmed down.
I am nothing to you. You don't care and it hurts and infuriates me at the same time.
I don't know what to do, i feel like backing away but i can't i don't let myself. Am i a terrible person? Do you hate me? I hope not because i love you and it hurts when i cant help you.

I live with a perpetual companion
An unremitting voice in my head
An amensalistic association 
This parasite and I are wed

Not by choice are we inseparable
God knows I've tried to break free
It's constant conditionings of the past 
That binds this enemy to me
 
A chameleon that drains my color 
Armed with a tongue spitting and sharp 
She dominates my conversations 
From morning till noon till dark
 
Upon the urge to be true to myself 
To break free from this mimicking mime 
She ridicules, rants and berates me
Until I loose all sense of time 
 
If I grant the power she incessantly seeks
And obey her exacerbating needs
A suicide of sorts slowly takes place
Leaving an empty reflection of me
 
If I choose to not give her authority
(Which only infuriates her more) 
And I start to rewire the pathway she's on
No longer will she bang at my door!
 
But the question that's left remaining 
Will I be okay left on my own?
a companion like she, omitted from me,
Will undoubtedly prove I'm alone.