Probability isn’t the luck it deserves for wanting desperately to be noticed by any appeals. Generating new focuses never thought possible. If so… Who is the recipient? Who is the lawmaker? Who being the justice department? Goods to making essential markers on productive velocities. Justification is outweighed by department alone. Growing ever scarcer without benefiting attitudes in place. Conjecturing solvent pleasures across many fields. Fields of accessory dependents ensuring a collective term is agreeable. Except, what if probability is outweighed not by something further from its own attitude? What if it can’t benefit itself? In question, becoming misshaped, mispronounced, or misinterpreted. Depending on who’s right, or who’s wrong shouldn’t matter until claims are assured. Propagating across the many fields of accessory dependents. Dependents outweighing the logic one is misshaped by. Demonstrating probabilities mispronouncing sense of terms for oneself. Wrapping up in a crumbled conjecture. Propagating a newer field of already surveyed products. Truth is in the stream that propagates those fields. Accessory moments dependent on gaining tension through the rise of the recipient. That’s the only way probability will ever learn. Hence why it shuts down if it ever involved itself. Itself without its own recipient. Its own justice department. Lawmaker without any dependent ideas would ever appeal to its own logical making, if it’s never dependent on itself. Only flashing the accessory dependent on other influences. Influences going way down the line of certainties without pleasure. Urges relapse. Furthering its own clustered rut! One without mistakes diverging deeper into uncertainties. Taking risks isn’t noticeable. When probability taking risks enough to (blush) down the line of certainties without an aim involved. Scattering their rut from within. But how does it involve probability? It doesn’t. Probability is the representation of how one constant judge itself for pleasure. When pleasurable actions are dependent with a blank impression never sought out. To focused on probability. When probability isn’t fruitful by its own design either. Only way it works. Never looking back in itself. A reflection of tempted attitudes fluttering in a swift, but rigid wind. Wind never tempted by its own sway. If one is to admit what they aren’t even aware of changing. Another shutdown happens! Justifications for probabilities own reckoning depends on other solvents. Solvents who don’t even understand the probabilities of there own life makings. Able to learn what is dependent onto others. Never within themselves directing their starry performance. What happens when things are finally noticeable within probabilities that will exceed probable actions of the force that dictates fates majority complexes? Complexes without variety. Varieties misshaped by mishappenings of trust. Which includes a basic awareness of some factor never hesitating to judge within the core of being itself. A view fate designs in its weapon of probability very well. What is fate up to…? Never can guess when probability shuts down all appliances out of contact with no one but itself left in the dark. Probability is. Everything has just become disowned. Fate exchanging glances with itself for one last second, before rapping up this little diverse expression. Pinpointing its weapon of probability without knowing why that is? Hinting at fate not being the only recipient to follow in its weapons obstructed desires.

I guess I’m okay… What more can I say?
Forget it—never mind,
You wouldn’t understand anyway,
Would you even know what it's like?
Inside a scattered disconnected mind,
Employed to go on strike?
Where indirect misdirect
The sincerity at play,
When sinusoidal chaos spikes
And past meets the future present day?
As paranoid points outlandishly connect
At intervals of broken lines,
Memory lost in recollect,
An array of misshaped bells
Internally infect the eternal confines
Of infinite distributional decay,
Parallels with no intersect,
Streetwise cells with empty signs,
Burned out lights, potholes, and landmines,
Littered all the way.
How am I to convey that all those times
You let your mind wander away
That I was reading, thinking, dreaming,
Teeming, never idle, never strayed,
Seeing, being, so far and away,
Even the brightest intellect beaming,
Could not grasp the feeling
In the slightest of highest orders reeling,
Wound unbound, or as it would be seeming,
Imperfect, even to the disarray
Of the tamest prefect, whose verdict
Could not predict the reflect,
For in this world, seeing is deceiving,
As the lamest reject, defect,
Increasingly decreasing,
In simplistic bliss obey
Crowned unsound fallacies
That contradict all meaning,
Hiding behind reality, the actualities
Lest, protect the thoughtlessness perceiving,
Let me stop you if I may...
I must interject for I digress,
What nonsense was I weaving?
Forget it—I've lost my mind,
I best be leaving,
What more can I say?
It's periodic I must confess,
You probably don't care anyway,
Yeah, yeah, I'll be okay,
Until next time I guess,
I wouldn't want to be misleading.

I stood outside watching the rain slowly melt from the clouds

My porch let me step onto its short pathway, for it knew my thoughts

I stood there and looked up at the sky, being guarded by the small roof above me

I watched as the rain fell silently to the streets and listened as it hit the bushes

I kept waiting for it to change

I kept waiting for it to change me

For it to wash away something deep inside me

I wanted it to wash away any hurt

Wash away the insecurities

Wash away the denial

Wash away the sins

Wash away the thinking of “You’ll never feel the touch of someone in love”

Wash away the scars

Wash away the memories

Wash away the impurities

Wash away

I stood waiting but the rain still poured on my outstretched hands

My hands opening to God asking,”Why me?”

The hands of a woman who has never felt the hands of a man in love

The hands that can make me whole once more

As I stood watching the lightening soar across the sky and the thunder gently hum

I wondered “Is this life real? Is this God real? Is love real? Is any of it real?”

I shivered and stood waiting for the rain’s response

None came; the only response was the silent tread of water heading toward a gutter

Funny, just like my life, always fighting against gravity to stay clear of the gutter

Shivering I stepped back inside and heard a small clink of a piece of broken glass

I held it, amazed, wondering if my life would end this way

In the hands of a tiny piece of melted sand

I looked at its tiny iceberg shape

I turned it and it suddenly transformed into a misshaped heart

A heart, like mine, so clear, so ready, so fragile

I tossed the tiny love into the air as lightening made its last hoorah

Hearing only the distinctive clink as it hit the sidewalk

The rain responded joyously as it picked up its pace

This was her response

Nothing may be real but the rain

In the end, sometimes, it’s all we can depend on to wash away our old selves

To stand, like an escape from Shawshank; free

This was my answer

That my tiny glass love lying patiently on the side of the road will someday be picked up and thrown wildly into the wind hoping that it shall find the fingers of a lovestruck current

This time instead of a slab of concrete, I shall be there to catch it as lightening strikes my heart

I looked up at the tiny roof guarding my head from the cold drops of reality

It was then that I decided it was time to take the roof off of my life, leaving me unguarded

I closed the door, shivering with a renewed sense of myself

I curled under the blanket asking again the same questions that haunted me,

“Is this life real? Is this God real? Is love real? Is any of it real?”

The rain answered,

“Yes”.

The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
Slowly
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.

The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.  
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.

The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.

The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.

A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.

The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****)
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
smashed
out of him.

Yes this is all football.

How do I get a carving out of a tree?
The smug shape of your G+E
outlines with a stupid, misshaped heart
etched into the evergreen.
You ruined my favorite tree
with five words.
A sentence I knew you would inevitably say
at some point of our lives together.
I really wanted to doubt myself for once,
and be proved wrong in the right way.
But you just had to keep me incorrect.

I call the local lumberjack and ask him,
"Cut down the tree as soon as possible."
I think that's how you get a carving out of a tree.

I am no longer rusty
tunic driven like a alabaster skeleton through tongues of wine
hearts of misshaped happiness breathing beneath my tongue
aqua marine
risky
danger zones between close mouths and breath
long locks of dark brown trail against your back
like water paint fluid on your paper like skin
hold me here beautiful forever
I will rest in between your palms
as you open them to gather water from the
river of our sacred dreams
I will lay there like a small fairy
for you
at ease

I understand the viscousness the inexplicable vitality
with a woman next to a woman
I can teach you how to be comfortable with me
we might become black at times

we might burn
reminents built
torn and ashy

but here there is a beauty
a burgundy understanding of similar nature
rich with cause
suitable by death

night bound by the man who believed he was clever
driven insanity
crude hearts gestures
leave that castle
be my vampire
join my tower

touch the sent of the wicker
and dive into this feminine power
I set hot trembling
tender sighs let out
every hour

I will hunt those wild beasts within your breast
hold your hand and kiss your chest
stitch myself to your ivory neck
seek you
until my hearts a wreck

you are everything
you are everyone
you are every cliche
you are the sun,
you are the stifling heat
that cannot be escaped
you are valentines cards
misdirected and misshaped,
you are hotmail,
you are myspace,
you are my face,
hungover and exhausted,
you are lost kids,
you are something that was fun,
you are not getting shotgun,
you are beer
that's been in the sun
too long,
you are a sad song,
that's not been made better,
you are the hole in my sweater,
or my pockets,
you are the chalky sugar that's
passed off as rockets,
you are the first drummer of the beatles,
you are evil,
and i don't mean that jokingly,
you are choking me,
like turtlenecks,
or high stake bets,
made on the wrong team,
you are what seems like
a good idea at the time,
you are past tense,
you are jeans caught in the fence
preventing teens from sneaking in,
you are cold wind on a dry winter's day,
you are Coldplay's last two albums,
you are too much talcum powder
you are convenience store flowers,
you are forced,
you are hoarse
voices in place of song,
you are wrong,
you are the weakest link,
you are outdated references,
you are beverages,
that have lost carbonation,
you are hesitation
that leads to regret,
you are the new york mets,
you are first impressions
that i make on the elderly,
you are Beverly Hills Chihuahua,
you are foie gras,
you are aqua
and their music in my head,
you are cold beds,
warm beer,
empty freezers,
old tears,
fake appeasers,
new fears,
you are the moments
when it feels like no one's near,
you are searching for Waldo for hours,
you are any buildings "bigger" than the cn tower,
you are fake,
you are first date awkward silence,
you are last date awkward silence,
you are violence,
you are hybrid suvs,
you are bees,
you are black flies,
you are forgetting an event is black tie,
you are something nice to forget,
you are socks that are wet,
you are the slow driver in the left lane,
you are fame,
you are fleeting seconds
never to be recaptured,
you are the man on the corner
screaming about rapture,
you are actors selling out,
you are stains on a couch,
you are lost remotes,
you are failed attempts to save face,
you are everything
that has ever graced
this time and space,
here and above,
you are everything,
you are love...

Thought is ******.
Freely thinking of anything.
In the safety of the mind,
One can be mad:
                                        A jealous fool,
                                        A lover,
                                        A ******,
                                        A murderer.
Anything he fancies.
The true self
That is hidden,
Often times behind our masks:
                                       A smile,
                                       A blank stare,
                                       A muscle contracting,
                                       A layer of skin.
The mask is so familiar;
It seems like truth,
Yet the knowledge of falsehood
Lie deep inside like:
                                      A root,
                                      An anchor,
                                      A burrow,
                                      A secret.
Deep down in the caverns
Of the body.
Once light shines,
We can see:
                                     A horror,  
                                     A misshaped,
                                     A disgusting,
                                     A vexing sight.
Lies and truths,
Mixed as if one.
The sight is unbearable,
So we keep it locked away:
                                     A convict,
                                     An enemy,
                                     A rat in trap,
                                     A prisoner.
The prison of
Our socially acceptable
Will destroy completely
Our true personality:
                                    A self,
                                    An image,
                                    An x-ray,
                                    A representative.
Tis dangerous, that our identity
Is safe within the confines
Of our mind freely thinking.
Because thought is ******.

This is a place I don't dare to visit
the room is enclosed by four walls,
there are misshaped windows
with metal bars that laced the brick
as stained as a lifetime smoker's teeth.
The grey wall bleed a terrible stench
that brings back memories of pig farms
in the morning after a dampened night,
the walls are coated with red sludge
that is enough to reduce a grown man
to his knees with pleas of destroying
the savage assault on his senses.
In the middle of the room sits a chair
that is positioned right under a bulb
of light that spreads a dimmed vision
to the entirety of the room, the chair
is locked inside a cage as large a space
as the cabinet of a common kitchen.
The bulb swings from its loose wires
that seems to exist as a tangled mess
with the red intersecting the yellow
and in various points the wire
seems to have been stripped of its
dignity with copper exposed in points
that have rusted against the times.
It seems that the swinging light
may never be fixed to a single space
in the vast expanse of the ceiling,
so it throws shadows against the walls
where the chair is mere distortions
between light and dark.
The chair is trapped in a cage
with a lock that seems impossible
to ever penetrate and the break
in the metal bars that has rusted away
is too small for any hand to fit through.
The mildew grows in the corners
where the ground meets the wall
and against one of the four the green
grimy mildew meets the red sludge
enough to give of a yellow colour.
I recognise something against one
of the four walls, it calls for my eyes
and screams for my ears. It reiterates
this is the inside of my mind and
so far I'm making colours of everything
I could ever find.
I've been running my whole life
and in every single light, I am
another shadow casted against walls-
forever imprisoned.

His mind is a sudden haze, the details are a blur,
the smiles fade to frowns
He trembles in fear as he doesn't know when the monster is coming home..
The spirit which consumes the holy being of a home
of a child, of a sister, of a husband, of a wife, of love.
The spirit which is evil in itself that left the  everlasting marks
of terror and pain engraved in the mind of the pure
The white mind of the boy which marked innocence slowly fades to gray
The haze, the sudden haze slowly focuses in,
Becomes clearer and clearer within each stride
The haze turns into a person, a familiar sight..
The haze is a tall figure, fragile, skinny, abnormal and misshaped
The  monster...the spirit...evil... had consumed his mother
and left the pain..the agony..the hurt
the haze.. a sudden haze, was his mother.

I.

To steal away three oranges for love he was
instructed by long-ago’s cackling voices, but over time
words once sharply plucked and sealed in the wide mouth
of his boyish memory have grown up vague and bushy.

So, this night he picks to stalk the storybook rows
of stubby trees that squat smack in the middle of a maze
unknown but tender hands have pulled straight to hide
riddles in their patchwork of endlessly seamed sameness.

Aided by a sickle moon’s pointed glances, he hastily
harvests the wages of three waxy fruit and plops
his juicy hopes sweetly into a leather pouch, as loosed
the feather-leafed branches snap back skyward.

II.

Home on the next morning’s edge, first love he sights.
She has a narrow white face and blush-dabbed features
below a tall swab of swirled scarlet hair that wags
a bobbed tongue’s tale as she comes bouncing into view.

Striped dawn glows, and tickled he, perhaps too eagerly,
reaches into his bag with the lust of hurried hands.
An orange, yet under-ripe and unready, he blurts out to her
as a wholly careless, green-topped, and unpeeled gift.

She takes it and rolls it through her nest of slender tips.
The thumbs inspecting its sadly misshaped bits find
the bumps and crevices around a knobby stem are proof
of a worthless fruit. Dropping it, she walks on, nose up-turned.
III.

Twelve days left to his less-than-virtuous devices,
he fusses over the second orange. His nails dig in
to *****-cut peel its thick rind. He picks off odd
pieces of pith and smooths its newly gleaming surface.

These would-be idol hours spent preening could
pay off when another amour falls as an acid-yellow
figment. She floats down to him from the distant hilltops
with a floppy mop of golden curls and a broad pink brow.

Pristine fruit on palm extended, he waits his worth,
while the citrusy flesh, exposed to a mid-day sun,
shrivels brown and collapses into a pulpy mess. When
she passes, it draws a mere wave and topples easily.

IV.

As the shadows of a jagged-tooth fencepost lengthen
a sudden and thoughtless appetite grows in him.
He grabs the third orange and gobbles it all down
but a lone slick seed that sticks in his deflated cheek.

Bewitched from the seemed break in magic’s promise,
he makes this kernel an offering to devouring soils
and lays his hard head upon the single-seeded bed
where he’ll drowse rocked by soft-chirped serenades.

Then, a quake and a tree sprout. Spreading branches
lift him up among the strangely branded fruit
that an orange-tongued fairy nibbles as she tosses
green locks and smiles at him with her hazelly gaze.

Can't see the pathways through the crush
as forest's canopy makes night;
an overgrowth of underbrush
prevents new sprouts from reaching light.
Some cleansing clearing is in store
creating space to feed new life
by burning down what heretofore
had nourished nature.  Now it's rife
with rotted stands of misshaped growth
untended, harboring disease.
I strike the match. The fire is both
destroyer, bringer of a peace;
the aftermath of smoldering soul
with ashen truths to make me whole.

Miss Shaped
With that hourglass  figure
shifting sand from one orb to the other
She knew her time
was ripe.
Walking into the alleyways of wilderness swamps
where lurked men of all contortions of mind and body
She met her match
in mister muscle.

Not a nerve twitched in her entire
body when he flexed his biceps
and wooed her with no words.

The years of steroids had tied his tongue
into strips of knots
and crosses unable to stop
pumping iron.

Miss Shaped loved this muscular
feast of a man.

The years rolled by
for misshaped

mr muscle had no iron in his heart
only triceps biceps
he left when too many wildebeest
chased his moll.
Author Notes

Just a crafty play on words with several different meanings. The poem will dull you into deception. Say what you will to break it apart.

It took time to assemble

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

Come by tonight i'll share this time
a while we'll stare, my words will exile your eyes
no more unspoken defined soft talking
I hope this alone will change the tone
to remix reminisce this melody

I'm always beside you here
These thoughts for you I keep
So you don't hear though, my whisper
through this night, it will be clear

hesitating this mind stating in keeping safe
I had to reflect so to take a step back
Making sure my step forward
Wasn't someone beside me
Aside from this heart
Getting hurt by all this Inside
Dwelling I''ve been there
Stayed there, and you don't know it
but I just realized it
you brought me out of misshaped
beats that I always kept tracking back
because I could follow your beat.

I'm always beside you here
These thoughts for you I keep
So you don't hear though, my whisper
through this night, it will be clear

Come in, come in, do not be afraid my friend
Walk up my steps and through my door
Everyone is gathered and waiting to commend
Your courage for treading upon this floor.

Of course I am so much older than the glass and wood
That you see now as you make your way inside.
To understand this fact I wish you only could
That I have lived here since long before Christ died.

Please don’t be afraid of that light brush against your leg
It’s only the cat, she heard you enter and now she nears
Do not reach to pet her, this I really must beg
You will come off worse, she hasn’t eaten in 500 years

This shell that is my current form was raised when Victoria reigned
In my life I have been a castle, a poor house, a stables and a fort
Stories of my evil, flow down the years never being explained
But ignore all that, it is the over eager indulging in their sport.

I have not done such bad, perhaps an occasional suicide.
My most recent look and see the very rafters where she hung from
She is most impatient about meeting you ever since the day she died
Shush now can you hear that sound, why it is the dinner drum.

They are over excited, that’ll be the children who live my walls
Cemented in by the parents convinced they were possessed.
The screams that day, you may hear them yet echo down the halls
An awful way to perish, you must consider yourself truly blessed

Six children I have listened to them scream ever since that faithful day
When brick by brick they disappeared so that their parents may flee
The couple met with the black death, that was the price I made them pay
And I got six fine young companions in this house for all eternity.

We do have time before we sit so let’s take a walk upstairs
Three times spouses have sent their lovers tumbling down the other way
Have you ever heard a neck snap as the spinal column tears?
And when the murderer finds what they’ve done they knell to pray and pray

I have them all those three great falls
Downstairs they sit over dinner moonlit
Waiting our guest and each in contest
To hope to spend tonight with our new friend.


Enough of that, I must complete the tour of my ancient abode
From the master bedroom I have really just the view you need.
See that tree? There men caught many a debt they were owed.
Stoning, their enemies tied to it and forced their lives to concede.

Such a messy business and when you meet them I ask you not to stare
The dents and scars of crushed and shattered skulls have followed
Each of these poor agonised fools from life so fair
To this side, to spend their time with heads misshaped and hollowed.

And again the drum *** *** that tells us we are expected
‘tis so rare we get a visitor to join us as we dine
It took a while to gather this meal but now it is perfected
We’ll feast on souls and blood shall serve as a wine.

Ignore that sound, don’t look back for I know you will regret
The hideous creature that follows us will turn your form to stone
That hot damp feeling on your neck it is the beast’s own breath
Stay at my side, by my step it will devour you should you walk alone.

Notice please if you will that the house is changing in exhilaration
Why only just this moment we were walking down steps of wood.
And the house plays its part in giving us this beautiful creation
Can’t you see, it’s now torn out human limbs on which you're stood.

Mind your stomach, keep it down, we have a feast ahead
We would all be saddened if at this time your constitution failed
They have waited so long for no one ever comes to visit us, the dead
They’ll want to hear of your old life so full and deeply detailed.

Old life? Why yes indeed, that is the arrangement that you made
With your friends when you accepted the wager to stay in the haunted house
The deal is done, the book is closed, the ultimate price has been paid
My friend, you look so shocked and you’ve gone as quiet as mouse.

Every time I claim a soul my friend the devil plays upon his fiddle
Come now dry your tears don’t let them know that you cried.
You are our guest of honour take that seat the one that’s in the middle
The girl beside you, she hung herself and in death she’ll be your bride.

Sit my friend don’t pretend
That tonight you can take flight
From this place and your life retrace
You are now here so accept the fear

Finally we are all altogether, at our feast from now until forever.

Another night pours it's frank sentiments on us. The heavy dew weather blows the earth of it's ample troubles. It clears the grass of burdened footsteps that roam this place aimlessly. With all eyes to the ground, they miss to meet opportunities (happiness) that could be sitting right under their misshaped noses. They can't seem to smell flowers blooming or hear the hearts that need them, so are they even looking for something (as they so claim) or simply looking away?

Among them her eyes darken and hope to be found soon.

  Walk with me a moment, though the air is cold i find your penny plain company warmer than freshly baked bread cooling off by a white window or maybe something sweeter like (you) cinnamon pie. Similar to them, who would rather lie to themselves than face the truth, our tongues split oceans with exhausted explanations for the thoughts we keep lonely and the needs we discard as unimportant. We're pretending to not have feelings or see the seasons that change with each pulsing beat, so has this game even started or will it part with done (love) at first sight?

Between us the lightning strikes and looks to capture our trembling smiles.

Night fades, an awakening dawn,
Awaken by the same song bird
Singing from the soul, bittersweet memories heard
A window ledge looking out to the grand oak trees upon the lawn,
Squirrels playful in flight, shaken autumnal leaves; magenta & fawn
A lowly stray cat jumps, chases leaves that swirl, a baby bird at first flight, sight blurred
The cat pounces, a thief to his prey he captures, flees out of sight; the girl watches without a word
A cacophony of deafening sounds force their noise up the narrow stairwell, the song bird is gone

Pounding feet; her father he frightens the song bird far far away, a silence forms,
In her nightdress the girl she grabs the soft torn eared teddy,
Her tiny feet silently tiptoe, she lays flat on the old dusty wooden floor:
Hiding under the four poster bed, her fearful breaths deep & heady
Her heart misshaped as trampled by his feet, her soul mourns
Filled with the same fear she faces each & every day, all that remains is the locking of her bedroom door.

© Sia Jane

Small words
We're too high
Misshaped sound waves
Too low
I could steal
Yes
I could steal the things I need
If it get's me there, then it gets me there
and that's that

She is the foam of the sea
Untouched and innocent
Smooth dancing on the waves
Every so slight movement making her seem vulnerable
But still in the most dominant way

She is slim so she can fit into the distance between his fingertips when he spreads his arms to beg for her
She is drowning him
He is inferior

He is the travelling wave
Never loosing his feeling of rythm
Playing the same song every day
Dancing to it
Looking for his perfect match

I am the puzzled Sand
Sticking to everything but nowhere wanted
Uneven, rough and misshaped
An offence to every coast
I am out of place

He is an unfinished artwork
Beautiful look of imperfection
A clear water beast
Rising explosive and
Settleing gentle
She loves the song he sings
It's like he is singing to her
The foam clings so good to the shifting water

And together they create
The perfect sea
Every edge uncurling
The unremarkable sand in their way

But with every dance they dance in union
Parts of me are teared apart
And send to every cardinal direction
By the fair-minded elements
Until nothing of the sand remains

So the sea is eventually merged
Joyfull dancing and singing
The song of freedom and affection

She is the foam of the sea
and he is the travelling wave

I am washed away

I like my stomach,
I like my face.
I also like that my nostrils are weirdly misshaped,
And those hollow scars I have on my left arm,
From a really bizarre spot infection,
That later came to no harm.

I like the moles that are in awkward places,
Freckles on my nose,
Filling other bland spaces.

I like the way I waddle when I walk,
Or stutter when I talk,
I like the way I am.

I like my wacky behaviour when I'm with friends,
Or my unforgiving laughter when the day nears an end.

I like that I cry over the most stupid things
And that I can pay for thousands of chocolate bars,
But can't afford diamond rings,

And yeah, I like the way I am,
Cause confidence is key.

But most of all,
I like that I can look at myself in the mirror,
And be proud of what I see.

Poetry is raw to me,
Not packaged pretty,
With big words,
And abbreviations,
But misshaped,
Tangled,
And broken bits,
Of us humans,
Crammed into the folds of our hearts,
Pumping through our veins,
Leaving like an army from our mouth,
Fleeing, into the oblivion.
To me poetry is raw,

semi precious
my genetics
curiosity
irregular heart
beat stop start
unexpectedly
misshaped child
cross eyed smile
dna accidents
brain broken
pain threshold open
hell bent innocence
opal smoke
squinting hope
someday she might see
stare at you
staring back
thru all mine at me

The door to our lives is to our hearts
The heart that holds all our fear, love, and hate
and everything in between
The heart that decides to love when we don't want it to,
hate when we do or don't,
and paralyze you with fear you wished never showed
even though it does
it does all this to teach you
to push you
and you can have it bring someone in
or you can push someone out even if you don't mean to, it's your heart protecting you out of fear and sadness
The door to our lives can open or close,
shrink or grow,
can brighten or darken in any way,
heat up or cool down,
can move fast or slow or not at all....
or it can become hallow and lifeless
the termites of everyone and everything eating through
it can break, bend, or twist
it can cave, explode, or flood through everything
the doors to our lives can do all that and more
you can chose whether to close it or not
but if you ever get confused over being hurt
just remember the door isn't a door it's your heart and can be easily broken or even misshaped

Your truth sounds slow and disorientated
Like film left to marinate in the sun
Your equilibrium fluxes
Because in one hand you grow a flower
In the other you a tote a gun
Fiends you thought you put to rest
Are now agile and sprung
Hope where there was
Is now barren and overrun
By silhouettes of soldiers that strip you naked of your eden
Holding you still
While they dance and fornicate with the curves of your freedom
A ****** she was
Now she can't stop bleeding
Drug laced memories are measured to be eaten
Then sold like gold to a punisher of felonies
Tasting so heavenly
The poison gets the best of me
But not the death dealers
Its protein to them
Consumed to navigate down the lines of their stem
An all powerful but misshaped gem
You spit in mirrors because your reflection reminds you of him
The same glass in your eyes
The same shade in your skin
Waiting for a reaper to punish you for your sins
Well Im here
So dear why do you refuse to let me in?
Its rude to have death waiting at the door
I have souls to collect
Way more valuable then yours
OH
You change the locks along with your mind
Because the words that sounded sweeter then lullabies
Betrayed you as soon as your lips began to pry
Open
The silence was broken
The moment my existence was spoken 
This ride is free so don't offer me a token
You close the blinds
When you see me approaching
Like I was jehovah witness
Casually collecting donations for forgiveness
***** this is strictly business
I don't give a **** about the religious
I chase them down for the fitness
Consume their glow because its nutritious
Chew it to pieces
Until my metabolism increases
Their remains makes my breath smell worst then human feces
But their thoughts move me like psychokinesis
I didn't choose you
You choose me for the reason
That you thought it would better off holding my hand then a demons
So open the door or slide me the key
You called for mercy
Which means you called upon me
The summoning ritual planned so carefree
You been awake for too long
Its time to go asleep

What is it about the water?
Like misshaped tiles the ripples scatter;
shifting at every swift motion and quake,
staring back at a man lost in a reflective gaze
Lost in a pool of his own thoughts;
He recognizes the drowning body
that sinks deeper as his mind descends

Should he linger behind inches of safety;
or should he let himself fall into ponderous
depths of transparent glass;
Eyes closed, he lets go and joins his enemy,
like a sail his body floats, effortlessly.

planning a future
your not here and the atmosphere is anything but delicate
thoughts roam around the air in a gentle breeze
distance is between us yet i feel your soul as it breathes
an uneasy feeling of the past
scars on my fingers for holding on tightly
yet the rope collapsed

this is present day
2018
and you are not here with me
as i stand and take a look of what surrounds me
the future as i thought it not as clear as it seems
to live life is to be free

seeking into the past
into the role i was perhaps miscast
actions were drastically misshaped
a setback for love got me off the right track

*the future is a present to the unknown past