i found a bag of dog **** in an old winter coat
and remembered that it belonged to me
i mushed it in my fingers and remembered the food i had
it was brown like the ground

this **** hadn't been seen in years
it made me want to play some hoops
i call up my homie snoop
he said one sec im taking a ****
i say...
how ironic

If I could rip my heart out I would've done it already
Put it in the blender and make it look like mushed spaghetti
Then throw it in the air like if it was confetti
Then walk out the house and say I'm ready
To live a life with no pain
No more love games
After all that nothing would ever be the same
I'd be heartless, careless
No more stressing out till I'm hairless
No more hoping that life was filled with fairness
I'd have life held by its reins
completely tamed
And there would be no one that could drive me insane
Playing life like a game
Perfectly passing everything, put the high score next to my name
I'd be as hot as the devil
But instead I'm stuck here in the same level

I, too can smile

I remind myself every single day
As if nothing could ever bother me
Even if the weather was grey
Or when my heart was mushed like clay

I, too can smile

Even when you held his hand
Like you did with me 4 months then
Kissing him in a 3 week span
After you left me all canned

I, too can still smile

Seeing him on your social feeds
Like you didn't with me
Coz back then it was only me
Who wanted us to be proudly seen

I, too can smile

Despite me being on my own
And you having someone to call your own
I could walk this path alone
And prove to myself that I have grown

Caught my eye

a slip of a stare

drifted by

standing my hair

I couldn’t forget that glance

captured my heart

forever, perchance

in my soul, a dart

Searched for you, daily

PLEASE, look again

my eyes gazed at you gaily

you’ll ask me, but when?

You were my first crush

and crushed, was I

turned my knees to mush

when you just walked on by

It was a heap of plaid,
Orange and vinaigrette
It dully blended the white washed denim
The sod contrasted around his knees
Pete Abrams Jonesy was a discovery on his own.

The glow of the night sky released
The party goers and the venomous tendrils
That loomed beyond the tree hats and
The milky grey drift of dust that
Skated around Jonesy’s fingers as he dug
Scattering the Earth,
Searching and searching for the creepy crawlies
Between the plates of dirt,
the patches he’s scabbed away before;
His mother,
Hard at work building a nation in the kitchen
And Johnny filling his swine
Slipping between the cushions of the sofa.
It was that very night
Tucked away under the fresh linen and the feeling of
His mother’s lips pressed against his forehead
Warming his entire body –
That he realized his kneading desire to take his journey farther
To take it to school.
That day on the playground,
His hands knuckle deep in the land’s treasure
Creating pressure beneath the stubs of his fingernails,
Did he meet her
He met Charlotte Anne Avery.
Her ladybug blouse was loosely cast away from her shoulders
And he felt the urge to push her into the sand
But he couldn’t.
Charlotte Anne stood with her
Pine cone hair mushed on either side of her face;
The chocolate spit smeared on her cheek
Was enough to lure the mosquitoes all around
And he wanted to be her friend;

She’s always seen him around
Though; never before had he been keen on
Gazing back at the eyes of curiosity
Or rather her brown ones,
The plain and wide innocence –
It loomed over her face as she knelt
Bent beside him and dug a hole into the cream sand
With her elbow, gently brushing the circumference of
The minuscule hole she created.
Her glitter pink glasses were
Riding down the bank of her nose,
With her bottom cushioned in the crevice of sand
And Pete Abrams Jonesy’s sandy-fingers
Shoving her glasses back up
To rest beneath the kind eyes
That laid on him.

The end of germs and suspenders came fast,
Summer sped around the corner
While Pete Abrams Jonesy and Charlotte Anne Avery
Flew through the highlights
And the untouched parts of the forest –
Gallivanting beyond the age of the bell toll of adolescence,
Did they lie beneath the Sugar Maple Tree.
The promises they made of an un-relinquishing friendship
Grew beyond compare
And ever so did a union of love between him and her;
Every day was a hot hurricane of journeys spent
Devouring the wilderness together
Until the occurring reign of school
Sprung up again.

A new appreciation for the human body
Was as much as Pete Abrams Jonesy
Had accumulated for the first semester
Attending Mayfield Middle –
His life was horribly array without the presence
Of Charlotte Anne Avery.
His new herd of acquaintances
Brought about a new kind of education,
One that was foreign to the halls of Mayfield
And while his afternoon lunches
Sparked a flame in his soul
He became well oriented with the hypnotizing effects
Of Rummy and Black Jack 21,
His mind still sauntered to the round table
In the bull’s-eye of the café
Where a cloud of pink headbands and perfume
Captured the interest of his Charlotte Anne Avery.

She couldn’t believe the variety of books and music
That were made to live in this world
Sharing the same space as her –
It was enthralling, thrilling, and slightly frightening
The tales and the morals were anything but limited
Was it possible to live a well versed life having heard them all?
Would the chance ever be presented?
Her friends were of everything that was made to be
From sports to gymnastics to video-games to art;
It had all been opened to her in a flurry of welcoming gestures
From the minute she sat down at this particular table.
Even as her best friend now swung in the birches
As his friends, the panthers, ran low
She’d always be welcome on his other side;
Though, surprisingly, she was comfortable in this
Shade of manila spotlight.

A second semester, of many years,
Was a gift in its own
A surprise gesture wrapped up in a bow
Of questions, tutors, late night studying
It all amounted in a pile of stress –
A mound of snow
Of tests and quizzes and failed homework grades;
Pete Abrams Jonesy wasn’t alone in his mind
There in the far corner of sawdust
And memories of the plethora of parties he attended
Did lay his old friend from miles ago;
Charlotte Anne Avery had moved away across the lake
On the tips of his fingers so far away
For whatever reason she had moved away
It was amongst him unknown.
“Should I feel an ounce of sorrow, of grievance
For this new found distance between us?
I suppose not; we have new friends now
A new family
I haven’t known her in a while.”

Solemn years passed.
Days of solitude and confinement,
Days of pondering and guilt – heartache
Mr. Avery had passed away
Lost to his kin
His pristine precious child
Charlotte Anne Avery.
The wake had been nothing more
Than shades of black and blue and grey
Uncomfortable heels and rough tissues
That rubbed her eyes and nose
As raw as the pain she felt for the absence
Of her father
Her mother’s happiness and
Pete Abrams Jonesy.
It’d been years since she’d uttered a word to him
Years since they’d even been in the same room for long,
Though her hands still cowered
When she shoved the letter in the mail
Serving him the news of what transpired –
He made no appearance
Her expectations should have dwindled over time
But they remained the same
As strong as ever,
Slightly calloused with time
Until there was nothing left but a sore spot
Of where he should’ve been.

The rumors still rang clear as she began to heal
She fell in love with Marcus Stalling
The final year of puerile days
Now left to rot in the past;
Graduation was held at noon,
Her cap was arced on her head
Perfectly set in place
The rumors still rang true.
Pete Abrams Jonesy was the
Shadow of a boy she once knew when she was
Figuring things out
He didn’t even make it to this day.
The rumors of the hit and run, the drunk driver
It spread around the halls like wildfire
She had been ashamed to have once claimed him
In any form of the word –
She missed him still.
What would his life become?
“No one will visit him. What will become
Of the adventurous and jovial mind
I used to spend time with?”
When she heard the news on the local station
She’d lost her father all over again
And still no one had the answers
To any of her questions.

College and Marcus
The grand scheme of life begun with those two
Wisdom came with age
Anger subsided
And joy was restored –
The life she once dreamt of having
Still rendered mist to her eyes
So many individuals were supposed to be
Toe to toe;
Charlotte Anne Stalling the center of it all
Yet she felt the same orbital satisfaction
Yielding around her with only those two elements.
All mornings were the same
Her sanity strove from cycling about
In comfortable routines and an endless screenplay –
A memory of a future once shielded her sight,
The warm bodies were anything but familiar now.

The winter would always be cold
Rushing the blood to the tip of her nose
But spring came about
In a parade of confetti and open arms
The coffee shop on the girth of the boardwalk
Met her every day during the breakfast of the sun
And the coffee kept her warm.
It was a morning where the tide was crashing down roughly
The sun fried her skin,
She was glowing
Her attention was snatched away from the scenic grounds
Stolen away by the scream and shouts that traveled
From the end of the boardwalk,
There stood Pete Abrams Jonesy
Clutching his arm while peering at the welt
Given to him by a Sugar Maple Boer.

It was the flash of colors,
Your eyes covered in the hair you hated so much.
Reds,
Blues,
Oranges,
Pinks.
Colors mushed together to find what made your heart beat out of your chest.
Blurry,
Blurry pictures of you.
Like you were always out of reach to me.

here’s kind of a funny story.

they knew i had hearing loss when i was eight. what followed was doctors and operations and more doctors and the funny thing is that they still don’t know why i can’t hear out of my right ear. what’s not quite as funny is how i treated it. how i thought that this was something to be ashamed of and hidden, how i thought that it was weak, somehow, to not be able to hear.

it’s hard in class, sometimes. if we’ve got some kind of discussion going and people all over the room are talking and i’ve got to turn my head, whipping around from person to person, trying to get my left ear pointed in their direction. i never make it every time so it’s always a cut, disjointed thing, the tail end of a sentence that i don’t have the context for. sometimes there’s background noise and that makes it worse. loud air conditioning or people whispering and i can’t focus, can’t hear, even when it’s just the teacher talking and i’ve gotten my left ear set up in their direction. i’d love to tell them to shut up but i’m pretty sure they think i’m aloof because sometimes when they talk to me i don’t hear them.

asking teachers for closed captions is hard. going up to them and pretty much telling them hey, i can’t hear, change your class for me, is something i don’t think i’ll ever be good at. and sometimes they don’t know what i’m talking about. sometimes they ask the class to fix it and oh god that’s embarrassing because i know it’s nothing to be ashamed of but i still am. ashamed, that is.

there are these old movies from the eighties that we watch in history class. they don’t have captions. the ones about china are my favorite because it’s like, that’s me. that’s who i could’ve been. and the movies, they’ve got these interview segments. people speaking in Chinese, their first language, and us listening. they turn down the volume on the Chinese and lay over it English translations of whatever it is they’re saying and maybe for other people that’s a good thing but for me it’s not. for me it means that the Chinese that i don’t really know but can guess at fades into this muddle of sound, English and Chinese and cheesy background music all mushed together in something that i can’t hear.

i still don’t know what they say on the school announcements and i’m done caring.

sometimes i’m sitting in the audience of the auditorium and i don’t really know what’s going on. school assemblies are the worst. rapping and fuzzy mikes and so much background noise that even if i wanted to hear the stage i wouldn’t be able to. all i can do is cover my left ear and try to ignore the faded feedback from the right. because it’s not rude if you’re not covering both ears, right?

(i can’t stand not knowing so it’s better to cut that off at the beginning. to make sure i know that i won’t be able to hear them with three-fourths of my hearing gone. it’s less disappointing, that way.)

i can hear the people i need to. it takes a while but if i know someone’s voice well enough, if i care enough to learn it, it’s easier to understand, even if i only catch an intonation of a syllable instead of a word. and they know. they know i can’t hear so they walk on my left side and i love them for it. if someone won’t walk on my left side when i ask them to i know that i won’t learn their voice.

someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and people still think “deaf and dumb” is a definition instead of an outdated relic. someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and audism runs rampant through people who would rather label us than know us. someone tell me why it’s the twenty-first century and there are still people who think deafness is an illness. that my hearing is something that should be cured. that it’s stupid, ridiculous, to be proud of a “defect.”

someone tell me why my ASL teacher didn’t stop to ask the class if someone had trouble hearing. wait, no, you don’t need to tell me. i know why. it’s because you assume hearing until you’re wrong and that’s so strange to me, because i haven’t been hearing in years and it’s not like i’m trying that hard to hide it. you’d think that someone who knows ASL would realize if one of her students had no idea what was going on.

the first thing someone asks me when they learn i’ve got hearing loss is whether i read lips. i don’t read lips. take away the sound and have me stare at a silent video and i’m helpless. but i can supplement. i can take what i’ve heard and match it up with the movement of the lips, the throat. is that an R? yeah, it is. did they say elephant? yeah, they did.

it took me a long time to tell myself that this was okay. that not all communication is verbal and how, exactly, is this an exception? maybe people think i’m strange for staring at their mouths when they speak but if they don’t know why it’s not really their business to know.

someone tell me why it took my whole life to realize that i don’t care whether i can hear or not as long as i understand the world around me.

that’s why math is my favorite class, i think. no lectures or explanations necessary. just me and the numbers and mathematical notation.

math is a class that i don’t need to hear in. and i’m most comfortable with the silence.

Kind of like counting the stars in the sky
Its ridiculous to count the moments spent
To count the days gone by
Because to be honest its all been mushed together
Like pieces of the events slowly woven in

And to be honest,
I wouldn’t have spent it any better
Than to be with you

But let me take ti slowly
Back-track
Because when we first met,
I couldn’t have imagined it like this

Now
Let me be perfectly honest when I say
That I did not expect things to turn out this way
Because here I am lil miss haven’t been with anyone since god knows when
And here you are mistry white clouds with golden sun rays shining through
Mister deep sea blue eyes so easy to take a dip in
Mister piece of art museums everywhere are missin’
Walking imperfectly along black pavements and gray roads

You see it was an impossibility for me to be with you
What with how darkness easily encompasses me
What with how words are easily slippin out of your lips
What with how words are easily ****** into my minds dark abyss
And to be honest trying to capture the words into moments spent have been nothing but troublesome due to how much is entangled by thoughts like
"wow I can’t believe this is happening"

So just like counting the number of lights that paint the sky
Its kinda ridiculous coming up with 21 good reasons why today is pretty amazin’
Because there aren’t any letters that can string along together
To describe the amount of possible reasons why I find today quite so special
Because
To be frank its been 35 days, 840 hours, 50400 minutes with seconds still counting
Because to  be practically accurate its been 141 days, 3384 hours. and 203040 minutes with seconds continuously running
And no matter the moments passing
It still feels as though our infinities are intertwining
Decreasing the time that continues spinnin’

I can’t give you any good reasons just as the universe can’t place any more lights up there
But for a perfect one
I guess I can compose
That without you here
There wouldn’t be a rope for me to hold
Now I’m not saying that without you here
I can’t find a way to make my own happiness appear
I’m not saying you’re this bright light that shines through the grey crowds
Allowing me this way to surface from the deepest of seas
I’m saying that because you’ve been living in my mind rent free since day one
All of which that kept me drowning and entangled by chains that are not my own
Has loosened up and given me this ability to be free
And a better place to be
Because the perfectly composed reason why this is becoming an amazing year
Is because you are here, my dear

Now I hope all of your wishes come true
Cause all I’m asking from you
Is for more days to spend together
Completing the impossibly ridiculous task fo counting the stars in the sky
With just you
And I

So many doors
tightly closed
the need for more clothing and food
can't be kept out
it's a small hamlet
by the river
when a man stamps his foot
the whole village wobbles
a slap from a woman
and the whole village is flooded with tears
a cough in the dark
reveals bricks of secrets
two old stone mills
like an old couple who
have worn out their lives
wind leaks through four walls
a candle light dim and faint
not a synonym for romance and cozy
but luxury
when they can't afford kerosene
they eat, wash, get in the blankets
before the candlelight goes out
remainder of the light is only
for the maternal needlework
a curve creek
clear and lucid
when catching fish and mud-skippers
they become as happy as the water
joyful shrieks waft
in the smoke from the cooking stove
these scenes which can only be
returned to if time regressed are
very much alive in memory
they just didn't grow with me
many years later the warren
became a rustic retreat
days of the dirt and soil
became a wandering cloud
the stubborn local sounds
suddenly emerge from baseless thoughts
the mushed corn
the yam gruel
carrots and cabbage
feeding the dream
the mountains, the water, the people
the kindly kampung
the birthmark
of that era.

She doesn't sleep when he's not by her side
But he doesn't sleep with her either.
And when they lie side by side,
She can no longer phantom the thoughts inside his head,
Like she used to be able to do.

"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
She moves to kiss him
He turns over to sleep.
And her heart contracts within her chest.

In the morning she wakes early and makes them breakfast,
"I'm not hungry." is all he says.
And her intestines dissolve to a paste.

He leaves for work,
And she's so sad to see him go,
She watches from the window as the car pulls out the drive.

And now she goes about her day,
Squished up heart and mushed up gut.
She cleans the house for him
Makes his bed
Folds his laundry
Gets meat out of the fridge for dinner,

Then collapses in a heap to cry,
When she finds his wedding ring
hidden in the bed side cabinet drawer.

Sometimes I think maybe the world needs more empathy. So I buy some
ice cream, try to imagine what it’d be like to be so cool
I’m dripping sweet, so sugary that I make people’s teeth hurt when they smile.
At first I want to be a big sundae with hot fudge
arteries and the candied-cherry heart no one really chews up.
Then I decide I’d better get two scoops of fat-free bubblegum,
because nobody likes that junk and it must get awful freezer burnt
waiting for someone to notice it behind the chocolate chip. I dress it up nice
in a waffle-cone exoskeleton so I can get a good hold on it, but it looks strange:
two violent colored plops like a flamingo and a blue parrot are mushed  
in a khaki tuxedo, snazzed with ice crystals and sprinkle bling. Tastes weird
too, fluorescent and sour because someone made it that way
by using artificial sweetener instead of the real stuff. My lips pucker
like a drawstring bag tugging shut: I've had a taste
but it's too hard to swallow. Just as I begin my bubblegum death
march to the garbage some kid whizzes by, abstract blob
of bone-dry hands and sharp teeth glinting: whiter than a deep freezer frost and dentist-approved, spiraling my cone into a lethal nose dive.
Wafer tip fractures on asphalt and splatters: open-cone
surgery. I watch sidewalk cracks ooze neon blood
as I try to wipe my fingers clean on denim pockets.
But even when the ice cream is gone my hands are still sticky.

A burning sadness
Crept up from within me
Like the cigarette you just finished
Its smoke engulfed me.

We had the usual date.
“For old times sake,” you said.
Dinner at Applebee’s
And a movie at 42nd.

Interstellar was on the plate
Our first heavy movie together.
It mushed our already tired brains
But like always, we analyzed it after.

Remember Valentine’s at Kip’s Bay?
We watched the Lego Movie.
At one point our combined laughter
Was all that echoed throughout the theater.

But we’ve also ridden a Central Park carousel,
And ate bibimbap at 35th.
You’ve felt at home on my couch
While I fell asleep on your tummy at Brooklyn Bridge Park.

I have these and more to take with me.
And when you hugged me goodbye tonight,
This scorching flame burned brighter,
As you whispered into my ear, “I’ll miss you.”

Time is just trivial
and clocks are just toys
what's really pivotal
is that we enjoy
the life we are given
is not meant to be rushed
time is a heathen
and clocks make us mushed
mashed up vegetables
with no sense of reality
can't you see
we aren't what we are meant to be

It is every emotion and no emotion. Like licking every lollipop at a candy shop or one giant brilliant combustion of all the colors into one color, or simply no color. To put it in exact words, love is a flavor bomb. just exploding through out your whole body as if it were your taste buds taking in every delicious bite of a candy bar. And while love may not come in normal flavors like chocolate and vanilla, it comes with its own bittersweet variety. It is a terribleness and loveliness mushed into one undefined yet glorious feeling. It is the sweeter part of sadness; the weightless relief you feel when all the tears have dried onto your flushed cheeks. It is the cause of your tear-stricken face at two am and every heaving sigh after you take a shaky breath. But it is also the pang of happiness you experience at the sudden thought of your unattainable lover. It’s the lurching in your belly at the sight of them walking in. Although there are infinite descriptions of love, in the end it is a promise. A promise not bound together by unsteady feelings, but by commitment. And that is the beauty in it all, because even after the “feeling of love” fades , the eternal swear you have made to that person , is more rare and beautiful than any feeling of “love” at all.

“How long do these bloom?” I ask her,
Standing in the night,
The nascent springwarmth fading around us.
As the moon plots its course
Across the thin line of sky it will occupy tonight, she says,

“For a very very short time.”

We lay in the wetgrass for a bit then,
And once the moon has gone and the sun is close to rising
We part. It feels
For a moment
Like she is all the places I never went,
Still ringing loudly in my mind with obsolete importance—she is
A bandaid on soft skin,
Covering numbness.
Not pain.

Three days later
The blossoms fall from the trees in a storm
And the ground is littered with shards of pink.
Walking back along the river,
My bandaid torn off such that it ripped out all the littlehairs,
I smell them:
The tendersweetness mushed against the pavement
Under runningshoes and bicycles and myfeetnow.
Wafting through the air much more fiercely
Now that each flowerfiber is torn.

All year I stood amid a forest of cherry trees, all in bloom.
And I got so used to the smell.

This is okay, it is okay to let yourself be mushed up by his skinny fingers. His hands are warm and will protect you from his icy breath, his icy eyes. You can tell yourself that the feeling of shock that jolts you after he pulls his lips off of yours is not needed. His top lip is growing with your kisses and nibbles, it is plump from your ****** lips leaking onto it. The freckles on his cheeks and nose are getting darker each time your cheek slides against them. He has a face marked with you, soft heart and that is okay. Months from now, you will have to leave him. By then he will be even more beautiful, you will have perfected him. You will go to a new city with his bite marks on your heart. It will be okay because he taught you to keep your heart soft for the next bite to come. It is okay heart, it is time to wrap your lips around his and let your whole self tingle with delight. He is worth it, you are worth it and this will all be okay.

He rejected me like
As if I were the vegetables
Mushed together and scattered
Across the play board
At a toddler’s dinner table.

Sit down, put pen to paper
Think.
Nothing comes.
Pen ink spreads out from where the tip touches
A stain on an otherwise blank sheet
A stain that speaks more then the words that won't form
A visual primordial soup of the mind
All mushed up
No clearity or dividing line.
No verbal structure to be defined from the words
From the thoughts
They all are or are not
There is no pattern, or order
Yet no chaos either.
Just ink on paper.
The ink being my thoughts, pouring out unformed and all at once
Spreading out from where the pen rests, unmoving on the paper
Soaking the point of impact till it rips, peircing through.
Still thinking.
Like always having something on the tip of your tougne
But in your mind, your thoughts
It's there yet unformed and unknown.
So again sit down, put pen to paper
And think.

Today, from class I was walking
On the phone with my boyfriend,
I was talking,
When between my feet I felt
A squishy, squirmy wormy,
Who's brain,
I mushed, stomped,
Smashed and smushed,
amidst the evening rain.

I cried out "why!?"
For his little brown eye,
Stared deep into my soul.
It looked so sad,
Because it was a dad,
To other squirmy wormys
I couldn't see.

As I was walking,
Still on the phone, talking
To my boyfriend,
who could not see,
The death of the wormy,
No longer so squirmy,
And I considered
What is life to be.

we went shopping this morning,
then to the movies.
all the time,
the little voice in my head
was telling me,
i had forgotten
an important chore.

we were gone three, four hours.
the little voice niggling away.

got home just now
and remembered
as i opened the front gate.

forgot to lock the catflap
gus's in/outdoor.
well, by now, its far too late.

you see gus,
the little grey cat
is a collector, not a
hunter of things.

if god forbid,
he were a dog.
he would be one
of those retreivery things.

he finds and he brings,
normally to his food bowl.
so now, we are in the kitchen
and were taking stock.

one mangled penny lizard
and two other tails.
one drowned moth,
one feebly swimming still
three dazed cicadas,
one belly up and by
the sound a few more yet
to be found
a praying mantis, sans one claw
and something else,
mushed into the floor
a magpie feather,
but,(thank god) not the bird
our little grey cat,
flat out on the mat.
it has been a big morning,
no doubt about that.

he sleeps on, oblivious.
as we his minions,
clean up his mess,
as best we can.
from experience the lizards,
find their own way out.
the cicadas, we find,
when they sing
their discordant song,
reminding me, all day long
my little voice,
not ever wrong.

Occasionally I feel a gloom so wrapped in emotion and fear and apprehension
Of the future
Of myself
I get strong and build myself with bricks of lace
My stomach turns
I feel wrapped up in laces of pain
I am robed in loneliness
My flats solidify every ounce of happiness and turned them into mushed grapes of deep existence
Perhaps the most lonely times are those when you know who loves you somehow yet still feel that it isn't enough
It is what tightens the cord on my robe
I let the gold ensnare my already knotted insides
Perhaps from running away from my problems I'm just creating an even bigger ball of twisted emotions
A type of lukewarm germ throbbing in the pit of my stomach
My fingers can't feel it
My body feels weighed down
Grieved down
Oh how I put on a persona of happiness
But I really am happy
God has given me so much
I dislike that I feel this
Yet don't feel anything at the same time
I hate that sentence. So emotionless
Never leave me wrap yourself around my robe
Hold me in the fetal position and never break the umbilical cord that ties me to you
Never leave me like they all do
Eventually I lose myself
I am never what they want
I **** the magic
Magic killer
The pain the solemn knowing that you are alone yet surrounded by loved ones

I know you're only one,
And won't remember this day,
But if you keep this card, I pray
You consider the struggles you've won
And the monumental discoveries just begun.

Out of the womb's cocoon - new entity!
A unique specimen of life; a wonderous creation!
That initial breath of antiseptic, hope and untold expectation;
Mum's exhausted, glowing recognition of your reality;
The instant bond of Mum and daughter - subliminal connectivity!

A most rewarding period - a year of firsts:
The first banshee wail announcing your presence to the world;
The first smile to melt cooing observer's hearts;
The first tentative explorations of strange environs;
The first taste of mushed apples and dirt;
The first movement to make a ***** proud;
The first torrent of information absorbed into a receptive mind;
The first sight of Mum, a dog and the Wiggles;
The first touch of toys, carpet and that sticky thing;
The first experience of pain - a necessary evil;
The first aural delights of music and speech patterns;
The first shaky, awkward, but determined steps towards independence.

Indeed, this first year has been momentous,
However, consider - the learning curve has just started:
Ahead of you, so mysterious now, are other firsts awaiting.

Some nights you
were the moon.
Sailing through waves of milk
Before disappearing
into the vulnerability
Of what we keep on the inside.
It's no wonder why cookies
Are so popular.
The outer edge
drenched in saliva,
Curiously protecting
what's kept Precious.
A slight pause before everything
Is mushed & swallowed.
Some nights you were the moon.
Drenched in white fudge
Swirling in a universe all of your own.
Some nights you were the universe
Itself

I untwisted my brain today
And lay it out on the table in rows
Examined it for kinks
To see what the other thought thinks
To ask it what it knows.
I mushed it back together
But I couldn’t quite remember
What went where, or how it goes….
I squeezed it back in through my nose
And now my thoughts just flow and flow
Part of some muddled, mixed up show
All cause I examined my brain dontcha know.

Take a peep at re-incarnation.
Think a while.
Re-incarnated as a tree.
A beautiful thought.
Maybe!
Trees make paper with various uses.
From beautiful books to sate the readers,
Or shredded and mushed and put on a roll, used to sort the bottoms of the nation.
Don't fancy being re-incarnated as a tree!
Do you?
(C) Livvi

Let us not forget who here is in power, it’s the biggest, prettiest flower. Whose leaves are most luscious, developed and flush. Where the birds and the bees flock with most rush. Now we must ask “what makes the pedals so plush”? Is it the softness or color? One’s sense of smell or what makes one blush? The answer is all. Altogether. All mushed. For it’s the flower in power who has the most push, the greener the stem the greater the bush.