my naked lady framed
in twilight is an accident

whose niceness betters easily the intent
of genius—
                        painting wholly feels ashamed
before this music,and poetry cannot
go near because perfectly fearful.

meanwhile these speak her wonderful
But i(having in my arms caught

the picture)hurry it slowly

to my mouth,taste the accurate demure
ferocious
              rhythm of
                            precise
laziness.  Eat the price

of an imaginable gesture

exact warm unholy

Before I met her, I wanted to be her. Does that sound stupid? I wanted to be that ****** up ****** that did a bunch of drugs and always had money because she led men on and lived free and just lived life despite a daily brush with death. I was eventually, and I had an amazingly horrible experience.

I met her when I was 13. I spent a lot of time just "babysitting" her really. My other friends hated her. We'd come over and she'd literally go in the closet to shoot up and we'd just be chilling in her bedroom listening to Hole and being really confused as to why she didn't just use the bathroom. But she liked the attention and audience. This might seem cliche or mean or whatever, but it's true.

As my decent friends grew further away from me because I continuously grew closer and closer to her, I did a lot of *******, not nearly as much as I would later on in life. but enough to say, "wow I did a lot of ******* when I was 15" and at the time, it seemed like an accomplishment. Maybe I thought I was cool, I don't know, now I just think I was stupid and weak and regret being like my father.

Obviously, as time went on, I did ******. The first 500 times Natalie offered me it, I said no. I always said no, but she still always asked. If you know a ****** addict, there's something else you probably know. ****** addicts love having other ****** addicts around because you guys will work together to make money and get more. This will probably turn into what it really is and what we were really were, and that's a co-dependent platonic couple, but I didn't know that until just now.

The day I finally did it, my god. My god. My god. My god. My god.

I feel slightly guilty writing this because I don't want to glorify drug abuse but Christ, did it feel good.

We were downstairs watching Hedwig and she gave me the eye to start talking to her mom so she could go upstairs discreetly. Then her mom was like "where'd she go?" so I went to go check, even though I knew.

I walk into the bathroom, scaring the **** out of her. She had lines of ******, diesel, whatever. We called it diesel, I don't know if that's like a common name for it? Is it? Whatever, I said "let me try it."

Why? I don't know why. To this very second I can't remember what I was thinking. She didn't ask, and maybe that's why. But she put some on her hand and I snorted it. I hated the taste. Sometimes I smell it, and I don't know what it is that smells like ******, but I find myself saying out loud, when people are around, "ugh it smells like ******."

This is one of my catchphrases I think, and I am not proud of it anymore.

People always ask me what it felt like the first time. I remember not feeling anything. I remember not feeling guilty for helping Natalie remain a drug addict in her parents house. I remember her pinching me and telling me not be obvious, but oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know that it was going to make me feel like a warm pancake that just wanted to sleep wide awake.

Sleeping wide awake, that's a good way to describe how it feels.

I tell people this a lot, this process of drug use, and how I ended up shooting ****** and kind of just ignoring that I was.

I smoked *** and said "well it's not like I'm doing E"
then I did E and said "I'm not doing coke"
then it was "it's not ******"
and then it was "it's not like I'm shooting it."

Once I started shooting it, I didn't have any excuse or cop out, I was just curious as to what else I could inject into my body and became that glorified drug addict who lived free and did anything she wanted and felt like she came out of a book or a movie or a ****** up story you only hear strangers gabbing about on the train.

I was that girl. Natalie was much worse though. But that didn't come until I was about 18.

I had morals, yes even heavily addicted to ******, I had morals. I didn't steal from my family. This was one thing that would not break for me even when I was maybe putting **** in my mouth for money. But that's not even entirely true because I didn't do it for the money, it just happened that way.

So I'm probably 16 at this point in the story. I'm meeting guys off MySpace with her, guys from rich towns that want *** or coke or ******, just guys who can't get it in their towns. She's ******* them, I'm stealing from them. We don't keep friends very long because they know what we're up to after a few times.

She also sold her parents wedding rings, I didn't even know until after the fact, or I would have tried to stop her.

Her mother was so good to me. I spent a lot of time at their house. Her mom always invited me for holidays, despite the huge family they already had coming, because she knew my home life wasn't too good and she just treated me like I imagine you're supposed to treat a daughter you like. She was also very religious, which added to the blinders she had when it came to Natalie. She thought she could pray the drugs away, the way she tried to pray my gay away.

I was absolutely heart broken and completely beside myself the day her mother yelled, "she told me what you did. She told me you took the rings."

I didn't take the rings but what was I supposed to do? Try and convince her that Natalie did? She knew, somewhere she knew, but she didn't want to believe it so I just walked out of the house and never came back. I cried about that for a long time because I loved her mother, so much more than I am trying to say here. She might have been oblivious, but she was the sweetest woman in the world and I feel horrible that she had a daughter like Natalie.

I met so many characters. Chris. I don't remember his last name but it was something really white boyish. He would drive 45 minutes to us so we could get him 8 bags of ****** when he paid for 10, but we'd pocket two. We did this a lot during the day actually. We'd get drugs for people and just never tell them you get a bundle (10 bags) for 80$, and they'd tell their friends we'd go for them, and they'd think the same thing. Why? Oh, because these were very white people that were afraid of the "ghetto." And it was the ghetto, it was Newark, NJ. The corner of Victoria and Garside, what up, what up. Come see me.

I never really liked Chris. He was a musician but he wasn't that good. I think he thought he was Conor Oberst, and at that time, he kind of looked like him. But he was just some rich white kid with an inflated ego and I didn't feel bad ripping him off, or his Trust Fund Baby friends.

I did feel bad though when one of them died in front of us.

So I guess this is where I'll start writing the "**** got real real fast" stuff, now that I've hopefully explained the type of person I am and how I got to this point.


Why drug dealers cut their drugs with poison and whatever else, I'll never know. Bad for business if you ask me, but I've never been a big fan of the business world, but this seems pretty similar.

Natalie is driving Chris' car and we didn't snort any ****** yet, which was weird, but I'm grateful we didn't. We bring it back to Chris and his friends, who are waiting a few towns over for us. They get in the car and are like "just drive around for a bit so we can do this."

They all have separate bags, and I feel terrible I can't remember the girl's name that died, I want to say it was Karen or something like that but I know it wasn't. She just rolls up a bill and snorts out of the bag and within like 10 seconds she's screaming and everyone in the backseat is screaming and I turn around and there's blood pouring out of her nose and it's all over her hands and the car and her boyfriend and Chris and I think her eyes are bleeding but I'm not entirely sure if that's what was happening. And I'm like "What the **** what the ****" because it wasn't a normal nose bleed, this girl was just, flowing blood out of her face.

Natalie is emotionless as always. I'm screaming "get to the hospital get to the ******* hospital" and the girl is like screaming "it hurts oh my god oh my god it hurts" and her boyfriend is like "yo man, what the **** bb are you okay bb."

It's weird that in situations like this everyone repeats themselves but I think your brain kind of stops working and you need to repeat yourself so the rest of you can process the magnitude of ****** up that your eyes are seeing.

Needless to say, Natalie didn't go straight to the hospital, she stopped the car a few blocks away. The girl died within 15 minutes. I don't know why Natalie or I wasn't held accountable for what happened, but I think it had something to do with me telling Chris who the dealer was, and this was the only time in my life I ever gave out a name, even when I was in jail, I didn't rat anyone out. But death is different and anyone who doesn't believe in being a rat when you're faced with that kind of guilt, is a *******.

Natalie got out and started walking, Chris got in the front seat and I followed after Natalie. He did take his friend to the hospital immediately after but Natalie was being inhumane, and it was just better she got out of the car because she probably would have driven us all into a river to avoid being arrested.

I really have no idea why she got out of the car though, she had no fear, I think she was just annoyed, like this girl's death ruined her day when it ruined my life. I guess making a joke out of it makes it easier for me to deal with, but it still isn't. For me, it was monstrous, it was desensitizing, it was mortality showing itself and I was like "I'll never do ****** again." But that was a lie. I found out a week later via MySpace message that the girl had glass (!?) in her bag as well as ****** and I have no idea. I have no ******* idea what why how. I just don't understand that.

Chris still came around for ****** though. And he still brought his friends, just not the ones that were there that day.

What am I, like 17? I'm still senior in high school and I have really ****** concept of age, and I meet this other guy.

MY GOD WHAT A MAN.

Yeah, I said it. He was 38, built like Hulk Hogan, and had the sweetest smile and the most honest blue eyes I have ever seen.

He also had been out of jail for a whole year before we met him. He was tied to a car ring where people would pay him to steal cars. He was in jail for 6 years and when I turned 21, I heard he landed himself back in jail for trying to **** someone or something.

He was nice though. I couldn't figure out why he was so obsessed with Natalie. But the niceness wore out and I finally learned what a creepy ******* he was.

He used to ride his bicycle to meet up with us and he had a lot of money, he just wasn't allowed a license. He was a construction worker for the union, made like 60$ an hour and what do you know, he was a ****** addict.

He told me how they get drugs inside jail. You get a girl to come visit you and sit down with you. You kiss them, like make out kissing because that's all you need. That like 4 seconds before someone is like HEY CUT IT OUT, and they have the drugs wrapped up in their mouth, and you get the picture. Just in case you were wondering how that works.

He also told me that I reminded him of his sister, that died of a drug overdose.
He also showed me his **** one day when he was at my house alone with me.
He also ****** off on my couch and tried to get me to **** it.
Then he tried to get me just to touch it.
Then I asked him to leave.
And then some other stuff happened that I don't feel comfortable writing about but I probably will another day.

He turned out to be a ******* ****** and I don't really trust anyone with pretty eyes anymore. But he was fun. Once he started trying to impress me, a 17 year old girl, and Natalie who was like 22, he decided he'd go back to his old ways and steal cars. I can't count the amount of porsches I've been in or how many miles per hour we went or how many car accidents there were that we shouldn't have walked away from it unharmed. He never hit anyone else, just walls and guardrails, rolled into ditches.

Seat belts, seriously, wear them. I don't anymore, but I'm going to start again.

He used to give me a lot of money. A Lot Of Money, just to hang out with him and watch him ******* and ****. I don't know sometimes when I think about these things.

Natalie did something stupid, she got caught stealing from him. He didn't mind giving us money and I think that's why he was so mad. He would have just handed it to her if she asked. So he started coming to my house a lot in stolen cars, then I introduced him to my other teenager female friends and it worked out really well for me.

He was gone for good and it was better that way.

I was still only snorting ****** up until this time of my life. The taste of ****** and the amount I puked from it was becoming too much and I was losing a lot of weight and it wasn't healthy looking so I decided to start shooting. I didn't even do it for the normal reason which is, you get higher, faster and harder.

Natalie and I are in a bathroom of my friend's house whose mother is handicapped, bed bound, so we just go there all the time to get high. The mother is also diabetic so there's a lot of unused empty needles. I help her shoot. And it's scary, she would shake and tremble and it was really bad. Sometimes I'd think to myself, "it's like your body is trying to stop you from doing it."

But if you like blood, watching someone shoot up is really cool. You mix water with the powder and, ew now that I'm thinking about it, what the ****. You wrap your arm up, so your veins pop up, put the needle into a vein and you pull some blood out, I don't know the reason behind this, and you shoot it back into yourself.

I'm really uncomfortable with the whole idea of shooting so I shot into my hands because I had very prominent veins there. I eventually started shooting speed *****, ****** and coke, which was too much fun for someone as emotionally unstable as I was, to be doing something so completely unpredictable. The first time I shot ******, I never snorted it again.

I shot Jack Daniels once and never did that again either. I figured I'd get drunk really fast, right? Wrong, it burned like a ***** and I started smashing my hand into the bathroom sink screaming "WHAT THE **** WHY DOES IT BURN."

It's whiskey, Audrey. Whiskey.

I met so many more people when I was shooting. I became friends with an entire *******, all the strippers, their boyfriends, their "daddies" and just, those kinds of people, and like I said before, I'll write about that another day. But that is where I met Janelle and Kevin, aka, Jack and Sally. They were these really gothy ****** addicts and this is going to be ridiculous, but it was so beautiful when they shot up.  

Kevin would be like "okay, baby, ready?" and he'd caress her arm and she'd wrap it, and he'd kiss her and then kiss her arm, then he'd put the needle in and I'd be sitting on the bed sobbing because I thought it was so cute, in like, a really disgusting "I'm clearly on drugs" kind of way.

I didn't hang out with them for that long, Natalie ****** Kevin and that ****** because Kevin and I used to make forts inside the house and talk a lot about nothing, but it was fun and I felt like a child, and I liked feeling like I was a child and that it was okay I was acting the way I was.

A bunch of people that hung out there eventually started doing ****** and I couldn't stand it so I had to get away from a bit because my guilt came back and I felt like I was killing everyone.


Natalie started setting up drug deals so they'd get ripped off if they went without her, she started turning on me, stealing from me, she had me set up for a deal and her dealer put a gun in my mouth when I started arguing with him about how he gave me like wood chips or whatever. It was not ******, but we still ran like thieves together.

She introduced me to the next guy we were going to use, his name was Pablo. He was about 42 and lived in his parents basement. He was an outstanding artist, I mean, I couldn't figure out why he was in his parents basement with the amount of talent he had. We used to smoked embalming fluid with him and angel dust.

Now, if you ever want to know what it feels like to be Alice in Thunderland, smoke embalming fluid. I went on a 4 day drug binge that consisted of nothing but dust, fluid, her

What comes
To mind when
I say the word
Beauty?
A model?
An athlete?
A movie star?
What comes
To mind when
You hear the word
Beauty?
The laugh?
The voice?
What comes
To mind when
You see the word
Beauty?
The smile.
The walk.
The eyes.
What comes to mind
When I hear the word
Beauty?
Sweetness.
Intelligence.
Cuteness.
Niceness.
Beauty,­ to me, is neither
Outer nor inner;
It’s both.
My beauty is a book
With chapters titled
Intelligence,
Cuteness,
Niceness,
Sweetness,
Outgoing,
With the final chapter
Of my beauty titled
Warm heartedness.
That’s my beauty…
What’s yours?

Go, Soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity
And virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can ****.

Someone asked me why was I so nice?
Why did I greet people with a smile?
Why didn't I reply to a nasty comment with an equally nasty comment?

At first I was taken aback with the line of questions.
I couldn't quite grasp the shock in their voice.
Why was being nice such a novelty?

And then it hit me!
Niceness isn't expected anymore,
Compliments are never given anymore without expecting something in return,
Smiles are nonexistent,
And kindness is a thing of the past.

Why am I nice?
In a world full of hate,
Full of fear,
Full of ugliness,
Why am I nice?

Why do I smile at strangers?
In a world where the mean excel,
Where the bullies rule,
Where being bad is applauded,
Why do I still smile at strangers?

Why do I compliment my peers?
In a place where putting people down is winning,
Where we try to compete for beauty,
Where calling someone beautiful or handsome is considered "flirting",
Why do I compliment my peers everyday?

Why don't I reply with hurtful replies when offended?
In an environment where I'm supposed to curse at a peer for doing the same,
Where I'm supposed to yell when being yelled at,
Where I'm supposed to show how hard I am in a very hard world.
Why don't I reply with hurtful words?

It's very simple,
I smile because you don't know who needs to see a smile,
I compliment because i believe that everyone is beautiful,
I'm not hurtful because I know how it feels to be injured with words,
And most importantly,
I'm nice because this world needs a light,
It needs kind words and gestures.
I don't want to feel hate, remorse, or coldness.
I need to stay soft for those who need a soft place to land.

This is why I'm "nice".

-Espe T.

Foolish girl,
You were to scared to say anything to him
Too self conscious
To afraid that you were going to ***** something up
So you just waited until you were ready
But sadly
You waited too long
Time passed
Soon it becomes days
Weeks
Months
Years
And you still didn't talk to him
You never have
He left and moved on while you were still stuck to him
Stuck to his charm
His smile
His mind
His personality
His niceness
But foolish girl,
You waited too long
You lost the love you loved and the dream you dreamt
Too bad it was all a fairytale
Too bad you didn't say anything
Maybe if you did
You wouldn't have to miss his charm
His smile
His mind
His personality
His niceness
And more
Maybe you would be happy
Maybe you could look at him and smile instead of stare at the ground  when he walks by
Maybe you would have the courage to say "Hi" or "How You Doin?"
But foolish girl
You waited too long
And now he's gone
(K.B.)

-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable.  I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation

I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone

Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.

I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise

I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong

The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences  between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.

Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.

Players,
Upon people’s weaknesses they play.
Tramplers,
Upon people’s happiness they trample upon.

They preach,
Oh they preach,
Preachers of men,
Preaching their manifestos.

Their mass oppressions,
A whipstroke of slavery,
Keeping freedom away,
Allowing unspoken speeches.

Mr. Government!
Your planting of truth,
Yet acting lies,
Like Lucifer upon earth.

Our lost lands,
The cornering of leaders.
Our cherished freedom,
The bounds of greedy mortals.

Their moral compass,
A dumpling for gutters.
The words of restructuring,
A lie they tell to sleep at night.

The revolting of souls,
A bribery round the corner.
The dawn of a new day,
A shutting down of a never casted dye.

The Bantu they throw at us,
An education of their disloyalty.
Equality they preach,
Yet enjoying the fruits of our labour.

Our heroes past,
A burden dropped,
To be forgotten,
Yet remembered for belly sake.

Me, My belly and I,
A stomach infrastructure,
Catering only to the rich,
Yet diminishing the poor.

The controllers of affairs,
Dictating one’s future
Offering obedient slaves,
A slaughtering for their ****** souls.

Their theatre signatory,
A passing for comedy.
Our leaders,
A legacy of betrayal.

The citations of a bad fruit,
Their forever plantings,
Bringing over odour,
Of sadness and slavery.

An act of niceness,
Yet taking my bones at every given chance.
Giving us no choice,
Yet claiming we have no bounds.

Stirring us along
Giving us hope
Talking of a bright light,
Yet sinking in your treacherous torture.

Stealing of freedom from our lips
Pushing us into the dark quarters
Digging our early graves,
Yet cometh like a Redeemer.

Telling us of your democracy,
Yet ripping off our fundamental rights.
Your dictatorship,
Creating our unfree society.

Coming out,
Telling us of our victorious times,
A bribery to generations,
Yet helping to dig out graves.

Giving heart-warming patriotic speeches
Telling us not to be afraid,
Portraying tunnels of hope,
A bribery we didn’t reject.

Your illusion of a god-complex
Crushing everything in your path
Giving false hope
A mockery we carry on our foreheads

Our daily tyrants,
Walking freely,
Taking slaves,
Yet leaving no man to rise.

We envisaged a better tomorrow
Leaving the past behind
Creating new dreams
A dream you cut short

Our pens as placards
Establishing dictatorship
Safeguarding a revolution
Writing hopes of tomorrow

Your speeches
Bringing apathetic graves
Letting out your brutality
Showing life’s forces

You stand on the hill
Shouting your command
We all gather in fear
Singing silently “dictatorship free us now”

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

I kinda wanna watch the Dead Poets Society and cry some more













                                               ­   and feel ok about myself










            and stop feeling so lonely inside







my own head all the time













and all the pain I've experienced, and all the pain everyone experiences, and all the hate and all the evil and all the betrayals and all the



              mad strangeness








all the dead end moments spent thinking


                           'it's about to happen'

with that little up-euphoria and a cup of hottie coffee only to have it sink again when it's all an



                  



                                       ­                  unrealized











dream


               for


                               no













                                                   ­     reason













and all the  





























                                                    distan­ce



                



                                













                                               all the facebooks










                                                      ­                            all the tumblrs


















    all the snapchats









                      all the xanax







                          









                                   all the drugs















all the





                                                           ­              sobriety
















all the



















                                                 'maybe tomorrows'




















                    all the
                                                              

­
                                                           'one days'












                                          I CAN'T EXPLAIN IT










all the banks




                         and



                                  all the houses








all the flowers looking nice and the niceness looking not so nice so the              niceness              of         the        flowers      



                                     ­       ain't

                                                       so

                                                               ­ nice



















































        ­                                    all the jobs





and




                                                            ­               all the laundry










all the money all the lies all the painful honest











                                                     ­                          truths









  all the cellphones and water



and the fridge,
                      in the quiet,
























                    humming





























                                   ­              humming































humming

























        humming

(descent)
Hindered by progress, or the idea of progress:
evolution-in-waiting bellows me to hide,
tattering becomes ruination.

Animism creeps,
not-yet hands pushing at dim velvet.
Peeping one-eyed through the past
where had borne such potent promise
immutability lain intact
flumped into snowy thickness
and thrown hard against Georgian glass.

Here comes the stealth of unillumination
thankfully blanketing
they were tied at the hips
and neck,
then wrapped as old mirrors.

That door went nowhere
it always does
those Victorians, forever meddling,
will folly themselves into any trouble.

(resurrection)
You haven’t changed one bit!
I say to myself,
showing you their brand new niceness
***** as copper pans.
Go on, spit in my fire
the hiss is the thing that’s real.

To tell the story of the nice-guy
is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.  

There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy.  There is no effort
to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms
on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past.

Tomorrow, in Houston,

a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.  

There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed
and the children he prescribed himself.  

Three daughters,
from fifteen to twenty-two.  

Tiramisu for dessert.  

Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs
and innocence buried behind the woodshed.

Pretend now, that you are forgiven.  

Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets
float like chemtrails.

You love you as much as the world always did.  

You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy,
you have only lived in the glow of their light.  Hearts remain full.  

The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop
and bluejeans still mask imperfections.  Sunsets are memorable,

and so are first dates and last kisses.  

Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.  

Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds,
satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas.

Forget your father’s words
or a stranger's hand.  

Forget improbability, impossibility,
impotence, importance,
impatience
and improper goodbyes.  

Forget the tears cried alone
into ***** filled sheets at midnight.  

Forget the effect but remember the cause,
camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.  

Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways
that turned words flaccid.  

Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends
and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.  

Nice-guys vanish like good ideas,
lost in the shuffle,
looking for pen and paper,

just like house cats die
on the forth of July,

and all that’s left are ashes
on a mantel
alongside fraudulent grins.

Conglomerate softness
Plying blissfully the scars off my wounds
An addictive activity with bleak endings
Leaving a small dent on my skin soon

A memento of this visit
Comforting words and faces explain greatly
The niceness in which days daze away sadness,

So I savour this.

A kiss of kindness disguises itself in the random acts of allegiance
Only friendship commits
On the edges of wit,
And the brinks of sanity
I treat my own mind with such levity that fails to address the subject topic.

One day I’ll get past this
Like the seasons which pass by the skies like temporary trips
Staying long enough to make you feel sad when it’s gone
But hopeful that it’s not lasting
Bombastically feeling nostalgia for everything.

The world makes me happy
In the way that happiness only exists within this realm
The only one we know
And for every day that I grow I show the fruits of my labour
Flavouring the air with words that fall out my mouth like crisp apples
Perishable but delicious and nurturing,
Though this apple tree can’t really fend for itself
It has gardeners who defend its’ health,

And I am so grateful
For this help to grow,
Hopefully through these fruits
I can show you
as well.

The moon is missing
Old stories oppress the scorned clock's hand
What is this interminable waiting?
Lost are the World's metaphors
Lost and fled to a dark place
Once beehives born in new orchards
They now dissolve in time's dead way
And die in the viciousness of niceness
Densely social and devoid of empty
Do I dare ask these forbidden questions
She is missing, missing to me
I know where she is but I can't find her
  but now I see the harvest corn
  and a bursting city of goldenrod
            
  (this can only mean good)

**** your beautiful lies
**** your perfect smile
**** your bleach blonde hair
**** all of your denial
**** your adorable awkwardness
**** your enticing body
**** your continuous niceness
****  your amazing personality

**** my love for you...

What's wrong?
Why so sad?
Why so mean?
We've still got six months
Left of our sentence.
But you're stuck in isolation.
You don't hear me.
You're not listening.
We don't talk,
We yell.
We don't discuss,
We shout.
These bars have hardened us.
They'll be no niceness left when we're
Released.

As I was calling things you that weren't that hurtful such as ******* and ****,  I had realized I had used those far too often and had resorted to a plain "*******". I needed a new angle on the aspect of insults within boundaries. While my need to make you feel inferior raged on I look in the thesaurus to find alternatives to the words I have already used. Of course they didn't have ******* or **** with a list of synonyms. So I decided to look at plain "mean", as I was looking at the synynoms nothing really described what I wanted to put in your brain that you already knew. I glanced over at the antynoms and they were "compassionate, kind, nice, noble, sympathetic"

     An antynom to mean was sympathic
An antynom to mean is sympathetic
Sym pathetic
Sym.       Pathetic.
You are pathetic with your words to show compassion, kindness, niceness, and nobleness to me. ME. You are not a ******* or a *******, a deadbeat or a waste of space, immature or childish, selfish or conceded. You in fact lack the ability to be sympathetic towards me, not totally apathetic. But just unsympathetic to **** me the *******. And you do it so well.

Genetically enhanced
Spiritually enhanced
Grown up wiser
Grown up bolder
I'm the master of words
They roll off my tongue
Like avalanches off a mountain
So cold
It leaves you shaking
Icy death awaits you
I'll shake and break u
Take two
The silence awaits you
I've been reborn
Remade
Recreated

Some people look down on what you do.
Some people see the niceness within you
Then they try to corrupt what you do
But you stand tall
Stand firm
Because you are reborn

A new day has begun
Once again you have risen
The past life in my head
But as my life motto
**** happens for reason
Dwelling on my past
Doesn't make my future any brighter
But forgetting your past
Doesn't make you any stronger
So what you do is
Is to learn from it
Open your eyes to the outside world
My girl has helped me
She has showed me that the
World isnt always cold
So I walk on the earth
Genetically revived
Spiritually revived

By Emily Riddle-Age 9 

Special: The dictionary describes an angel as a "thing or person, that means a lot to someone. Well, I describe an angel as my grandmother.

My grandmother is a wonderful person, and what she is best at
is caring about what I will become.
I am so glad to be in her life, and in her beautiful world.

She has a heart of gold, and is a "doctor to my soul."
She is the "nurse" that make my hurts disappear.
She is my "piggy bank of niceness."

When I would get a birthday, or Christmas gift, she would always say,
"If you don't like it, be sure to try it."
I would always listen to her, for everybody knows
"grandmothers are always right."

I think of her everyday, and feel that  I can do anything
when I'm around her. Just remember,
"Always be happy for what you have, and don't imagine a life without a grandmother."

They are worth a billion dollars.

copyright: emily riddle August 27,2014

You seem to accuse my affection as flirtation.
I have come to a realization:
your skull must be thick
and your brain dull
to believe
my niceness could equate to a desire to bone you.
It is no torture being my friend;
there is no horror to the friend zone

There's this thing that I've always wanted to tell you but I don't know how
I know you you know this but I love you
You might not know this but I need you
When you hold me the world around us melts away
Your face reminds me everyday that I am
100% gay
I've been watching couples in movies for months now and all I think about is your hand holding mine
You help me become a better person and help people around you in every way possible
I've never met someone who is so niceness and compliments
I talk about you all the time
It's kind of sad
I don't want to love you but I can't help myself

My face must've grew today
As my mask did not want to fit.
'So nice' they say she is
But they don't really know ****.
They tell you you're one way
But you feel another
Constantly lying
For the benefit of others.
The biggest of smiles
Everyone using teeth for their mirror
What do I want?
It's always unclear.
Those wars we fought,
No one came out alive
But my card read medic
Somehow I chose to survive.
Everyone had half a mouth.
I had  only half of one too
It's hard to pick sides when blinded like that
Or hard when both sides want you.
They only needed a moment though
Her niceness was overstayed.
The others all stared with swords in their sides
Feeling as though they had been betrayed.
How can you be such a pinball?
Such a spineless, cowardice tool?
What makes you think you're  alliances to all?
What the hell are you trying to prove?
I was just wearing that mask I had once.
It was more like a helmet I guess.
I don't have a civil duty to any
I'm just trying to stay abreast.
But no one can trust a man who has no enemies.
For he stands for nothing at all.
I was dead all along in the trenches,
For the mask/helmet I had was too small.
Everyone will tell you your strengths
When it's something which they desire.
It's disgusting at best but I never act up
I know you can't fight fire with fire.
So let all the others wave the white flag
See if they can lay down their weapons.
I'm at war with myself but you all are too
One day again, we'll be friends.

He's beautiful, I have already mentioned this to him
but I keep on insisting because I think it's not really clear for him yet
that his beauty is both inside and outside

I mean, apart from his noble heart
and niceness befitting of a prince;
apart from his ideas and his way of thinking, his strings of thoughs
that I love to follow and where I also love getting lost in;
apart from the beauty of his likes and loves
(because you are what you love, if after all love transforms you,
and thus I am he and he is I)
even if you took apart all of his being and essence
he would still be beautiful

because he is beautiful, no matter how you see him
although he sees himself and he is not content
he is beautiful in his signature brows
in his shoulders where I anchor and his fingers which I entwine with mine
he is beautiful from the wrinkles in his face and his combed hair
to his feet, wearing shoes two sizes bigger

he is beautiful, no matter how you see him
but he is on his most when he is honest,
when he shows himself weak: in his most pure and human state,
and that usually happens at night,
either with his mind a little blurred by a little alcohol
while his tongue runs and can't say anything but urgent truths,
dyed with that love that not even alcohol can erase;
either in my arms, moved by sweet whispers, his eyes releasing tears
that rise modestly like cotton
but, as they roll, have the shine of a gemstone;
or if not by early morning while we share a single bed,
naked and iluminated by the lights of my alarm clock

he is so beautiful when he lets you see him vulnerable
or he lets you see him in love
or he lets you see him without even noticing that you're seeing him:
he is so beautiful all the time
and he is not content

he tells me he is not content, when his arms hold me tight
and his chest seems sculped exclusively for my hands;
he is not content, my best kept secret,
the boy that looks cute and shy in front of everybody's eyes
and I know in so many different layers;
he is not content being so short and so pale
being that I could use the porcelain analogy to describe his skin,
but his porcelain was adorned with freckles, and marks, and moles
and I have never seen such fine, pretty, warm porcelain
(porcelain is cold and your arms are always warm)

and his dark hair contrasts with his light skin, and his eyes go along:
black lights, stars of Bethlehem that guide the way
to reach to his pink lips that, if you kiss,
you could swear you can find salvation
or a miracle; something strange happens because it's not normal to be moved by such great happiness,
and if his mouth is salvation, the touch of his hands is holy grace

he is not content when I could honor his body
and his spirit and mind,
when my mouth could paint masterpieces in his chest
because he doesn't see shape but I see colours
and I don't know if he believes if god is an artist
but if he doesn't see himself as art, it doesnt matter
since even so, art goes all over himself like a bindweed

since even so, when god said
"let there be light"
I'm almost sure that he was made.

i will die.
the sun,
and by the way
did you know?
(i do)

in the summer it
leaps wholly freshness
into the sweating backs of knees

a yowl


a dream


a distinctly arousing



a corded and steeply ***** shyness.


it peters sharply
from girl cuts
into niceness
a cringing of night
to less darkly foil
the trees

(amongst 'em
where will sleep
me when i
cease my hands to try) roots


reachness of worms
and the rushing of oceans

wind

wind

wind


coolly teasing
with teeth so
cruelly pleasing

(upon which rise
the curving hushness
of body's plummet
isthe
falling of darkness' lushness

The petals fell away to allow us to see
The beauty we knew that the
flower could be
Rose tinted glasses withheld us
the view
Yet under this makeup we all
really knew

Bright flower of beauty
Bright flower of love
Such glorious colour's
A rainbow in gold  

The clover dressed prince tried harder
than ever
To take you away revealing
your layers
But we understood that all of
his lies
Would come back and be haunt him
His loss
Our eyes  

Bright flower of beauty
Bright flower of love
Such glorious colour's
Bedazzled above

Yet many have tried
Never peeled to the end
They don't know your inner
They don't understand
You wanted some fun
Someone lovely and spice
No prince of dark clover
No wondrous lies

No shelving would suit you
A classiness see
Such colour's of beauty
as petals reveal
a flower of niceness one day
falls to you
A love gone the blindness
As one becomes two

Deep dark volatile rage
Nothing more to do
Don't make me be nice anymore
I want to rip your face off
To call out the smiles
And the niceness
Mine and yours
Give me something more truthful
More honest
More real
Bravery
Show yourself
Get on your knees and show me
Show me through your actions
**** your words
**** your excuses
Let them burn
Let it all burn
And then lets see what is left.

365 days gone
8760 hours, since you've been gone
All these months that passed by
I love looking back on the very first day, that was a Wednesday
When you texted me and I didnt even know who you were
Just your name written there on a piece of paper
A reminder to me
That all you could be
was trouble

But then we met in person
And i saw no valid reason
To avoid you: your kindness and niceness
All i was at that time was emptiness
Just keeping afloat along the strong current of life
There you were, the calm that unexpectedly came to me

We became close instantly
Like we've known each other our whole lives
I spilled out to you about my past
You did the same, we both support each other back then that the past will pass

So it did.

I loved you since that night when I was in the hospital and we texted till I need to sleep because my nurse caught me still awake
We talked then about how things would be once you left for Canada
Or maybe Ive loved you even before that
But I was just too afraid to admit
Because you were another "anne"
Because you'll be leaving too, soon, just like everyone else Ive ever wanted to stay
Because we were friends, you were the closest to me that time and I cant risk our friendship away
Because I was too scared, had always been, scared of loving and being not enough to make someone choose me and stay

Then 22nd September came
I was surprise by your somehow confession
I cant help but smile even though it's just a week before my grueling board examination
My friends told me to brush you off, you'll only be a destruction
But my heart thought otherwise, it saw you as an inspiration
So even though all the odds were against us
I took a chance, we both did.

We were happy, or I thought we were.
We had our own share of problems mostly started by me
I was still adjusting to this long distance thing
But you made me happy, you made feel loved, you made me feel emotions I havent felt in a long while
It was a summer to remember
Even with all the fights we faced, we're still together
Your words still ran through my head
It was a night before classes start
"Im gonna miss you" you said
"I'll miss you too" I answered
And just like before you rode that plane, we promised to make ends meet as I walked into a new journey

June came, pressure came, reality came
I have everything I ever wanted, all at once
Stable job, money to support and make my family happy, and of course you
But I was too confused, too afraid
I was so used on being sad
I was so used on losing things
That when everything Ive ever wanted came
I didnt know how to keep them, especially you
So I acted badly
All the pressure I was feeling, I turned it all to you
You were like my absorber
But you have your limit too

I regret every wrong doing Ive ever done to you
I regret taking you for granted
I regret everything I wasnt able to do to make you stay
I wanted it to be you
I badly wanted it to be you
I dont know how 2 months can ruin a strong 8 months
But then it happened
Youre gone

Here I am
525600 seconds passed
Still having wishful thinking
Dreaming of you, here
not there
Not that far away,
not to be the one that got away

Lots of could'ves, what if's, shouldve's
They all hold me on, telling me not to move on
There's no difference a year has made
Maybe I still need one or two or God knows how many just to forget you

But right now, all I know is, youre my favorite past.
The past that made me believe in now
and the future

And if in the future, we see each other one more time
With my feelings not changing a bit
With your name, echoing in my heartbeat
Dont resist to ask me this:
After all this time?

Always.

It will be always.
It will always be, always.

By Emily Riddle-Age 9 (She will turn 13 on Feb 16, 2016)

Special: The dictionary describes an angel as a "thing or person, that means a lot to someone. Well, I describe an angel as my grandmother.

My grandmother is a wonderful person, and what she is best at
is caring about what I will become.
I am so glad to be in her life, and in her beautiful world.

She has a heart of gold, and is a "doctor to my soul."
She is the "nurse" that make my hurts disappear.
She is my "piggy bank of niceness."

When I would get a birthday, or Christmas gift, she would always say,
"If you don't like it, be sure to try it."
I would always listen to her, for everybody knows
"grandmothers are always right."

I think of her everyday, and feel that  I can do anything
when I'm around her. Just remember,
"Always be happy for what you have, and don't imagine a life without a grandmother."

They are worth a billion dollars.

copyright: emily riddle August 27,2014

Penned in 2013 by my granddaughter, Emily Riddle. Written for her Grandmother Linda, its worth more than a billion dollars.

Thing is,
I am a man of this modern world.
The people of this time are aware we have lost the ways of opulent formality and style.

Thing is,
We are confounded that because people expect us to simply be polite.
It is such an offense that we created a new term to redefine it: political correctness. We don't really worry about the correctness part, but we think a lot about the political part.

Thing is,
Politics and politeness are not synonymous.
Though we could be polite when discussing our politics, we rarely are.
It's no wonder, because we are deeply passionate about the rules that govern us.

Thing is,
We should forget about being politically correct. We should be, instead, politely correct. No matter where we stand, we can treat each other with a niceness that I hope is not irretrievably lost to our more formal past.

Thing is,
We lose a bit of our finess everytime we hold on to bitterness. Let go of fear. What do you have to lose?

I grow to despise all
which bring tears to my eyes

it's happened too many times now

I want nothing but your nonexistence
no happiness or sadness

just nothingness

I want apathy, I want disinterest
I want permanently handicapped empathy

I'll get there eventually

I'm losing faith that there's such
thing as hope, or faith for that matter

it's all drab around here, really

I try to pacify my bitterness
but my bitterness pacifies me

I'm taunted by the irony

I've lost count of the times
I've been made to feel so foolish

I'm getting used to being embarrassed

All you well-to-do women
with whatever is in your head

Keep respectable distance

your energy is better spent
on one who won't slowly with time

unravel at your feet

I can agree there's a lot to
hate about those who you pity

the ones who feel as I do

you see them vulnerable and
you feel in control and powerful

it disgusts you that you had no choice

you'll soon loathe as I do
and your niceness will be tarnished

I'll loathe all even more

I feel no sensations other than
some exhausted discontent

it becomes your true companion

I welcome it all at this point
there's no point to finding a point

maliciousness just exists, I guess

you or I are no exception
I know I'm feeling quite awful

I want to share my suffering

but it's for me and only me
my one and only property

my holy suffering

I'll carry it with me
exclusively

I cannot be one with this world
I won't adhere to what it requires
It shall be forced to my own will,
or I will exile myself willingly

with my suffering,
in pursuit of the only thing
I am truly entitled to