He lived within my normal
Without catechisms
One leg at a time
Pants and glory

He loved within my normal
Without judgment
A freedom to live
The freedom of happy

He lays within my Normal
With complete peace
a freedom to laugh
A kindness to smile

He loved my normal
And put me to sleep
He slept,  we sleep.
Then dreamt

My normalities became his freedom to be
His laughter Her Cadence
A rave of emotional dialect
Nothing to conquer
Nor ranks to achieve

He lived and loved within
Within my normal
Within the normalities.

In society,
Women are always told they are too much.
Too angry, too calm
Too quiet, too loud
Too big, too small
And we are all of these things
We are angry.
Angry about the internalized oppression that still flows on a day to day basis. We are angry about our predefined roles of what girl is, what girl should be.
And we are too calm.
Calm about the man that called you a name in the street and all you wanted to do was cry
Or the teacher that told you you couldn't do what you wanted because it was a mans place, not a woman's
You should have yelled, but you didn't. Because we are too calm.
We are too quiet.
We are silenced.
Our opinions are ranked of worthiness by our physical features, our body types. Our intelligence is last to our ****** appeal. We can not be heard through the babble of social media judging and critiquing and pointing out our flaws. So we are quiet.
And we are loud.
We have the ability to speak for the world. To weave the revolution out of the words of women. We have the voice to speak to our sisters globally, teach women that we are loud. We can drown out prejudice with the power of voice and bring down the barrier of how a girl should be.
We are small.
Told that our personalities are preset by the gender normalities that the patriarchy has placed, we are shrunk to fit our predefined roles. They cut us into shapes so we can not realize that we are so much bigger.
Because we are big.
We are huge. We have global impact. While we are cut down, I would like to see us glue each other back together. I want to see women take back our voices. I want to hear women all over the world speak how they feel, bust through the barriers of what the patriarchy has told them. Fight back against their rapists, abusers, silencers. When someone tells you that you are being too much, say "I am. And I am becoming so much more."

Did I win or lose?
Perhaps-maybe nature won.
One less spin cycle,
Gallons of life water saved.
In my intellectual hemitage
I find a difference can be made,
Oh underwear,
Spirit of nature,
First I wear you proper,
And the day is good.
I walk forward into the morrow
And turn the world backwards.
Yes the tag now goes to front,
And wedgies aside, all is well.
In the instantaneous moment
Ina departure of normalities,
Confronted with a bundle of reflections,
I move into day three,
Inside out.
The days have dispersed,
I wreak of the third day,
Still a difference has been made.
I take off the underwear,
Crispy and tainted,
With a lump in my throat
And a little hope I made a difference,
The underwear is sacrificed to the hamper.

Swiftly like the night
or some **** like that
he ran
into the dark, like a proverbial Kenyan
he jumped
over trees
and swam
in the dirt
like a beautiful sea creature in murky depths
drank in the worms
all wriggling and fleshy
lunch
to a man by any other name
who wouldn't smell as sweet
he was hideous
like a jack o lantern
thrown off of a roof
of a 50 story ugly-person hotel:
vaccancy if your face has broken a camera lens-
he likes
eating roots and shoots
and tell him otherwise
and he'll chop your limbs off
and his name
I don't know
he's too perfectly abstract for such normalities
we'll just call him
morality

Don't sleep
Don't sleep
I begin to
Like you
A little bit more
I shift and sigh
Say your name
Fatigue rolls
Somewhere by
But, alert I
Imagine
So many paintings
To make for you

You mumble
Childishly
Your laughter
Is glittery
I wish
For so little
I wish too
Intensely
Dont wipe me
With a stiffened cloth
Soaked
In turpentine
And a hundred hues
Dont stir me
I might be disturbed
Out of skill
Out of thought
Onto a burlap scene
Grotesque
Picturesque
And so, so true

Don't move
Or I might too
I might too
Become a facet
Among the facets
Of your horrors
I might
Become art
Might become
Beautiful
In that strange
Black way
Of art

Dont sleep
Talk to me
Speak to me
Let us be
Normalities
Let us
Hold
Technicalities
Forget
Sentimentality
In the silly blue painting
Of an eyeless pretty
Smooth and porcelain
Perfectly closed

No night
To mourn into
Dissolve into
To stumble,
To tremble into
Don't sleep
I become too much alone
Shrivel, burnt sienna
I cannot move alone
I become the paintings
That I fear to paint
I become the sombre
Debris of your laughter
Cold, blue
Featureless
A moonlit night
Nothing but red
You don't know
That I like you
In my head
Come back
Come back

We are the savages,**
normalities stand from a distance and secretly admire
the domesticated eyeing in envy to our resilience of society's taming shackles
so they reject us with pointed accusing fingers
forever deemed an unworthy animal.
We belong to nature and they're all hunters
fully equipped with  nonfictional weapons to destroy the wilderness with in
poaching our furs and horns
only to hold the satisfying idea we are becoming extinct.
We believe in something greater
its a diamond ring proposal of freedom
sparkling in the sunlight of judgment
unfazed by  starless nights
we still shine bright in total darkness
becoming a beacon of light  to the helpless moths.
We are born as nomads of law and principles
they want to break us, bind us in rules and regulations
take our souls and throw them to the masses of cold blooded creatures
they all swim mindlessly in a wonderland of controlled morality
but to the hot blooded, these cool waters are foreign
forever belonging on land
letting our predator  instincts be the guide
knowing what is right and where to flee when its wrong
but they expect us to drown with the rest
in the materialistic greed infested river of the world.
We will never be broken
we are the wild
we are self thinkers
we are the untouchable spirited winds of the world
rebel eyed with our backs against those who have become the thoughtless corps
filled with animosity and jealousy
we are free and we roam the jungles of prosperity
still shining bright, a true savage.

The monster in my closet is not the
Lord of the Flies or the way I hiccup at
the mention of tombstones like picket fences
or the Bible I have sitting on back burner, waiting and
turning to ash as I switch my focus elsewhere;
it is my freedom, it is my voice, it is my vulnerability.

I have found that the true steps to being a woman are
        
        One:
To never say “no” to a man: he is right, he is infinite;
Man, with a capital “M,” is Right with a capital “R.”
I must find my place beneath his boot and be
grateful for the attention.  I must offer myself to him
on a silver platter and ****** my wrists back when
he latches on like leeches in ponds—
innocence is necessary but experience is a must.
I need only to serve him and serve him well.
Dinner will be ready by five.

        Two:
After snapping my fingers and throwing on an apron
I need only to make shopping lists and fold laundry
and wash dishes and dust coffee tables and
***** train toddlers and begin the ironing—I must
become a less troublesome Lucy, and as Sylvia said,
become the place from where the arrow
shoots off from; my husband will be the
        arrow into the future
        the bright light at the end of the tunnel
        the brains, if you will,
ask him all your silly intellectual questions,
goodness me, how would I know anything
outside of homemaking?

        Three:
While living in the Valley of the Dolls,
it is important to play the part precisely because
anything less than the best is a catastrophe—
this isn’t suburbia this is su-Barbie-a  where
women are beautiful and poised, plastic in shells
with skin as cold as the freezers they keeps their words
in.  Your businessman of a husband will come home from
work at quarter to five and say,
        “silence is golden,”
as he pats your daughter on the head,
and you will not know to which one of you
he is communicating with because,
yes, of course, he is in charge of the vocal cords, being
stronger and smarter than the two of you; it is only
logical to accept his words as law.  Besides,
neither you nor your daughter really deserves the
right to not only speak when spoken to; girls have
silly and inconsequential ideas anyway.

        Four:
I must give myself up for love.  A woman without
a single altruistic bone in her body is
not a woman at all, but rather a shadow.  In order to
prove myself, prove my loyalty, prove anything, I must
first prove my heart.  At age eighteen, I will go backstage
for a costume change: graduation gown to wedding gown.
Don’t worry, Mother, he told me that college is overrated;
he told me that the only other education I will need
lies within homemaking skills—the easy life, don’t you see?
Love is my biggest flaw and greatest weapon, and
I must learn to wield it.

        Five:
But without a man, nothing is possible.  Catching
one like fish in nets is the goal, but in order to do so,
it is imperative that I realize that
beauty is not deeper than skin; beauty is pliable like bamboo
and is only prevalent when it is in paint.  I must become
Wendy, I must stay in Neverland, I
must
          not
                  age.
It is important to look young but not to act young.
It is even more important for my ribs to break
through my flesh—my beginning will be my end
but at least I’ll look good.

I am not afraid of the dark or of heights or
of storms or of doctors or dogs; I am
afraid of time reversing, I am afraid of
returning normalities.  That  fifteen-year-old girl
I saw post online about how she was
“born in the wrong decade” and how she would be
a “much better fit for the ‘50s” scares me to death.  
If I was expected to choose between
career             and             family,
I would sit at the bottom of the
fig tree like Sylvia;
              I would stick my head
                                               right in the oven.

Life is pretty drunk
With all the madness suppressed
under the veil of formalities
With all the wildness hidden
behind rocks of normalities
My life would have flew if
you had taught me
Gravity wasn't the only reason
My life would have been LIFE if
you had said the heaven exist in life
not after life...
I have been drunk with dreams of desires and ambitions
I have been so destroyed with convolutions and conjugations
And I still act sober
with life such drunk
If only I had been informed
Life is not for drunkards
I would have refused my birth

Once a bridge was nothing more than an abstract tool for reasoning. But one day, this very abstract tool for reasoning became the literal direct opposing opposite to this very operation.
(The operation that was meant to be disposed of from the very get-go!)
But something stopped that from becoming a seamless reality...
After all, seamless is nothing more than predictable tension in the right places that don't normally fit into the very crowd of normalities itself.
But the universe is connected by such truths that don't normally (either), point its own self in the right direction full of directionless odds that don't poke and **** your very potential progression forward...if it wasn't truly for the very bridge that again, (as an abstract took for reasoning), points these very directionless odds into a newer meaning than ever before. Hence, an abstract tool (obviously) when dealing with such tension involving the universal boundaries and conditions and features and traits and meanings and properties that surround itself among many other things in its general surroundings that bear itself too much for an actual correct dose of conquest to deal with all at one single time.
Basically, because if that was the actual case (all at one single time...) Then it'd be a non-localized protocol that would pave the way for ALL such manufacturing projects in one single action!
(And non-localized making such advances in the very field of study, for the very meaning that happens all at once, not within the same boundaries from one another, length and size wise.)
Seeing as how big the universe really is, with still too this very date is filled with such EXTREME (unknown sizes and expectations of it, regardless of its own such limits regulated by the very anticipated push for discovery itself). There wouldn't even be a certain timeframe for things to have its own say (in for how ever long they want to take). Instead, you have something happening all at one time, where everything is truly about one thing, and one thing, ONLY...
Nothing is about progression (or even the very process of actually getting it done) when it's all about the bridge that reasons out the very different areas and points of many likelihoods that don't limit its own variety to its own protocols...when their own hunger is trying to go about achieving one's own aim, or goal of precipitation...
When it's entirely longer than the standing idea...that nothing is without flawless results, if and ONLY if...you make it or break its very abstract tool for reasoning itself!
If and only if you do, then you’re looking at yourself as nothing more than the very truthful meaning for "treason."
Once you commit treason... You’re also breaking the connection with the bridge who's meant to connect everything in one single action for conquest. (And not the misguided mindset for simply achieving a consequence full of such disorder.)
If that were the actual case, then everything isn't as connected as one would previously think.
Especially when your very abstract tool for reasoning is the very reasoning for shame in the face of such irrational thinking.
Hence, when different mixtures of fate and probability confront the very limitations (upon their own such instances full to brim of primal instances and events...)
That's when the bridge that is meant to connect an entire universe together.
Becomes the greatest story ever told about a bridge who also...became the abstract tool for reasoning.

His hands were calloused,
they were home and a
remedy for the mixture of
my sickness that I never
could pinpoint.

Hands, such a feature
that could be the instrument
of a subordinate
and domineering teacher.

They are looked upon,
not given thought nor inquisition,
but that wasn't the case for me.

Those hands were
where I found my
reprieve, an unhealthy
and vindictive reprieve.

Those hands were
a paradox of all
things combined.
Those hands were a
paradox for the cruelties
and involuntary injustices
in the world; A world
that was filled with grizzly
reprimands and slurs for
those who spoke up.

Indeed, a paradox those
controlling and
manipulative hands were.
They were cruel.
They were kind.
They were abusive.
They were reassuring.
They were foreign.
They were home.
They were the origin
for my shred of sanity.
They were the origin
for my absurdity.

Oddly enough,
they were home.

A cruel world seals
its fate and its pearls.
It leaves the rarity of
oddities abandoned among
the normalities of abuse.

Among those normalities
and oddities were those
hands.

Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by mans’ hand,
Of greed and power sought by him
Against his fellow man.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought,
That life should be a harmony
Or life should be as nought.


A still and utter peacefulness
Pervading in the air
Normalities great splendour here,
In order everywhere.
A dog barks in the evening light
As neighbours mow the lawn
And the distant hum of traffic
From yon motorway, forlorn.


Shattered buildings teeter
To the concrete debris strewn,
Through war torn streets of battle
Where hot shrapnel sears the noon.
Where blood pools in the broken glass
And fear is in the air,
And the shriek of rockets plummeting
Cause a heartbeat to despair.


Leafy streets of sanctity
Where people mix at will,
Chimney smoke which spirals
In atmosphere tranquil.
Couples saunter, arm in arm
Children laugh and play
The normal, here, is everywhere
Upon this peaceful day.


Decapitated corpses wash
In blood, red surge of sea,
An encounter in the wrong place
Means a sudden death for me.
The skies are filled with torment,
The people quake with fear
As they cringe and flee, directionless,
To frantically keep clear.


Six thousand miles of distance
Determines where we stand,
In battles hell and maelstrom
Or walk free in this fair land?
In Syria’s catastrophe
Where men do **** at will,
Or walk in serene safety
On this lands’ grassy hill



Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by your hand
With greed and power sought by man
Against his Makers’ plan.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought…
-That life shall be a harmony
Or life shall be a nought.


Marshalg
Ascot Hospital
Auckland
19 November 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie

Did style happen because I copied you or you copied the magazine?
Did I like that activity in special because everyone else did?
Did I change into someone whom I'm not because being myself weren't good enough? Or because I didn't resemble the rest of you?

Is it really so wrong to try and break free from the normalities so I won't become a part of the large crowd. I want to break free and be me.

But to be free and outside of the crowd is lonely. They don't drag you back in, because in reality, where everybody is one and the same; they won't notice when you're gone. If you're gone?

Didn't a part of you stay back?
Didn't a part of you still want to be in the crowd?
Didn't you in reality never leave?

Weren't this not just a part of wish thinking? Imagination?

Life goes by in a flash,
In an instant plans are memories,
Photographs the only residue
Of past normalities,
And then the realization
You’ve been going on along the whole time,
Without ever seeing it.

They say this place isn't colorful,
that this part of town doesn't shine
No inspiration, no life
When I open my eyes to it,
I see something a little more beautiful

I feel it too,
in every sunny day
I hear it
when the wind rustles
carelessly through the trees,
shaking their leaves
and making music
for my soul

They see an alley,
dark and dusty
A place that doesn't exist
Someone's slept there,
stepped through it,
even gazed at it
Oh the untold human condition

I love this place
this town with all of its flaws
and normalities
every park, every street
I know them by heart,
I know the people who have stepped foot there
and all of the memories that have been made

But I'm bigger than this place,
I've out grown it
I'm just a sun flower surrounded by daisies

Beyond the sight of normalities plight there is a realm so deep
The animals know it but they don't show
For they are humble peeps
They strive back and forth to sustain their life force
To **** and eat and repeat until there bodies lay down in defeat
They return as wind and mould mountains on their adventure Home
Rejoice from the sauce until they live again and again
And again and again and .....
Back to the never ending dance of eternal creation
Fulfilling itself by getting to know its self
Knowing All by knowing One

Do you want restitution for my crimes past committed?

Is your code of silence a loud cry for justice?
Fine, be free from my life and all of its many normalities.
You've pushed me away for all of your false realities.
There were no threads of life to unwind from the next.

Soon you were simply gone.
No loud cries, those were really only my quiet sighs.
No justice needed, the jury filed out barely heeded.
I'm left alone with no condemner.

There's nothing to atone for, you were the ***** *****.
I'll make a mess, I won't be quiet.
Is this just making it worse? Reveling in memories like a second skin.
No not yet, don't absolve this sin.

I scream at the top of my lungs
out and across vast, honey-wheat plains.

A cool morning breeze hugs my barren body-
and its chills seem to ask the wind, "Is this indecision?
If I need be tentative, do I in turn hideaway my courage?"
An unsure finish leads me to hesitation.

Yet, ecstatic excitement and the thrill of possibility
lay a soft kiss upon the supple lips of opportunity.

And I know now that it is my time to run-
with arms wide open as the sun shines upon my face
and the wind whispers into my ear, feelings of a quintescent
energy so fluid and real beg to rip apart my rib cage and pour
the soul of my heart onto the begging and thirsty soil beneath my bare feet.

Sensational unknowing, how can my soul catapult into such a terrific nothingness!
And to have this terrific nothingness accept my soul!
I do not know whether I should be screaming with laughter or tearing down my cheeks in streams.

I need not halt at failure!
Or do I?
A projection of delusions lead me to a certain insanity.

Do i dare decide for myself the precise moment in time
in which it is a must for me to fall victim to the ordinary?
For the white-walled normalities of life
seem to be enclosing around my very thoughts.

Corruption belittles me as well as others,
and I know that I now must settle down-
and serve for the greater good.

But time can lead the mind to wander-
and every once in awhile I find myself pondering
beautiful rebellion.

But I must not think that way, for age and society
have conspired in clipping my wings, and to think freedom
is to play along to a forgotten game that was played during a forgotten age.

Oh hollowed life, long corrupted and conformed world, how dare you toil with the understanding of space and time?

I fall to my knees with my face buried in my hands.
Genuine madness and excitement, is your absence permanent?
Must this last forever?
The sun is setting now and I realize that my hope should have remained
never.
And I scream at the top of my lungs out and across spacious honey-wheat plains.

Self-effacement

With time names and dates
engraved on headstones
weather beneath pelting sleet and rain
to soften carefully chiseled letters

Little by little
etchings become
blurred at the edges
indistinct and unreadable

Personality features
fade daily
hidden with words
structured into facades
readily available as a cover
from those who wish
to unearth the treasures within

What a struggle to hide
to mute or soften
eccentricities into normalities
What an effort
continual concealment
behind frights and fears
as though a child
playing hide-and-go seek with others

Self-effacement becomes
a life-style of constantly
playing a game without a prize

help
I've fallen and I can't get up

I put blind trust in you
the fibres of your shirt
the slight smirk
on your clever face

help
I'm shaking and I can't see straight

But these things are normalities
they happen too often
no caution
and I'll just be another fatality

help
I'm in love and I can't get out

I'm shrinking into a pit
of a peach like heart
torn apart
by the hungry lips of my suitor

Couldn't tell if she was more in love with the surreality
Or the freedom from normalities
The ability to fall in love with a tangible inanimate thing
If it is only a drawing
His heart once beat like one of us but his passion consumed him turning him into the things he drew and grown to love
What should she do?
Escape from reality and join in the fantasy?
Or live a life asking herself what could it be?
Stay tuned for these Spilled Stories

You’re so **** pretty
and I don’t just mean
your long eyelashes
or your majestic flowy hair
or the way your eyes go all crinkle
and your face goes all squish
when you smile,
nope.
You’re just
you’re so **** pretty
just as a human being
just in who you are
and how you try
and I just can’t think
of any solid reason why
you have to deal
with so much ****.

Bad things happen to good people,
sure,
and I’ve always known that the world
doesn’t always operate based on
common sense
but I guess
I never fully understood the full scope
of that concept
until I saw you cry.
Because when you walked up
(it’s no exaggeration to say)
you were glowing.
You literally
blinded everyone
but you kept insisting
that you could only absorb light,
not emit
and I just don’t get it.

My parents are doctors
so believe me
I know very well that the heart
is an ***** the size
of your fist,
no more and
no less.
I know it,
I do but you’re just
going to have to believe me
when I say
that there are times when I’m
talking to you
when my own personal
fist-sized *****
just swells right up
and expands
to push against
the sides
of its ribcage,
because if it’s true
it it’s really true
that the brightest star
in all the universe
might look in the mirror
and mistake itself
for a black hole,
then surely
surely no natural laws
no physical properties
no rules or
biological normalities apply
to the human heart?
Surely.

There aren’t many things I can say
with full confidence.
The future frightens me
the past confuses me
and I frankly am not sure why
I’m still here
in the present (???)
but like it or not
here I’ve been
for eighteen (better or worse) years
and in that time
there haven’t been many people
that it often bothers me
to be in a room without
(which would be totally irrelevant
if it weren’t for the fact that I walked
into Westminster Abbey today
and just wished
the mega-posh British security guard
was you)

She was perusing the linoleum trails when I walked into conoco gas at 6:49. I bought $20 of unleaded at pump three.
"I miss my jeep, but I sure don't miss the gas mileage"
she giggled from behind me with a filmy grocery bag bracleting her wrist. He name was Kiyomi, a Japanese citrus. "When my mom was pregnant with me, that's all she would eat. She joked that she'd give birth to a fruit instead of a baby."
She told me she plucked her shirt from the hamper when I complimented her outfit, and about her "**** neighbors" with whom she shared a complex. I made an excuse for the dirt sponging my shirt and tattooing down my legs. "It's from landscaping", I said as a way to somehow justify it. I felt like I'd known Kiyomi a long time when we said goodbye.  
With a half tank of gas, I started up Genevieve and we rolled off our opposite ways. It was as I walked up and down King Sooper's ribs of commercial aisles that I was so grateful to Kiyomi, the fruit girl. She showed her humanness to me. We hung up our social normalities like jackets, and spoke in the unfabricated way children do. Friday, June 3rd, roughly 6:53 pm, a girl of soil and a girl of fruit collided in connection. Like it was natures very own conversation.

I’m just a wandering spirit on my way through the times of life loving the people I find . So when I look up in the sky I see the m walking me when I’m travelling through the dark that they don’t wanna be in so they stand in watch over me in the subconscious . It makes me wonder if I wasn’t alone would I live in a life filled of normalities. Would I still be the torch in my own darkness being a super nova for other. Nothing of what we really do does matter  we make it matter because life is nothing but our own fantasies

Caged like a bird
As courageous as a lion
Starved to death
Yet still he lacks the normalities of humans
The clean wrists
The smooth skin
He lacks a house
Without bars covering all the exits
He lacks normal afternoons
Without the voice of psychologists
Hoping he would listen to reality
he lacks sanity
lost as a child
When his mother's fingers
never brushed his face
When a plate never came in contact with his fingers
But with his jagged skin above his eyebrow
When his fathers belt
Couldn't seem to stay on his pants
But suffocated him
Striking until he was a slave
Being transported from reality
To the hell of insanity
Rocking on the waves
That wouldn't stop
Surrounded by voices
That weren't his own
Fingers calloused from
gripping the floor
to keep from sliding
off the side
into the murky waters
that held the
siren of beauty
of pain
of horrors that never seemed to stop
until he let go
Then it was not a voice of another filling his ears
but his own

And I was driven to insanity by the normalities of every day life.

Though the perception is to live free,
That whole picture perfect life is always embedded. Instilled in all of us from birth.
Work, ******* work, and strive to do that family frenzy, nice house, nice car *******. **** the normalities of society. **** being. Sometimes just to breathe, to exist, to live, all of the above is a blessing. Sometimes it's a savior for yourself, but most times it's just a form of conformity for others. We are all ******* robots, one foot in front of the other, sir. March, march, march. Is it April yet? Have I made it yet? Another year of being the least successful person, the woah is me, the pitty party. Stop looking at me. Stop ******* looking at me with those eyes that tare up my insides. Stop feeling. Stop the noise. Just stop. Just stop. Oh yay! Another birthday soon to pass. Another year to conform to the systematic resemblance of what a family is supposed to be.

Accosted constantly by broken dreams ,spinning spiraling out of control it seems
Bright beginnings quickly quaffed while routinely enjoying your  morning Joe
Shocked to the core effective in that they won't become a bore with daily schemes
Shake it off ,fresh air, but then the radios blare, commuters absorb newsman whoa

We smile but then accept all brash,rash craziness as it is played out on our day
Angry outbursts grab for space along with parades and time honored holidays
Common community thoughts & playing quickly becoming Passe
Begging for the beginning ,fire needing to rise higher than basics & normalities

Relaxing within reality ,heinous having the heading ahead of regularity
No longer the top lists for cinemas, full time becoming fixated  on flashes of fear
Gloom,doom for noon leave us wanting an upper by supper or at least a similarity
Happy is simply half as important when redeemed with a tweet speeding in high gear

Vehemence can be be a double sided word why not the thrill with a big joy
Daily intake of faster moving "news" with pre conceived views is blindly hypnotic
While painting the world as a rainbow is off balance,showing all the ill is merely a ploy
Big world being reduced to a tweet,snap,c&p; A.P. dialogue being taken in as almost ******.
R.C.

Misfits of our own culture we don't belonged to society. Never appealing to the normalities or stereotypes of our reality. While the government feeds common people lies to their filtered brains. They are hypnotized by Fox News, Facebook, and Forbes list. Forced to believe what they're fed. Although we never gave into the corruption. Instead we kept our minds open and cultivated our walls with the beliefs of our own.

<There is a violent madness that hides inside all of us, some oppress the chaos, others live in denial.
Once in a blood moon, hidden in a dark room, vibrations of bedlem, a paracosm of two.
For the world that we see through a hidden marquee, a putrid stream for the mentally ill.
Yet with no hesitation, a dark star pulsating, you plunge into the void then pull me through.
Fret not for each thought gives birth to brilliance as we stir the cauldron of the sacred brew.
Blood and water, son and daughter, resilient to the universe we devour and consume.

>I wait silently.... hopelessly, for you.
As if your muse is not enough to pulsate me. My nerves twitch like a drug in your veins. Your words have me in thought everyday, as words really are your forte. Do I imagine it? Or question it? For the violent madness that runs beneath is only left for you to go deep. Living in chains has you so locked you stay stuck to my chaos like glue.
I hope you feel me like I feel you.

<Castration of inward vibrations...Reverberate through these impetuous echo halls. Catapult cadaverous over scrupulous normalities, I choke on every word I hold...
Let us baptize our divine ineptitude in a cauldron of glorious lore.
Most of them are oblivious to the revelation of rushing thunder.
Dripping needles, perfidious servitude teetering the precipice of war.
The voices in your thoughts are the same voices in mine. These voices whisper incantations in the darkness..
There are many in our dreams who watch us sleep, it is they who know us really well. For our talents with our words are hidden in the ink deep in a place we love to dwell. Yet still, it comes a surprise to me we are more than some choose to believe. With a flick of our pen, the stars light the night, we create worlds without even trying.

>If sirens could rush whispers in your soul, you would feel the drums of their forbidden thoughts... lost in hopeless misery, as it consumes your whole being, you feel nothing left but a desire to be, to yearn, to hold. As ever so captivating, thrilling. Can you feel me within you? Holding you down and longing for your mentality. I love to hear you, in words of lost beats

<Ever-so often I feel the rush, I hear the whispers, I feel the drums of passion hit. Each provocative thought and memory a glorious, forbidden, carnal gift. Deeply yearning to merge all emotions until the dock is crushed by the mighty ship. Splashing and churning, sweating and burning, enthralled, trembling and wet. And yet hopelessness and misery that inevitably follows, have left me broken and split. I am sorry to say I feel nothing now but chaos, fear, and regret.

We made it to the one-bedroom rental that late afternoon without issue. I thought so. Perspective is a lens with many filters.

After a mild train ride from Milan's airport, my pockets filled with nuts and bottled water I felt, once again, on the edge of existence. It had been a long time. One falls into a routine that leads to other routines that, eventually, through the exponentially of love and responsibility, codify you into a malaised pillar of somebody's kid.

The smell of sea salt and exhaust was ripe in the air. I had never seen sunshine like that. My father came to mind. He loved to fish and taught me how to gut them. I tried not to imagine him dying in a beautiful place like that; in a place where nobody in town knew him but he knew himself.

I said hello to the train conductor and they barely gave me a nod. There was no history between us other than their own with who they saw me as. To me, they, the conductor, were the first of their kind; like Darwin on the Galapagos. Their annoyed glint, their tired eye bags, their noncommital guidance. Their belittlement was my nirvana.

Imagine being the first to see nature's creation, while simultaneously not knowing if you were and wanting to reach back to the muted past to validate your discovery.

Mankind is nothing but a series of reaching back, pulling forward, and settling down; happiness is ******.

Before at the bus terminal after arriving from Milan, I kept complaining about wanting to take the ferry for the experience but you told me (you still tell me) it was all part of the experience. The idea of moments became still then and, sorry to delve into metaphor, but like a slug across a windowpane or a car crash at dawn or the birth of your 4th child and how that one never once cried, you remember the intricacies of life's offerings rather than its "normalities".

I will never forget you taking me with the windows open to the view of never-ending mountains, a cool wind on our skin.

We must define the line of the bubble we are all - for better or worse and ultimately distance us - in. I wrote this down as an old fisherman, their pole and tackle tucked between their legs, half-dozed as our bus narrowly slammed against the rock wall separating us both from certain death. The bus driver, from what I could see, was entirely indifferent to his or our mortality. It was just another Tuesday. Perhaps he was thinking about what could have been done differently with his time. Or maybe, he was thinking about what he would be doing differently, tomorrow. There is always tomorrow. Action, in the non-contextual sense, is relative anyway.

You asked me if we were going to be ok and I told you of course. Why? you proceeded. Because people in love rarely die tragically. Why? you asked again. Because they were in love when they did.

You scoffed, slipped on your sunglasses, and asked for some water.

You must close and lock your everything
Thought you can leave the key
Behind on that highest shelf for me.
There's now little we can change in our reality.
We must stop challenging normalities
For few more moments stripped of any formalities.
We're balancing high up on a string
Everything could go dark in one blink
Silence is such an odd thing!

They say falling in love is like when lightning strikes
Who would’ve thought that’s was the goal at the end of the tunnel nice and bright
I always pictured myself with a corpse bride
Guess the roles are reversed
Just don’t tell my girl I didn’t survive last night
Going on with the normalities of everyday life
She found love
The perfect mixture of bourbon and cyanide
Keeps me nice and stiff
A coat of formaldehyde
Get close catch a whiff

Way back in my day all men were real men,
We weren’t scared to help we weren’t insecure,
We were all open books but just make sure
You don’t look to come to me for advice,
About mental health or about your vice.
I’m here for you let’s be crystal clear.
I can help you if your car can’t change gear,
Or if you have a problem with the steer,
If it fails to start when you turn the key,
I’m here man, don’t worry, I have jump leads.
I told you, man, I’m always here for you,
Just don’t get the situation confused,
I don’t mean to be insincere or rude
But that feelings stuff is a load of muck.
Life is always rough, so men must be tough,
We like girls, cars and explosions and stuff,
We like fighting, football and monster trucks.  
We like manly-men, men-who-don’t-feel-men,
Not as in men who don’t like to feel men,
More men-who-can’t-express-how-they-feel-men.


When I was young I was the biggest fan of being “a man”,
Of being strong and never crying, because that is wrong.
Of football games and internalising pain from things that "shouldn’t hurt".
Until one day when I was sitting on my bed,
I was crying, and not because I banged my head,
Or not because of what someone said,
Or not because that character in Toy Story was dead,
But for no reason.
I just felt sad.
My Mother came in the door, looked at me,
And swore that everything was okay.
I said “I’m sorry for crying,
I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,
I just feel upset.”
She said, “Son, there hasn’t been a man yet
Who hasn’t cried because they were sad,
Most of them just don’t say.”
And see I cried in my mothers arms that day,
And I don’t see how that could have done me any harm,
To know that when I feel upset it is okay to cry.
We don’t have to put up a front and try
To act like “men” and seem just fine
When in reality we’re constantly balancing on a line
Between fear of people’s perception of us as soft
And having our emotions engulf us and finding ourselves lost.
Our culture causes confusion for little boys
Who think they have to play with army toys
And get in fights with other tikes to show their “manliness” and might,
Until their spite builds up inside them, so tight,
That it explodes down the line
When we say we’re fine
But really inside exists a mine of insecurity.
Because toxic masculinity is a sin to me
And leads to bigotry and other stupidity like
Rigidity and conformity to chauvinistic and sexist normalities.