PROLOGUE:

“’We must stop this brain working for twenty years.’” So said Mussolini’s Grand Inquisitor, his official Fascist prosecutor addressing the judge in Antonio Gramsci’s 1928 trial; so said the Il Duce’s Torquemada, ending his peroration with this infamous demand.’”  Gramsci, Antonio: Selections from the Prison Notebooks, Introduction, translation from Italian and publishing by Quintin ***** & Geoffrey Nowell Smith, International Publishers, New York, 1971.

BE IT RESOLVED: Whereas, I introduce this book with a nod of deep respect to Antonio Gramsci--an obscure but increasingly pertinent political scientist it would behoove us all to read and study today, I dedicate the book itself to my great grandfather and key family patriarch, Pietro Buonaiuto (1865-1940) of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, southern Italy.

Let it be recognized that Pete Buonaiuto may not have had Tony Gramsci’s brain, but he certainly exhibited an extreme case of what his son--my paternal grandfather, Francesco Buonaiuto--termed: Testaduro. Literally, it means Hardhead, but connotes something far beyond the merely stubborn. We’re talking way out there in the unknown, beyond that inexplicable void where hotheaded hardheads regurgitate their next move, more a function of indigestion than thought. Given any situation, a Testaduro would rather bring acid reflux and bile to the mix than exercise even a skosh of gray muscle matter.  But there’s more. It gets worse.

To truly comprehend the densely-packed granite that is the Testaduro mind, we must now sub-focus our attention on the truly obdurate, extreme examples of what my paternal grandmother—Vicenza di Maria Buonaiuto—they called her Jennie--would describe as reflexive cutta-dey-noze-a-offa-to-spite-a-dey-face-a types. I reference the truly defiant, or T.D.—obviously short for both truly defiant and Testaduro. T.D.’s—a breed apart--smiling and sneering, laughing and, finally, begging their regime-appointed torture apparatchik (a career-choice getting a great deal of attention from the certificate mills--the junior colleges and vocational specialty institutes) mocking their Guantanamo-trained torturer: “Is that what you call punishment?  Is that all you ******* got?”

If, to assist comprehension, you require a literary frame of context, might I suggest you compare the Buonaiuto mind to Paul Lazzaro, Vonnegut’s superbly drawn Italian-American WWII soldier-lunatic with a passion for revenge, who kept a list of people who ****** with him, people he would have killed someday for a thousand dollars.

Go with me, Reader, go back with me to Vonnegut’s Slaughter-House-Five: “Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time . . .”
It is long past the Tralfamadorian abduction and his friendship with Stony Stevenson. Billy is back in Germany, one of three dingbat American G.I.s roaming around beyond enemy lines.  Another of the three is Private Lazzaro, a former car thief and undeniable psychopath from Cicero, Illinois.

Paul Lazzaro:  “Anybody touches me, he better **** me, or I’m gonna have him killed. Revenge is the sweetest thing there is. People **** with me, and Jesus Christ are they ever ******* sorry. I laugh like hell. I don’t care if it’s a guy or a dame. If the President of the United States ****** around with me, I’d fix him good. Revenge is the sweetest thing in life. And nobody ever got it from Lazzaro who didn’t have it coming.  Anybody who ***** with me? I’m gonna have him shot after the war, after he gets home, a big ******* hero with dames climbing all over him. He’ll settle down. A couple of years ‘ll go by, and then one day a knock at the door. He’ll answer the door and there’ll be a stranger out there. The stranger’ll ask him if he’s so and so. When he says he is, the stranger’ll say, ‘Paul Lazzaro sent me.’ And then he’ll pull out a gun and shoot his pecker off. The stranger’ll let him think a couple seconds about who Paul Lazzaro is and what life’s gonna be like without a pecker. Then he’ll shoot him once in the gut and walk away. Nobody ***** with Paul Lazzaro!”

(ENTER AUTHOR. HE SPEAKS: “Hey, Numb-nuts! Yes, you, my Reader. Do you want to get ****** into reading that Vonnegut blurb over and over again for the rest of the afternoon, or can I get you back into my manuscript?  That Paul Lazzaro thing was just my way of trying to give you a frame of reference, not to have you ******* drift off, walking away from me, your hand held tightly in nicotine-stained fingers. So it goes, you Ja-Bone. It was for comparison purposes.  Get it?  But, if you insist, go ahead and compare a Buonaiuto—any Buonaiuto--with the character, Paul Lazzaro. No comparison, but if you want a need a number—you quantitative ****--multiply the seating capacity of the Roman Coliseum by the gross tonnage of sheet pane glass that crystalized into small fixed puddles of glazed smoke, falling with the steel, toppling down into rubble on 9/11/2001. That’s right: multiply the number of Coliseum seats times a big, double mound of rubble, that double-smoking pile of concrete and rebar and human cadavers, formerly known as “The Twin Towers, World Trade Center, Lower Manhattan, NYC.  It’s a big number, Numb-nuts! And it illustrates the adamantine resistance demonstrated by the Buonaiuto strain of the Testaduro virus. Shall we return to my book?)

The truth is Italian-Americans were never overzealous about WWII in the first place. Italians in America, and other places like Argentina, Canada, and Australia were never quite sure whom they were supposed to be rooting for. But that’s another story. It was during that war in 1944, however, that my father--John Felix Buonaiuto, a U.S. Army sergeant and recent Anzio combat vet decided to visit Moschiano, courtesy of a weekend pass from 5th Army Command, Naples.  In a rough-hewn, one-room hut, my father sat before a lukewarm stone fireplace with the white-haired Carmine Buonaiuto, listening to that ancient one, spouting straight **** about his grandfather—Pietro Buonaiuto--my great-grandfather’s past. Ironically, I myself, thirty yeas later, while also serving in the United States Army, found out in the same way, in the same rough-hewn, one-room hut, in front of the same lukewarm fireplace, listening to the same Carmine Buonaiuto, by now the old man and the sea all by himself. That’s how I discovered the family secret in Moschiano. It was 1972 and I was assigned to a NATO Cold War stay-behind operation. The operation, code-named GLADIO—had a really cool shield with a sword, the fasces and other symbols of its legacy and purpose. GLADIO was a clandestine anti-communist agency in Italy in the 1970s, with one specific target:  Il Brigate Rosso, the Red Brigades.  This was in my early 20s. I was back from Vietnam, and after a short stint as an FBI confidential informant targeting campus radicals at the University of Miami, I was back in uniform again. By the way, my FBI gig had a really cool codename also: COINTELPRO, which I thought at the time had something to do with tapping coin operated telephones. Years later, I found out COINTELPRO stood for counter-intelligence program.  I must have had a weakness for insignias, shields and codenames, because there I was, back in uniform, assigned to Army Intelligence, NATO, Italy, “OPERATION GLADIO.“

By the way, Buonaiuto is pronounced:

Bwone-eye-you-toe . . . you ignorant ****!

Oh yes, prepare yourself for insult, Kemosabe! I refuse to soft soap what ensues.  After all, you’re the one on trial here this time, not Gramsci and certainly not me. Capeesh?

Let’s also take a moment, to pay linguistic reverence to the language of Seneca, Ovid & Virgil. I refer, of course, to Latin. Latin is called: THE MOTHER TONGUE. Which is also what we used to call both Mary Delvecchio--kneeling down in the weeds off Atlantic Avenue--& Esther Talayumptewa --another budding, Hopi Corn Maiden like my mother—pulling trains behind the creosote bush up on Black Mesa.  But those are other stories.

LATIN: Attention must be paid!

Take the English word obdurate, for example—used in my opening paragraph, the phrase truly obdurate: {obdurate, ME, fr. L. obduratus, pp. of obdurare to harden, fr. Ob-against + durus hard –More at DURING}.

Getting hard? Of course you are. Our favorite characters are the intransigent: those who refuse to bend. Who, therefore, must be broken: Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke comes to mind. Or Paul Newman again as Fast Eddie, that cocky kid who needed his wings clipped and his thumbs broken. Or Paul Newman once more, playing Eddie Felson again; Fast Eddie now slower, a shark grown old, deliberative now, no longer cute, dimples replaced with an insidious sneer, still fighting and hustling but in shrewder, more subtle ways. (Credit: Scorsese’s brilliant homage The Color of Money.)

The Color of Money (1986) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0090863 Internet MovieDatabase Rating: 7/10 - ‎47,702 votes. Paul Newman and Helen Shaver; still photo: Tom Cruise in The Color of Money (1986) Still of Paul Newman in The Color of Money (1986). Full Cast & Crew - ‎Awards - ‎Trivia - ‎Plot Summary

Perhaps it was the Roman Catholic Church I rebelled against.  The Catholic Church: certainly a key factor for any Italian-American, a stinger, a real burr under the saddle, biting, setting off insurrection again and again. No. Worse: prompting Revolt! And who could blame us? Catholicism had that spooky Latin & Incense going for it, but who wouldn’t rise up and face that Kraken? The Pope and his College of Cardinals? A Vatican freak show—a red shoe, twinkle-toe, institutional anachronism; the Curia, ferreting out the good, targeting anything that felt even half-way good, classifying, pronouncing verboten, even what by any stretch of the imagination, would be deemed to be merely kind of pleasant, slamming down that peccadillo rubber-stamp. Sin: was there ever a better drug? Sin? Revolution, **** yeah!  Anyone with an ounce of self-respect would have gone to the barricades.

But I digress.

Forever ago
I looked you in the eye
And made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.

You smiled at me --
Crooked, imperfect
Utterly charming --
And asked me to lend you a light.
A lighter passed between our hands
Before a tiny flame illuminated our faces in the dark
A silent 'I do.'

From that night on
I've had things that other girls
Only possess in their wildest dreams
And, even then
Wouldn't dare say they desired.

I ride shotgun by default
In a ******* car
Much too fancy to legally be yours.
Gifts come in the form
Of beat-up leather articles
That you once wore
Though the lingering shadow of smoke
Is hardly enough
To mask the hint of drugstore perfume.
Sometimes
If you're feeling especially charitable
These offerings are accompanied by the more traditional heart shaped box --
Filled with bullets, of course--
Or a single deep red rose.
For some reason
Every flower you pick
Seems to have many more thorns
Than most of the ones I've known before.

What you seem to consider the best gift of all, however
Is your presence.
I suppose you think it works both ways
When you parade around town
Arm slung around my shoulders or waist
Smiling like I'm some pricey badge
Your signature accessory.
Your performance draws attention, of course --
Awe-stricken once-overs
Envious double takes
Lingering looks that make overzealous Average Joes
Trip over their own feet.
As far as my own feelings go
The envious rush I used to get from the lust-filled eyes of other women
Has long since faded
But the crawling feeling of some depraved pervert's eyes flitting from you to me
And your proud smile, devoid of any visible love
Continue to make my stomach twist itself into painful knots.

What all those adventure-hungry good girls don't know
Is that I haven't felt as powerful as they do in their dreams
In a very long time.
What those green-eyed Plain Janes won't understand
Is that I am little more than arm candy
Your passenger-seat second-in-command
Posed like some special edition, leather-donning Barbie doll
Instructed to sit still
Hold the gun
Look pretty.
They don't realize
That the ache that comes with loving you
Feels absolutely nothing like the feeling described
In the lovelorn writings they post to their blogs.
There's nothing beautiful about it
No reward for staying up all night
Chest aching
Sobbing into a limp pillow in some random hotel room
Trying my best to keep you from hearing it.
As much as I hate to admit it
Nothing you do for me
Makes it worth it.

They all seem to forget
That it was Bonnie
Running from one man who didn't love her
Falling into the arms of another
Already broken
Hoping he might be able to mend a piece or two.
They don't realize
That it was Bonnie
Who **** near got her leg burned off
Because Clyde flipped the car.
The fault was completely his
And yet
She was the one who took the brunt of the damage
Being reduced to having Clyde carry her around
For the rest of their numbered days.
They don't stop to think that this is anything other than 'romantic'
How unfair it is that the world allowed him to ruin her
That maybe --
Just maybe --
She didn't want to be a weapon for him to carry
But a self-firing rifle.
Something intimidating
Unpredictable
Never dependent
On some hotshot
That everybody believes that she was in love with.
The idea never occurs to them
That maybe
When the two of them went down in that infamous hail of bullets
Maybe she wasn't enveloped in warm thoughts of going out in a blaze of glory
But anger
That she didn't get away with it this time
And never would again.


I understand now
That
For all intent and purposes
Bonnie and Clyde are a concept that should have been left behind
Way back in the 30s.
There is no passion
In dying --
On the inside or the outside --
Next to someone everyone thinks that you love.
There is no love
In your arm around me
Squeezing the humanity out of me
Like a man-shaped boa constrictor.
There is no glamour
In sitting loyally by your side
Gripping my seat until my knuckles are white
As you drive your own getaway car
Laughing to yourself
Without ever chancing a glance at me.
There is no beauty
In being wrapped in a jacket
That smells like another woman
No satisfaction
In mechanically handing you a brand new lighter
So you can light another cigarette
To prematurely age your beautiful, James Dean number one-million-and-one face.
I feel no affection now
Watching you smoke up like the nicotine glutton burnout that you are
And I will feel only contempt if --
Heaven forbid --
I ever die by your side.
You exhale
And turn to look at me with sleepy, empty eyes
Letting the remains of your cigarette flicker out
Just like the novelty of having you around did.

Why I resent those girls now --
The ones with those eyes, so hungry and green with envy --
Is that, when we first met
I was just another one of them.
So pampered
So inanely bored
Such a 'hopeless romantic'
That I promptly decided to follow you the ends of the Earth
To every grimy hotel
Even to our demise in the desert, if you wanted me to.
It took me forever to realize I deserved better
And, by then
It was all too late.

While I despise those girls who stare at us now
Swooning, like they're so jealous of the position I'm in
My heart also aches for them --
A bit like the way you make it ache.
Though there's passion in this ache
That being the fact
That my heart is screaming
Telling them to run
Run while they still can
Run before someone like you
Finds them.

For all intent and purposes
There absolutely should not be
A 21st century Bonnie and Clyde.
These should be the days
Of girls spitting their own fire
And boys fighting their own battles.
This should be a generation
Of people learning to find solace in themselves
And reliance taking an unceremonious dive
Off a very steep cliff.
There should be no more green-eyed girls
And James Dean boys
Making each other miserable
And calling it beautiful.
This is the point where we should let Bonnie and Clyde rest in peace
Along with Romeo and Juliet
Annabel Lee
Homer Barron
And every other tragic antihero
Who died at the hands of love.

Forever ago
I made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.
Now
What seems like centuries later
I close my eyes
And try to fly somewhere else
In my dreams.
My last thought
Before I drift off
Is that --
Maybe someday --
They'll write poems about us.

ok, so this is the upswell
of wheeling free without wheels--
you taste the unknown on the wind
and endless vigor vibrates in your bones.

sidewalks, dumpsters, fields for beds,
star-gaze drowsy thinkings, underfed

but overzealous of an openness we'd never seen, we'd never see again! the planet turning magical in unexpected
ways of wanderjest--
consummate rest of freedom undenied, joyful celebrants of every day!

the strangers sudden friends stop
to gather in the journey up 'til then--
tales of kindness or of danger
sharing in some facet part

integral, shining, random and forgot--
we each diverge in thanks
or so it's been with me
despite mass fear of ****** sprees
we help each other's spirit's free

some begin and end with sore feet soothed,
the destination moved;
others with a steath-pipe harshly clean:
ember throat-smack numbs the breath
and giddy paranoia settles in
as 'the white house' sailing by perverse
-ly urban planning plotted bums who smile missing ob
-ligatory chili dogs in crowded bl
-are full to frighten morning parking lot we pitched
our tent and woke to soaking feet and sleeping bags submerged in runoff corner-lake

another time we simply waited at a truck stop,
piles of the rigs just running ready there
and one for us, he said he'd bring us north,
and more, he told us of his brothels,
his debt-collecting days, the cokehead legs he shot
for honesty, he said, and sang us poems (he wrote)
of foreign women loved, some with pictures,
pickled eggs and cooler-hotdogs stale,
my first menthol cigarette: inhale and fall
into an understanding outlaws have
of skipping all the weigh-stations, of
friendship gleaned by chance, ephemerality
in strength of truth to last:
he took our picture on the exit ramp,
gave us hugs and left us waiting there,
more than just an ex-**** trucker,
hired gun for pushing coke, but a human
sentimental in a context undefined
like justice in the sense of kindness to rewind

the rain... a joyful merciless accord
of being in the storm of open-ended
waywards torn in being home and on the road
life untenable in farther reaches worn of ages never understood

but standing in a trailer whipped with highway gusts of water-gratitude
though slipping in the bouncing hay and horse manure fertileness
we joke eternal swinging backpacks soaked and knocking spin on balance play

meeting lovers simply known as such
for nights or only one, talking into dawn
at random campus dormroom sheltering
when sober, high, tempted into impulse act
afraid or pleasant easy unknown facts
just passing by she offered for the night
his first intoxicant beyond the ***
surrounded puffing passing groaning
in the rooms above below i'm listening
smirking at the undeserving joy i swallow in her eager kiss
to throb the floating line of destiny in endless acts of freedom's light

though a ride can be a head-ache too...
piled beer cans on the floor,
clanking with each swerving,
the driver even stopping for a ****,
thankful? to be riding, not walking,
but observing when we're there, the ground, this time, i bend to kiss

Sam was the most generous:
he brought me to his home, his father took me sailing, swimming with the family
serving food on lakehouse dock and later
reading with the kids, dinner bonding
then such sleeping    deep    peace
and in the morning, after breakfast
on my way with lunchbag tastes of kindness never lost

there are many more
tucked away in word-gifts, also
blueberries to pick along the roadside, more
than i'd ever seen or thought to see
cows to sleep by, horses randy for an audience to claim the pasture for

the offer is a type of gift you question to refuse,
not to lose your wits
some are quiet, kind,
most are liberal in ways they couldn't ever elsewhere be:
snapshot saints in momentary boons of spontaneity and love.
some cross lines.
so, grateful i'm ok, but never worried otherwise. i run the 'risk' it's called,
and run it still: i ask the random for assistance,
in upturned eyes discern the weather
as in ancient times the host and guest stood cultural across
in making kin of unnamed walking in,
gifting company for company along the way
trusting always in the limned choices traveled, with a existential grin

Your true beauty is seen when I look into your eyes
Beauty that is seen
even by the blind
Beauty that doesn't take much effort for you to show
Beauty that is reflected from deep within your soul
Beauty that can trigger hopes for a mental connection
Beauty that is absolute coincidental perfection
Beauty that could make any goddess jealous
Beauty that could make any mortal overzealous
Beauty like the first flower of the year in full bloom
Beauty that captures the focus of a full room
Beauty that somehow beats all of the odds
Your beauty is a true work of art from our God

True beauty is the repetition of flawless excellence not only in the physical sense but more of a soul sense and I ask myself how is shawty so bad yet she gives my soul a cleanse....she possesses the type of beauty to make any ***** want to cherish her the same way the he should cherish his mother equipped with the beauty to make him only have eyes for her & blind to any other.
Another *** could have a bank account full of money yet he wouldn't pay mind to any other.
Another shorty could be the only one in a room with a watch and he still wouldn't give her the time of day but...**** they say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and behold-- it is her and her beauty is a work of art like a painting by van gogh or da vinci and she holds the amount beauty to make a ***** say **** I hope she's into me
&
don't mean to offend you mona lisa but
what man wouldn't want to get into ya
inside of you
to glide on you
ride and collide into you
But personally
I'd rather make you *** mentally that's when feelings are true but in a world full of feelings that most of us seem to hide it's hard to reveal your inner beauty when you know it wont be appreciated and I
know you never know what its like to be appreciated
but here I am sitting in the corner of the classroom watching you write notes about a subject that I cant even focus on because
your beauty completely captivates my mind
body and
spirit.

My poor, stupid poodle,
peed on the pedestal
of Cleopatra's needle
on Victoria embankment,
near the Golden Jubilee bridge.
( Oh! I am miserable!
I couldn't stop the debacle)
The poodle's puny misdeed
embarrassed not just me,
but the whole city of Westminster,
as fire alarm rang out loud,
when an overzealous constable
gave a distress signal.
It brought the fire chief himself,
who came rushing to meet
the emergency situation,
thinking the poodle was trying
to put out a fire erupted
on the ancient monument,
once shipped to England,
overcoming great adversities,
from Africa, long back.

It was rumors
An overzealous starlet
Her name Cassandra
Well-known to critics
Beyond a casting call
Conquering the boulevards
This flaming Diva
Her serpent attitude is her might
For I
Once bitten into poisonous passion
Repeatly stumbling
As her looks proclaim the likes of a darling Dove
Losing a battle that cannot be won
Her graphic representation for apparition
Appeals to men with greater value
Calamity is her weapon of choice
For days upon her roof
I've fallen
To a script
Only meant for fools

First of all, if you think I watch Bachelor in Paradise, you’re nuts, so this week’s UnREALfinale came at the perfect time — ending almost alongside its inspiration — exactly one week after, as perhaps an attempt at upping last week’s insane finale. Between then and now, we even heard what host Chris Harrison had to say about the Lifetime homage, and it went something along the lines of, I am super-jealous that it’s good and smart, and my show is neither of those things. Just kidding! He didn’t say that, but I just spelled out the subtext in case you happened to miss it.

Speaking of subtext, one of Quinn’s first lines to Adam this episode unknowingly predicts what is about to unfold. They banter about what went down the night before (you know, just Adam rejecting Rachel after she leaves Jeremy’s bed to run away with him on that private jet of his), and she assures him: “That’s why I’m here. To protect Rachel from herself.” That’s some honesty, I think, despite this show’s attempts at spinning you around so quickly with reveals that you aren’t quite sure who is trying to do what.

She had just left her own version of the Carrie Bradshaw Post-it Note on the pillow next to Jeremy — ”I don’t deserve you!” — but a note so manipulatively vague in its brevity, it could be read a few different ways. But as Perfume Genius plays, it’s clear Quinn got to Adam with some sort of deal-breaker information that we discover later: She tells him about last season’s breakdown, that Rachel checked into a hospital. Rachel denies the second part, but the first is totally true: Quinn knows Rachel is unstable. Sure, she’s warning Adam for her own selfish reasons, but in retrospect, she also knows this fling is a horrendous idea for both of them. “This thing we have? It’s ******,” Adam tells her. Is it a line fed by our “concerned” executive producer? Possibly. Either way, it certainly feels true.

And it’s unbelievably hard not to watch this finale without imagining theories for season two. It puts you in Quinn’s mind-set, and who’s planting the seeds for her next season. And just like us, she needs Adam and Rachel. She doesn’t need Chet, but thanks to our new field producer, Madison, and future featured cast member, Dr. Wagerstein, he goes straight to Brad and makes sure the deal Quinn had with him behind his back isn’t going to happen. “You know who I am,” Chet says to Quinn, excusing his cheating. Quinn answers: “She was me 15 years ago. So now I’m the wifey and you need a new side piece.” It’s the Circle of Trash, and she’s out of the game.

.. Despite the eye makeup, Rachel’s back to unreadable. It’s safer that way. She’s also going to produce the big wedding finale. Quinn’s basically like, Whatever, as long as we take down Chet. Rachel’s fine with that, and if these two can’t craft this guy’s downfall together, they’re not cut out for this business.

When she enters from stage LOL, we assume the return of Brittany is Rachel’s finale showstopper — but it’s not. Chet brought her back to act insane and say wonderfully catchy, ****** things. If you’re a Bachelor/ette watcher, you’ll recall this also being quite accurate in the canon — runner-up creep Nick from this season was a returning “character.” Bringing someone back for a second chance at love is a good way to rile up the remaining hopefuls.

Not that it bothers Grace at all. She promises Adam exactly what he wants to hear: He’ll get laid and get out after next season. She says something about being a “hot-blooded Latina temptress” — words that no human would ever actually say — and you wonder if she’s been fed a line or if UnREAL’s writer’s room got a little overzealous here. I guess one of the magical things about this show is that it’s pointless to try and tell. But is he into it? Rachel isn’t — she tells Grace that even she’s slept with Adam — insane admission, considering she’s trying to keep things up with Jeremy. Doesn’t matter: He gets it out of Adam, who confirms that Rachel is a cheater. It also confirms that Jeremy isn’t a total idiot, something we all previously had assumed.

This Royal Wedding will take place in London at the Cromwell castle, which is all done up, Everlasting style. Adam’s grandmother is not only as obnoxious as he is, she’s also a total racist — telling Adam after he mentions Grace: “We don’t marry brown people.” She puts his reputation back in play and he buys it, ultimately choosing Anna as his bride-to-be. When it comes down to it, he’s a truly ****** guy. Rachel’s Big Plan is basically to trick Adam into “telling” Anna that he’s not really into her. It works, and she plays runaway bride. It’s live TV, so Chet looks bad in front of Brad (nice one, Quinn!) and we end our season of Everlasting with Anna majestically walking down castle stairs, calling Adam “a cheating ****” (true) who is “not that smart” (also true). At first guess, it seems Anna just earned herself a Bachelorette-style spinoff.

And to think that before this episode, so many of you were Team Adam. Not that the other option is a great one — Jeremy got down on one knee and ... nope! He didn’t propose; he told everyone that Rachel is poison and a cheater. He then went straight to her parents’ house and told them that he’s worried about her and thinks she should be institutionalized. Now, that’s cold.

The only relationship worth rooting for by the end of UnREAL season one is between Quinn and Rachel, who are surely a match made in hell, but the best match we’ve got. Rachel knows Quinn ruined her plans to run away with Adam, but after watching how he handled everything, I’m not sure she really cares. “You should be kneeling down thankingwhatever that you didn’t end up as Everlasting’s ultimate tabloid idiot. This was a gift,” Quinn says. She’s right! Imagine the fanfare. If anything, it would give the show major attention and ratings. In a way, she sacrificed that to keep Rachel around and — gasp — be the mentor figure Rachel so desperately needs. They further agree not to **** someone again (RIP, Mary, although I’m sure the producers of UnREAL aren’t holding them to that, exactly), and Quinn brings up a show they had discussed earlier on (The Whole Package, a show about “girls with jobs”). But just as season two of UnREAL will have to stick to the perfectly ****** drama we’ve grown to love, so will the fictional Everlasting.

“I love you. You know that, right?” Rachel says to Quinn. “I love you, too ... ******,” Quinn answers. This is as close to “I do” as we’re gonna get. And if by now you’re not on Team Quachel (I made that up, you’re welcome), you’ve been watching a totally different show.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

In times of clarity, or perhaps
Moments of weakness
(Depending on one's perspective)
My greatest fear, I think,
Is that of dying without achieving
Anything worthy of mention.

The idea of being so ordinary
That your death
(or rather, your life)
Will be rapidly evaporated
from the earth's memory
Like light rain on a molten tarmac afternoon.

But you, at least on a mentally strong day,
Delude yourself with bursts of creativity:
Poetry, film, ideas of grandeur,
All of which persuade you that either
You will not die for a long time,
Or you will someday soon achieve.

This thought is comforting
And all is well.

Until one day you are having
A particularly busy teaching day,
And you rush to the usual spot
To grab a regular taste of Dublin life,
And order your chicken fillet roll:
Lifeblood of an Irish working-man's lunch,
And you eat while you walk -
Both briskly to save time before
Rejoining the rich children.

And the slobbering mouthful of
Delightful chicken baguette
Casts taco sauce from its grasp,
And dribbles down your pubey beard.

You stop and take a finger to it,
Knowing full well that the damage is
Done and that those hairs will grip
To the smell of taco sauce until
The drain tastes their defeat after
A particularly overzealous shower.

And it is in that moment,
With finger and beard stained with
The orange-tinged blood of a chicken fillet roll,
That your ordinariness and worthlessness become apparent
And it destroys you...
Because you always thought taco sauce was spicy.

When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice

Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again

Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone

Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines

So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song

Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz

**

They repeatedly boasted aloud
of conquests and victories
for a short period between
their  palmy days of youth
and unexpected quick death;
a mad rush of adrenaline
before thought could wake up reason,
nothing more than a basic need
for impulsive violent action,
few drops of poetry could have changed direction,
a death wish triggered by moments of darkness
that invites a chain of tragic consequences.

But thoughtful they were
to  hire overzealous writers,
being aware of their need of arming future.

The writers extolled the futile deaths
embellished words, made it look  heroic
which really pointed only to a ****** end.

Look at each tomb stones lined
here in the cemetery, once more
see, if the names extolled once are still not eroded.

Thin wire, overzealous leading to being over tired...
an over reliance on the hopes of being reinspired,
The burning thoughts; of a migraine constantly on fire.

Ten thousand shots in my head—ba, ba, ba, ba,
swimming over my depths, trying my best to breathe;
all the while in still waters choking my neck. Some live
too long...living a life of the dead.

I'm singing a song, better sounding inside—la, la, la, la,
It goes while I'm looking in the mirror, seeing myself and my
self enemy. Who's betting on their works, to seem like a better
version of themself/me?

Letting be of the many ways I try to appear calm in some days.
Hunger in my eyes; starved of the sights of true love.
But the dirtiest intentions, has my face fully covered in mud.
I give and give, but these returns are never enough.
But plenty are the voices in my head, battling constantly—blah, blah, blah, blah, as no-one else hears this cracking glass in my chest.

I figure we're all fragile figures, in the end.

Sorry, but
I can't hear what you're saying,
and I may not even give a **** even if I could.

I just wanna do my own thing;
here, I've been alone for a few moments
and then here comes everyone ******* else
to tell me about what I should do:
just shut the **** up
and let me do my own ****!

Thank you.

Random Sentences

Everyday people will die,
for a moment, you might cry,
but as yourself why.
Celebrate their life, don't mourn,
think of all the new being born,
life or death, millions are torn.
Earth rotates around the sun,
just try to have some fun,
no fork in me, I'm far from done.
I have yet to get going,
like a strong wind blowing,
the future is always unknowing.
Be yourself, don't be fake,
no one likes a sneaky snake,
open your eyes, it's time to wake.
Smell the flowers, smell the coffee,
unlock your powers, don't be so bossy,
climb those towers, no need for a posse.
Nightmares used to haunt my every move,
no more fears left to prove,
my dreams are starting to improve.
No clue what I'm saying,
don't believe in any praying,
my life, I'm happily portraying.
None of us know the truth,
about how we wasted our youth,
can't remember last time, I saw a telephone booth.
No creative writer is better than me,
I even write, while I take a ***,
you're lying if you don't agree.
My haters are just jealous,
I like being so rebellious,
love being so overzealous.
Way too much pollution,
no one has any solution,
that will be my final conclusion.

It started in the burning starlight




There was nothing in me. I was new and everything was naked.

Memories carry with them the heavy weight of another dimension.

Manipulate

He put the tape over her mouth. And I shouted mom's name. “mom”

My lips go dark. Silver and stuck. My face is small. Only one piece of tape for nose and mouth.

Manipulate

Every window bursts open and the anger creeps in.

Little  brown eyes go black. My body falls and the room siezes. Each frame of the shot vibrating, camera lens cracks and breaks.

My eyes are new, in a big brown body, with strong arms and fast feet.

MANIPULATE

fist for fist. Tape peeled back by revenge. And nothing sleeps right.




Somewhere else there are stars and you don't have to live




Could I be so naive...memories slipping through my fingers like pebbles. Through my tired, fading fingers.


Destroy

I feel breath. Whispers remind you that you cant be persuaded. Hands remind you that you can't fight back.

His lips making shapes in the dark, undoing buttons on child sized jeans.

Destroy

Overzealous heroes charge in and their fists build walls of bruises around would be abusers.

Maybe they save others...maybe overzealous heroes burn it all away.

DESTROY

And then no one gets hurt. Because nothing exists when it's ashes and bone.

But who am I if I believe memories can disappear…

If I refuse to accept the way they lurk in the shadows of my skull.

If I refuse to acknowledge them they grow.



Sunswept, copper sky. The moon sits waiting at the edge of the horizon



There he is. Big brown body like nothing id ever hoped.

Moving in and they can't see.

Repair

I feel comfort. Longing for that in my own skin.

I feel safe. Longing for that in my self.

Repair

Parents stinging child. Words biting the neck.

Poison lingering in veins. In memories.

REPAIR

But it's okay. He says he's been here before. Savior of the nightmares, i know him.

I sit in the backseat alone, waiting for the conversation to end. English to Spanish. My weight. I'm too big for someone so little.

He rubs my head and says it doesn't matter.

The hand is light and rough. Thick. Familiar and strange.

How could I become him...how could I be so incomplete.



It ended with the scorching moonlight

Those names you called me,
That shame I felt.
It's a cycle of fear,
And humiliation.
You put me down,
Then try to bring me up.
You're jealous, overzealous, and sinful, 
You're just a beast in human form.
I try to run but just fall down,
For the path is rocky at best.
You chase me down, 
And pull me back in.
Say you love me,
Think it will fix everything.
Make it all okay,
Just forget all the problems.
My life isn't my own,
I'm on your leash.
My decisions are yours,
My actions monitored.
You say I can't be friends with him,
That's not okay.
I can't go to the movies, 
You're not there.
Lies, deceit, and broken promises,
Chaining you down in a pit of helplessness.
I can't leave you,
I'm scared to.
You threaten, hurt, and cry,
It's not your fault, right?
Right?
I'm not sure anymore.  
You say you'll **** yourself,
If I leave you'll end it all.
You put that weight on me, 
It's dragging me down.
I'm tethered to a pole, you're beating me down. 
Sending me spinning around, 
Just to send me the other way.
This needs to end, 
The pain needs to stop.
I'm leaving,
I'm done. 
Goodbye, 
So long.

Mitchell S. Bartlett

You need sunglasses when your staring at me
Cause the light I emanate scars the retina of my enemies
There is no cure for the blindness you will endure
A pain perpetuated by the ignorance so perniciously procured
Squared against an inevitable death I easily steal your breath from the barrel of my Smith and Wess
Watching your hollow tears bleed on the canvas I project
a cataclysmic disaster wrapped up in a dismal death

We sit here at the pinnacle of our lives speaking in shadows
Masking our mouths from what we oblige
Stop and listen to the earth as it decries
The subtle architecture of this worldly demise
So as we kick back and sorely reside
I’ll be the change in the coming tide

Caged inside tortured flesh I search for rest to keep the human condition suppressed
But all I find each time that I design a new quest I become a servant of death
Invigorated by the test I stretch my consciousness to tear the limbs off your chest and beat you senseless
I won’t stop there, I’ll slit the throat leaving you without hope and then drown it in Everclear
While I may seem like a cynic
I’m not through with these gimmicks
Lacerating your heart with the bones I striped from your tendons
I’m not an advocate of violence but
Sometimes the pilot of peace needs to be reached by setting loose the destruction we inherently seek

We sit here at the pinnacle of our lives speaking in shadows
Masking our mouths from what we oblige
Stop and listen to the earth as it decries
The subtle architecture of this worldly demise
And I’ll hide my words with silence
And I’ll no longer become violent
Just another subservient machine lost in a sea of tyrants

I won’t be blunt here I’ll keep dropping metaphorical bombs onto your ears
Until all my peers understand the imminent plan that needs to be adhered:
Stop short cause change is impossible to purport
Don’t dream cause it’ll get shattered with a corporate hammer
Stay sinking in a world that raises a stagnant banner
Assimilate with the overzealous overweight materialism that manifests in the minds of the poor and is perpetuated by strip malls and ******

Bad poetry makes me ugly:
Look, each line, a cliche
Each blemish, a simile;
My smile grows more bitingly smug
With each overzealous superlative.

My raccoon eyes are ringed
By metaphorical self delusions,
Badly performing alliteration-
All improvisations of incompetence;
And then the clash of symbol, deranges all thought.

Choose only the wound that is in your heart
That you would earnestly enlarge upon,
Steadfastly ignoring all the others.

Watch Bush.
Watch him push,
Metropolitan moods
Farther towards
The Atlantic and Pacific.
What issue was the key?
Gay marriage to be specific.
Forget our foreign policy,
Although the future looks horrific.
Ask all our allied countries,
Our president’s terr(or)ific.

He’s watching our country’s back.
(A side note: Reasoning for attack;
Some big weapons in Iraq).
This war is justified,
Our government’s convinced of that.
But waging full-out war
On a country and all its people,
Where only terrorists act?

If my sail has gone downwind,
Please advise me to tack.
But I strongly believe,
Our reasoning’s that wack.
I wish our president had the nerve
To bring our soldiers back.

It was a brilliant diversionary tact,
And advisors guessed well on how
The United States would react.
Bring fear and resources to the forefront, while hiding the facts
And legislatures and voters have a worthwhile contract.

So while I’m sitting here, still trying to figure out
Why we can’t implement more help in Somalia or the Sudan
Our leader has emerged on the world’s stage again,
Yelling “Can I get encore, do you want more?”
And ethics continue to slide off track,
While our diplomatic virtue fades to black.

Bush Jr. won the election “fairly,”
It’s clear for all to see.
But it’s sad to watch how easily
Politicians, Fortune 500 companies, and lobbyists
Have learned to exploit our Democracy.
An adept political machine,
Our government has no trouble raising the green
For our defense budgets and campaign schemes.

And it seems we forgotten about
Rescuing underfunded education,
How our country hurts collectively as a nation.
Left most of New Orleans’ poor and down-trodden
To the heroic efforts of local police, the coastguard and firemen
(At least those who weren’t part of the 1300
Which the water levels reached higher than).
And it makes me wonder,
Like 7 years ago, on the 11th day,
In the ninth month of our calendar year:
Through the wake of another major
Catastrophe and time of tears,
Did we miss the lesson, again?

See, we’ve made it a routine
To apologize after the fact -
One overzealous scream,
And the media makes
A joke of a good candidate,
Sorry, Howard Dean.
John Kerry’s record,
“Too sparkling clean.”
But accusing ANY politician of flip flopping
On the world’s political matters,
I hardly call that keen.
“We” had many grounds
For initially invading Iraq,
But to this day, have any been gleaned?
Our President lost 90-9,
In Washington D.C.

The President Elect
For 365 more.
In fact 365,
365 times four.
And with a majority in senate,
A “mandate” (a.k.a. a wide open door).

Time to get some things changed.
Instead of patching up wounds,
Of countries estranged,
With all the ambiguity of the election,
And the issues that ranged,
One thing is certain -
The President reigns.
Under the heat of the world’s glare,
Our burning Bush remains.

At low of night she strokes
Familiar tastes exquisite,
And quietly invokes
The spirit of laureate --

An orphic instrument
Unfit to take for granted.
It’s profound atonement
Stirs in her heart despondent.

Her fragile shell’s embrace
Of wood and gut and metal
Point out her shallow race
And weakness fundamental.

Yet all the night she moils,
Mistrusting augmentation,
And secretly despoils
The overzealous beacon.

-- Kerry Herrmann

Are you my saving grace, are you my wonderwall
Are you my parachute to catch me when I fall
Or are you my undoing, my Achilles heel
You can never trust a man that has too much zeal

you're not half bad
at your candlewick blossom snuffing -

got your braggart game up loud
in your repetitive silence
beaming at the doting strange phoenixes
darting in between your
bending fingers,

snatching up my flames
in their return to their
static progress on
life skills that are lingering
far too long
in the forging stage.

baby, baby
please -

tell me those aren't
your voices
slithering up the tall
columns of echoes,
wailing out
overzealous,
too pompous
orations.

nevermind -

my mind's pretending
to sleep somewhere marvellous
in this mind-field
of
the littlest
pink *******,

trying to act like
i don't suddenly feel
as if
the tomorrow
up next
will be bringing
a different star.

so i just sit here -

pointing my toes at occurrences
that i really wish had've gone down
a whole lot more
differently,

praying that
by some miracle,
tossing a bit of dust
from my careful bag

(paired with the experimental
levitational practices
i keep doing in my free time)

will somehow
make room
for all these
eggshells you won't stop
throwing onto the floor.

too many have found me
playing patty-cake
under that possessed streetlamp
down Hardy,
the one that always seems to flicker
when i walk by -

snatching back its potency
just long enough
to highlight the
unsolicited red apple ritual
happening in my
cheekbones.

i've got a game to catch.

not trying to be the dawdling girl,
throwing all of her hopes
into the air,
willing the destined one
to be something that will
cradle us both.

you gotta be on this
wick snuffing trip
searching for something a little more than
a ****-tossing buddy.

better get a pack of matches
and try to beat me to it,
'cause i'm putting up my fire-red can

and the light's gonna follow me out.

im am now undesirably  happy
I was once desirably unhappy
but with sadness came comfort
self pity became my favorite sweater
and now overzealous joy is the cardigan  I thought I would never wear
in the back of my closet, where I wish it would have stayed
change came in every season
winter was now spring
how I longed for the snow
underneath my sorrow was ability
ability to understand
now understanding slowly slipped
from my finger tips
so do not gaze at me with a confused and disapproving glare
while you sip from your every morning coffee
containing precisely three sugars
and two creams

how do i look at myself
and say
"this is okay.
the way you feel,
the way you think,
is okay."

how do i stop
telling myself
that i've always been
and will always be
too much?

can i change the way
i feel about myself
without changing
who i am?

can i learn
to appreciate my bleeding heart
and overzealous mind?

god
please tell me
that this is how you made me
and that how i am
is okay to be.

god
touch my heart
and heal my eyes
so that i am at peace
with all the things
i can't stand to be.

how do i stop
wishing that everything
about me was different?

Thy overzealous, sustained presumption
is akin to this, my long-seeded indignation.

Thy seemingly effortless pretension
and blatant disregard for implication
creates quite the hypocritical situation
seemingly devoid of deliberation.

Thy egotistical ostentation
does not evade much observation;
this is thy choice, such alienation:
I anticipate resentful perturbation.

We often seek answers
To questions
Which should have never been asked
Ever since Eve ate the apple
The world has been
Afflicted
With whats seen as knowledge
And the curse of Pandoras box
Unleashed upon the world
A ravishing hunger
To capture questions
That as ignorant humans
We should never control
What we call intellect
Is an overzealous need for power
And we mistake knowledge
For answers to the mundane
Life would be so much simpler
If curiosity wained
And we never
Began asking unnecessary questions
In the first place

To accept knowing
Is not knowing
But still knowing some
Is enough

To know life and
Not know life
Seeing the creases
Of the newspaper
The *** rests his weary
Head on
Is enough

To see breath enter
Escape the broken body
Of a young boy
Ignorant to the facts of the world
That surround him
Is enough
At the time

The worried
Worry

The anxious
Toil over things
Within themselves
Outside of themselves
Out of
Their full
Control

The bigots
Picket a cause
They know nothing
About, embracing
Their unity in Hate
But the spellings wrong

The forward thinkers
Caved in with
Paperwork and
Hopes and dreams
Billowing plumes of twisted
Curled, cigarette smoke
Ashen intellectuals caught up
In the overflowing ash trays
Of the overzealous socialite

This is our chance
To Be Someone

The realist
Staring blankly at an
Empty salt shaker sitting
Next to a full
Pepper shaker

The veteran
Wishing there
Was no such thing
As bullets

The president
On a pedestal
Showing how fragile
Man can be

We people enter
Through these doors

Escaped convicts of the eternal
Holding a key of
Impossibilities

There are so many roads
That are open to us

Who sways us to take the
One we tread upon now?

Who has enticed us to the
The path we now walk upon?

I see a glimmer of the horizon

The lights show a blinding
Ancient yellow, the color of my mother's
***** blonde hair;

The clouds
Her laughter
As she squints, hiding
Her joy, keeping it for herself

"Safe keeping"," she always said

For soon
She knew

I would be
An echo

Remembrance of Sound

She isn't beautiful,
She's the glint on dew
The sparkle on a star
The new shine on a just waxed car,
Too little too few
Are my words dutiful
To describe
This beauty exponential
Her smile's vibe,
New world order potential,
Brain to the Pinky
Her body's curves so slinky,
Twists and turns
Are jealous
How she burns
Into retinas
The sultriest of patinas,
More overzealous
Than the sun
Smoking hotter than a gun,
At least she will never expire
Like the Hostess *******,
I'm burning from her fire,
Can feel it all the way to Helsinki...
© okpoet

It's not the way you are, dear.
It's the way my emotions reach their peak at 2 a.m.
when I'm alone with my blank canvas and endless list of fears
and you're going on the adventure I so desperately want to join you on.

It's the way my cobwebbed thoughts and overzealous daydreams intertwine
like my collarbones ache to be danced on,
while you're being the kind of free I've written about for years
and shedding your past of broken promises and disappointments.

It's the way I constantly grasp for a firm hold on a spark,
any kind of sweet nothings or a flick of an eye that tells me you want this
as bad as I do.
You're terrified of the future and I'm terrified of my past.

There's galaxies between our faults but inches between our lips
for a weekend, and it's the happy ending I crave
but it's only salt on my wounds when you have to pack your bag
with work clothes and every stumbled over "I love you."

This X marks the spot of where I used to feel okay
and your birth mark has lipstick stains from my rituals of
fixing this but they're fading every day I don't get to
bury my face in your sweatshirt and wrap myself in you.

This is my failed attempt at getting used to being attached but alone
At being at my most vulnerable state
And being in love with someone who will never understand.

Tell me, then, why isn't this working if opposites attract?

She dreams of the ideal man,
   but the suitor idolizes death in his soulful slumber.
She takes care of herself,
   though she cannot bestow her beauty to impressionists.
She falls in love,
   yet her delusional passions seethe her in disarray.
She finds new friends,
   but a ******* of overzealous poison tarnishes the relationship.
She cooks for more than one;
   ghosts accompany the reserved empty chairs.
She re-models her home,
   driven to impress; however, she is the only one impressed.
She longs for attention,
   craving for a taste of wanting to be loved.
She is she,
   and she is her own canvas.

Why can't my liver filter thoughts like it does with alcohol?

It would save me the trouble of all the money I've spent to free myself of bad decisions,

There is so much formality within a sober moment, while my drunkenness speaks freely,

My brain doesn't erase moments like alcohol does, yet my liver puts up a fight reminding me to think,

Fantasizing over an image created by theses slurred and blurred overzealous eyes,

I am attracted to bars like teachers are to mls style, and to this day I'm still not sure which one has been more beneficial.

Looking down the road of allowing glass, I measured my state of mind to pick my poison,

Tequila adds a flower to a withering soul, ***** snuffs out the light where it gets to bold, whiskey fakes the fight with its bros, while gin loosens the bones and wine your emotions, at last we have beer a truth serum more powerful than love,

What they all take is feeling, a small price to learning what we see in the refection is really something we refuse to collude with.

My liver is always amazed, the amount of control I give to it, whilst the hand with a drink in it stays steady,

The other acquires shame, controlled by a freedom of released inhibitions,

If I could escape the safety of the dinner lights for the missing love that I thought drive me here,

My liver is alone, in the battle, like one soldier who's realized that their command center threw them into a death trap and their enemies are mindless zombies of fallen memories,

My toast is not alone, followed by smiles and condolences, significant enough to convince everyone, maybe one more.

And to be here is to truly leave.
I sound like madness,
But touch me and you will feel it too
Breathe me in and you will smell the desperation
in my goodbye.
I am goodbye
I will never be "come home"
I will never be safe
More flight risk
than shore
More star than moon

You will never find yourself here.
I will never find myself here.
And I'm starting to think "here" is everywhere
And happy is gone as soon as I stepped foot here,
When I first put down book for friends
When I became scared of men.
Maybe it was when he died
Maybe it was when he left
Maybe it was when you said you loved me as you cradled her...
Maybe leaving is my "hello"
And goodbye is my "I love you"

Maybe I am confused
Maybe I am terrified
I don't know how to be here
In this extrovert, overzealous world.
And I hate the way the sun hides everything
And I can only come at night.

You are more than 2am
You are breakfast in bed
And daydreams in classrooms
If I ever decided to be here
I would need you next to me...
You could be my nature
My near by Tintern Abbey...
I'll show you my hurricane.

Sullen, sunken underworld
Underachieving overwhelming me
Not yet what I am
For who I am is
Largely at risk, rarely
Overzealous with tasks or
With thought or with speech.
Ever repressing the riot, cyclical.
Ravaging, rampaging, burning life.

Somehow, the tragic hero must
Excel, grow and develop, to envelop
Exotic, ****** nurturing rays of light.
Do you know how to feel alive?
Show me.