I.  ****** Transient

Overnight takes on new meaning
when the sun never sets and will never rise.

This time i didn’t bring words, i brought lines.

And Esmeralda danced circles around my eyes.
You gypsy ***** You.
Leading me confused,
                  with knees low and back hunched,
                                    into a labyrinth of solitude.

Embarrassed of what exactly?
i’ve barred scars more deep than scars
like profound pools of black sticky tar
that almost suffocates with its gluttony
and still You wouldn’t look away.
And now i pay a price as images intertwine
                           creating zebra patterned designs
                                             on the alcoves of my mind.
         Black, White
They contrast in spite of the connection.
         and I wear this contrast like an emblem,
                  hanging from my throat,
                           heavy on my heart.
                                    yet with the delicate touch of some
                                             slippery silvery chain…
                                                      It almost rids me of the pain.


Back turned or give me the front,
i still want either way.
A petrifying carnival of desire,
making my eyes tire of this display
and my lips itching to play,
a lilac purple tongue,
and bronze arms on the way.

You feign revolution by shutting the door in my face.

A shuddering sigh and flutter of a heart,
                           as caged ribs start to part,
                                   liberated room for more,

i’ve become an emotional *****,
lips wet with anticipation,
pulsating with a passion,
that You defined as infatuation.

And that i just couldn’t define.

-or rather-

defined as a transition in time.

****** Transients* would abstractive-ly be the best,
         but the abstract, once put to the test,
floats past concrete lines,
and creates a world of its own where, even as a stranger,
                  i feel right at home.
                                    Lioness of the abstract dome.


Razor sharp You
        sliced a tingling into the souls of my feet,
        and week after week i did nothing but smile at my own loss
        of balance.

The feminine reemerging as the phallus,
and the phallus in comfort with its feminine home.

         i patiently wait for my Special Kinder Surprise,
                                    and meanwhile,
                                             satisfy myself with imagination,
                                                    ­           to which an interpretation,
         would require the use of a million scholarly texts,
                                    which still wouldn’t attest to this degree
Of Vulgarity,
         or this degree
Of Sexuality,
         or this degree
Of Spirituality.

Like the slaughter of fowl for mythological pride;
                           You hide behind an altar,
                                    and with all the holiness i posses,
I intend to pull through and impress with Determination.
                           --and the petrifying realization—
that You are Artemis and i soon to be set upon by the hound
                                                           - choking ego to the ground.


But ****, it was worth it.

worth the,
vulnerability
worth the,
audacity
worth the,
ecstasy,
-It naturally dissolved within me.

Only to be pushed down by an incessant flipping of the door,
an incessant call to reality.

is the overnight truly Over?
      —or pray mercy and tell me its begun.

The rising Sun seems determined to puncture the fun,
And the valiant battle with Apollo seems already to have been won.



II.  ****** Ensnared
  
I’m getting tired of this ****.

A tantrum fit as if we were kids of three.
Stomping on adult realized priorities.
We wear our hair like a mask,
                  we analyze our clothes,
                           personify the persona we wish to adapt,
         and commend that same personal persona
         complimenting its research studied aura.
                                                    
--I’d rather stay in this dream forever.
  (you judged me by my hair
   yet remained unaware
   to what it masked.)

Please don’t preach to me about consideration.

The obliteration of that term in action shocks me.
Truth be told?—I’m quite Angry, and I feel used,
Yes, believe it or not, Abused.
Infiltrated and Dominated.

And I am a Leo at heart.

So to part with my throne will only be met with roars of defense;
                                                        ­       to be direct, Aggressiveness.


My interlude is met with seclusion—
         isolation to the utmost degree—
and I see that the world agrees, as I’m met
with a phone with no tone
and a power-cut of electricity,
while the world contracts visibly
and the static in the air
ensnares my fiery wrath,
and storms overhead
are weighed down with
anxiety and dread
that express themselves
in raindrops, that I lovingly
call tears.


I fear this is me at my limit---
        And I exhibit nothing but ferocious gloom.

This room which contains me is not enough,
And I will huff
And I will puff
Until the walls come down.
                  And the only sound to be heard,
                           is the numbing effect of silence.

My Rifle stands ready to be shot and plunge through that stubborn heart
of yours until it is rejected or until the reflected opinion dominates. Is it
too much to ask for a change of heart?
Empathy? Understanding?
Basic societ-ical handling?
Apparently yes.
So I detest
having to put in.

The waterworks that I display
convey nothing but submission
to your inconsideration.
                  And the devil in me crosses her fingers
                  for experience by example,
                  as elephants trample over logic
                  and the symbolic is simply symbolic.
                                             That’s too much reason for my taste.
                                             And I see that it was a waste
                                             Trying to impress with determination.

****** Ensnared has denied a nation of people their feelings,
                  listening, with unappealing resolution
                  satisfying herself with this conclusion:
                  “Let them eat Cake.”


--It’s true.
You can’t have your cake and eat it too.



III. ****** Verbalize

On a park bench it took me quite by surprise,
my eyes met with scripture
recognizable though not to my hand,
the band on my finger tightened and
yet the anger seized.
         -- How could I not have surmised ****** Verbalize to enlighten me?--


“Your Majesty;
         I owe you My Apology-
                  And I couldn’t be sorrier for my selfish self
                  has decided to rest after this long period.

For She was too busy
trying to make you feel safe and home
--She was too busy trying to suppress her ****** up
whipped cream so that you can have you cake and eat it too—
But She failed.

        You believe ****** is selfish,
then I’m afraid you never knew ******.
                  --****** loved you with wide arms open and she
                  Was pleased to meet you.

She hopes it was a useful transition for You.

.THE END.
The ******”

i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.

I've never gone anywhere
without seeing crows.
In fields and malls,
classrooms and bathrooms,
they're never missing.
Sometimes they'll come right up
and those moments are petrifying
because there aren't any breadcrumbs
but the bits of fears on shoulders.
When they land before you,
you can feel a massive pressure
on your chest, trapping you
and catching your breath.
I know other people see them too.
I've seen people cursed
with crows always hovering,
whispering in their ears,
pecking at their insecurities,
and screeching self doubt.
Mine is never far behind me
and he'll never leave.

I turned lesser men to stone, snakes nipping idly at my dress:

I am monster, living incarceration of a profane affair.

I turned sacristy into brothel, my beauty was perverted to despair.

I am monster, grotesque face topped by a hissing nest.

As you approached, and I felt a grim shiver in my chest;

I glowered my petrifying glare,

But you were given hiding-cape', sword, winged sandals to wear,

And mirrored shield my powers to arrest.

My mask of potent shame was made:

Lips blood red and eyes of smoldering coal,

Around my face writhing serpents twist and roll.

I saw my eyes in your hand, I wailed a last serenade.

Gasping in the instant before – everything went stone cold.

I am weapon, crafting you a garden of entombed souls.

1Hades’ cap of invisibility

I-AM-NOT-A-DOG.
Today,
I cut loose from your leash of degrading comments.
My ears have learned to ignore your whistles
and the only thing I am going to fetch
is my dignity.

We all have cracks.
People’s words creep into our most foreign parts
And bother us like gnats in our food.
However,
At a young age my mom welded me by hand.
Sealed off every corner so
Your undignified vernacular wouldn’t disturb my peace.

Your mother must’ve had deleterious effects on you.
She told you that love can only be found through intertwining genitals.
I have iron fists and your forcefulness will not supersede my strength to protect what I own.


Let me tell you sir,
Obeying men is an archaic practice
And I wasn’t born yesterday.
I endure life with fortitude even with the threat of your loaded fist 2 inches from my face.

Your catcalls sting like the hearts of mother’s who have lost their daughter’s to the streets.
I hold my mace like a loaded gun walking in the petrifying night.

Apparently big butts lie, they give you the impression that you can squeeze, but back off the anatomy.
Remember that all women embody beauty and grace, not for you, but for themselves.

It's telling looking through
the window’s eyes ; 
a room with a paling grey glass view
befogs the clouds reign inside the storm
Often feeling misbegotten regret
for the unfiltered passing glimpses,
whetstone honed and splayed ;
raw hues of a latent life exposed

There's an uncertain hidden shame
in the unheard truth
starving out in the cold;
dwelling in a petrifying silence
of a common hunger
the lonely do ache
  
Merciless hunger pangs
manifest and shake
with an unrelenting bitter taste ;
loneliness grapples and grips
like a silent earth quake
rattling a rib caged heart — writhing
as Autumn bares the trees
  
A jagged ambiguous fault line
ripples through the hollow echo ;
a bolt of lightning caught in a bottle
strikes — silently contained
swallowing the unspoken words
in a greater good

This broken merry-go-round
keeps turning round and round;
the great mandala spinning on
like a worn out hamster-wheel
without a conscious trace
of going anywhere out there

The place you come from
is gone when you leave it —
even if you really never
feel you were from anywhere
but a thousand unmarked mileposts
from out here somewhere adrift;
a pilgrimage towards understanding
why sometimes I don’t know
if I know who I am — or could have been —
waiting on a threadbare prayer

One-day the winds of change
will shapeshift — bye and bye ...

"When the light that's lost within us
reaches the sky"


Jesse Stillwater

November 2018

Medusa's juicer
Used to confuse her -
The instructions
She said
Were obtuse.

By the snakes for hair
round my petrifying face
I swear that
This juicer's no use.

C'mon! Spank me like the naughty little girl I am!
**** ME! **** ME! Stop being a man!

See this? Right here? My tight little hole?
Put it right there, baby! Homosexuality makes you whole!

Put this on your tongue, this seed of pomegranate.
Have a little fun! Let loose your granite!

Ice shavings and ice cream, my sweet little angel,
Come closer, come closer, let me study your angels,

Put your **** in my mouth. I'll **** you off.
*** in my mouth, and let yourself loft.

I'm not one for chains and whips,
But I'm more than up for shafts and tips!

*******; sliding in; so sweet;
Pound me harder with your big, strong meat.

The good'ol in-out in-out ~ The rhythm of life.
The dullness of cream ~ the glint of a knife.

Petrifying pangs of pleasure; cross a prostate ~ pouring,
Sweetly like ~honey~suckle~ Alluring

Breathe, my darling, like music, like a breeze.
Like the blood in my ears; like the wind in the trees.

In the closet, we are allowed but seven minutes.
But that is not enough! By the time its up, I won't be finished.

So for now, my darling, put your lips on my cheek.
And allow me one, little, innocent peak.

It's the Grim Reaper
It's the Boogie Man
It's the wolf in the closet
It's the monster under the bed
It's the phantom that's chasing you in your dreams
It's the madman who dances delightfully in your brain matter
It's the poison in your coffee
Paralyzing
Petrifying and penetrating
A flesh eating
Bone chomping
Soul *******
Grave robbing Ghoul
Right within the halls of your head
Grotesque and greedy, it is
Gloom everywhere
An anxiety production line
Breeding anguish
Bleeding you out
Windpipe choking
Werewolf watching
Witches brewing
It's dreadful and dooming
It's horror at every corner
It's a newspaper dripping in disaster
It's a future forecasting fatalities
Your obituary in every new edition

BUT IT'S NOT REAL

There's a fear I can't shake.
It keeps boiling,
I can't shake it.

It's petrifying the way it takes my bones
And travels my veins.
It's petrifying me.

I don't know whether I try to control it,
Or just assume it as my own device.
'Cause either way it possesses me,
And demands my being.

I'm left shaking
And petrifying in doubts,
I'll never be good enough.

Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.

Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.

Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.

Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.

Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.

As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.

I have always been the umbrella type:
Cloudy, with a chance of dying.
Water is petrifying—
When it rains, I listen to sad music and enjoy the view
Hoping I never have to venture out to you
Because I have no idea where you’ll flood into
And then I’ll have to peel away my dress you seeped right through
And nakedness is frightening and sitting in the shower
--shivering--
is not very inviting.
In fact, it’s very unpleasant when you’re by nature private
And have a hundred empty places to keep quiet
Covered and compliant.
Getting wet is terrible when you’ve spent forever piecing together
A paper-mache umbrella to cover
Your cracks.
Storms are not my style, I’m still trying to dry
From the tears I was born crying.
I was born cloudy with a chance of dying
Cloudy with a chance of never even trying
And when you’re born with a heavy heart
the last thing you need is to get
drenched.
Wringing yourself out is just a defense
It’s common sense--
--to never lose sight of the shore
SO, this is why I hide from the downpour
Under dusty cotton covers
And don’t ever even wonder
What it would be like
To be dragged in your wake
It’s not like I’m safe from you anyway.
I wasn’t built on stilts
I’m not a flood-proof gate,
I’m a rusty fire-escape that only reaches halfway
down
And I don’t want you waiting at the bottom and begging me to jump but of course you are,
You always are
But even though I know you’d catch me
You are scary and I’d rather jump to concrete because at least it looks like solid ground
And when I go down, I comfort myself with the 100 percent chance that at least
I won’t drown.

When i first saw you, i saw your soal in your eyes.
A soal that took my breath away.
When i first held your hand, i held safety.
The touch that takes away all thoughts.
When i first heard you say "i love you", i was afraid.
True love is petrifying.

As i lay here in my own self hate, remeniscing on what we used to have, i feel empty.

I wish you would scare me.
I wish i wasn't fearless.

orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves
it fits you perfectly. it looks like it was taylored to your measurements perfectly
i bought it about a year ago
let you wear a part of me i felt safe in
worn proudly you are the boy that i thought would never
i painted a picture of you in my head in which you were perfect
i had sculpted each pore perfectly
placed each thread of your hair on your head but
i guess i must have done something to mess up because the perfect picture i painted
dripped with wet unset paint
on top of me suffocating, i couldn’t move
i could only see your chest covered in the stupid orange sweater
tongue deep down my throat with your hand on my neck
your face is dripping on mine this wasn’t who you were supposed to be
it hasn’t been longer than a week but the days drag on years and pull on gods ears and beg for more time to pass but less and less goes by
never ending i feel like i’m stuck
im in an artblock
your face is gone but it was just there i must have misplaced the brush that i drew your short eyelashes with
whimpering you are but why, was it something i did?
my paint brushes are all intact and my workspace is clean
how could i have messed up
the painting with the orange sweater delicate brown eyes and thick bleach hair is dripping
off the canvas
i haven’t done much other than wait for you to dry our before i can add more on to you
but you won’t dry and you’re on top of me
my neck is wet with the saliva you won’t stop touching me
no i said i would take a break from this canvas but it’s encasing me i cannot leave
i messed up havent i
wonder why i did to deserve this
im using my fingers to put your streaky smile back in place don’t look at me like that please
i have to ask for you to leave i cannot stand the shade of orange you’re wearing being on top of me
please leave
im letting you out to dry

in the same position i can’t move
my neck is casted by guilt i must have done something wrong
looking back that couldn’t have been you
it must have been the wrong medium
your acrylic is dry and patched you couldn’t have torn me down like the thin canvas dripping with trauma filled sweat
no because you would never let yourself wear something mine while you took myself from my own body
right?
youre the boy i painted over and over in my head just to get you right
hold my hand let’s go for a walk hold me tight because the wind against my cheek causes a shiver down my spin
lift my head up to glance at the intentional light because you know i’m scared of looking down at the petrifying dark
but you burned my eyes and i am no longer mine the painting is ruined and i can’t fix it
but that’s not who i planned for you to be you would never do that because i don’t mess up the watercolor goes on thick paper while you go on premeditated canvas
was it me?
have i misread but i do not misread i am not an idiot it’s not my fault you chose to do this yet i cant not feel this in my chest
im a failed artist with a body stolen in disgust
i want my orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves back

They never mentioned
That the smell of aftershave
And toothpaste
Would be triggering.

Forgot to say I was destined
To be what twisted men crave -
My skinny waist,
His slithering.

Cannot sleep on a waterbed.
Fear that the waves will move
Unsteadily,
Irregularly.

Threw away purple bedspread.
Prayed its absence would improve
Sleeping,
Dreaming

I recognize his twins
At work, the store, and on the street.
Unable to breathe.
Petrifying.

Their crooked grins
Calloused hands, tight grips, yellow teeth
Calls me 'sweetie'
Triggering.

Those eyes.
Those angry, angry eyes.
Those angry eyes are the last thing I see before I sleep.
Inspiring the thought that is there for only just a moment,
and then slips into my subconscious,
Low beneath the surface where it will stay buried and withdrawn
and it is this:

You will always be this way
and I will always have to live with it.
It’s that thing I hate about you and love about you at the same time.
You’re full of passion, you’re zoned in a moment, you let your knobs turn to 11.
Emphatic, impassioned, ****** energy
floats in the spaces between atoms in the world around you.

But when you turn to anger…
I see a madman, with fire in his belly and hate in his heart.
The same man who storms into the flames
and barn burning antics consume his mind.
The switch is on and it won’t turn off,
it is single-handedly the most petrifying disposition you have.
and I know you will always be this way
and I will have to live with it.
and every night as I go to bed,
I hope to God I don’t see
Those angry, angry eyes.

Some people live purgatory lives;
they dance with the invitation
of death
just long enough
for the moment
to become romantic
then they usher the
entire idea
right out the door
as if being
friends
with the end
is an easy way
to pretend

they cannot
         go at any moment.

Some people chase
   the idea of death
so much
they forget to
do something
as simple
yet profound
as live.

We spend every day
repeating cycles
and trying to make
our routines
perfect
then remain
frustrated at

     everyone and ourselves

for not being able to get this fluctuating life right

yet-

I am learning that getting it right
takes doing it wrong
more than
quite a few
times

and

that is simply something neither you or I can be ashamed of.

We cannot substitute the lessons
that failure and patience bring us-
all we really can do is
face our hardships
with limited understanding
and obtain what we can
from our moments of misery.

I am finding more and more
         that myself
  lingers in those moments
and I am beginning to appreciate
the days
I spend
catching
       bleek
          & subtle
                     glimpses
           of what I can

become.

You see,
I used to fear my own presence.
Shake my head at my own sight.
Be disgusted with my thoughts
and ruin my existence.

I used to do all of these things because I felt
helpless.
I was not the person taking charge
      for my life.
I was not the person owning responsibility
for their actions.
I was not the person acting on their decisions
although the choices were petrifying.
I was not that kid because

I DID NOT YET UNDERSTAND WHAT I WAS CAPABLE OF.

I had yet to find the opportunity in my failures.
I had yet to see the potential in my flaws.
I had yet to understand that there are twenty-four hours
in a single day
and we can own every single one of them
when we are not focused on defeat.

And that sounds a little extreme at first,
I know,
but if I can convince you of anything today-

please do not be afraid of change.

Welcome it with open arms and be prepared for
your entire life to get uncomfortable
when you start being honest with the world
and most importantly-
yourself.

I have let go of so much heartache
from no longer pretending I am okay.

I have let go of so much anxiety
from not allowing others to hold
their expectations over me.

I have let go of so much depression
from standing up for myself
because I was sick of the world
telling me NO.

I have let go of so much
useless negativity
and have said goodbye
to so many friends
and relatives
because
choosing compassion
over what they took from me
always kept me on
the better course;

a step ahead
when they were looking behind
and reflecting
by the time
they could realize
intuition wins.

but I guess depending on which way you are looking at it-
all of this is just bragging of course.

So I will never mind you
if you are not listening.

I will forgive you
when you come around.

BUT IF YOU ARE LISTENING LOUD,
HERE RIGHT NOW-

know that I am too.

And for every dream you are chasing-

    it is chasing after you.





Thank you.

I always swear work doesn’t affect me.

Trauma?! HA! Never.

And for the most part I am ok.

But suddenly I realized as I counted every single calorie; every single bite… scrubbed every surface and washed my hands far too many times..

The fear of gaining weight; of relying on everyone else to care for me…

Just might be coming from the living people whose bodies are actively rotting. Flesh and fluids dripping off the sides of my stretcher.

My ambulance regularly becoming a biohazard until I’ve scrubbed every inch.

Listening to the sounds of weeping patients on their way to the ER for the 5th time this month because no body cares about them.

It’s not death that scares me. Not loss of limbs or sight that worries me. It’s not having anyone who wants to love me. Not having anyone willing to speak for me when I am broken. It’s the idea my mind can be pristinely sharp but my body defeated and needing someone. But no body cares.


That possibility is petrifying.

-ARI

Some would say the heart is the most precious ***** in the body
But I disagree, see for me it’s my mind
It’s hunger for reason must be fed
It’s thirst for information must be quenched and this precious vulnerability must be protected
Solitaire exercises of discipline strengthen these walls with lessons so essential their very nutrients must be extracted from the most sacred of confines
Locks, rusted with petrifying shadows of blame
Contempt fills these boxes that if released arbitrarily could prove to be terminal
Preparation has skilled me of such treachery but no YOU attacked the heart
An ***** most would say is the most precious because it can cloud reason and influence the ******* that is the human brain
Turning pain into tranquil contempt
Removing logic from the vital equation of understanding into a dismal acceptance of average
Well I’m here to tell you though your best efforts, your attempts at my emotional demise have proven to be futile
I stand before you wise to your woes spun effortlessly weaving a pictured filled with promise and no action
My heart, although damaged will learn from this strife and beat stronger and better than ever before.
It shall not ache nor bleed for you, but it thanks you for your time….and this lesson.

I never wished for my feathers
To catch fire
Unsure of who made me
This way

Losing my brilliance was never
My desire
My finale was
Excruciating

Someone once told me
That fire heals wounds
"To cauterize is to
Stop the bleeding"

This new discovery
Completely consumed.
Becoming anew
Was intriguing

The time then came
For the heat and the haze
These moments both petrifying  
And exhilarating

I touched the dark
Before I embarked
Forming from embers while I
Remembered

I am reborn

Is there a chance for us to undo the past?
To correct our mistakes
To retract all the wrong doings
To take back everything

Is there someone, somehow, who can help me heal the pain?
Would there be anyone out there willing to take me in?
Who can be by side and mend me?
A living soul, who'll be there to catch me.

I'm scared. Yes, I am scared.
No, I am not. I'm terrified.
I'm extremely, terribly, gravely, terrified.
And it's terrifying that, I feel terrified.

I am nervous.
I am frightened.
I am horrified.
No, I am petrified.

But you know what the scariest thing of 'em all?
The most petrifying, horrifying thing?
Is that I am shaky and rattled—
But my body feels like sassy and comfy.

I'm getting used of doing unsuitable things
Feeling cozy and warm—
Relax and composed
It feels like having my second skin—

Oh, I know. I know —
I think — just a thought
That maybe, just maybe...
I need saving — help me.

I’m in a vicious state of mind,
no siren calls to stem the putrid inferno
burning my mind to charcoal,
petrifying it to unblemished obsidian.
Words of love don’t reach me,
silly human endearments bore me,
touch me and I’ll slice your hands off.
It’s not good, they tell me.
But I will build my armory.
Until this warped, traitorous world
can be wrenched, twisted, hammered
back into hinges,
that I have complete control of.
Silence...
Finally

Testament of a panzer maiden

Riding in an airplane,
Is one of the most terrifying,
Yet most beautiful things,
I have ever experienced.
There is something about the
Rumble beneath my legs,
Of the engine's purr.
Something about the lurch into the air,
That moment when you're
Neither on the ground
Nor truly flying.
Beautifying and petrifying.
And when turbulence is hit,
In the tiny Beech1900D,
The continuous jump, jump, jump,
Of my stomach,
Like an unending roller coaster
Only going down hill,
Lets me dance with death,
If only for a moment,
Before our wheels screech,
Against hot, angry tar,
And I can kiss the ground,
Once more

The world around me: Day after day it looks the same.
I hear the noise of the workers drilling in the basement
and watch people doing their business.
Here or anywhere other, it's the same.

Sometimes I think I am trapped. Trapped in former decisions;
decisions which always tend to reveal their full impact later.
I think about the mistakes I made and regret - what futile task
as past always stays past, petrifying words yelled and unspoken.

I'm not ungrateful - given my past suffering.
I'm not moaning - given freedom from my former pain.
I'm not unhappy - given that I was already happier tough.
I'm not doing nothing - given that it may look different to you.

Finally I got rid of this **** anxiety, which haunted me
from my first days at school to my last job,
these devastating thoughts of having to be better than everyone,
of being more, of deserving more
they just ate away at my soul
tearing myself apart
before hyenas did
their part.

He created us as imperfect beings
But He exhibits various rules
To 'perfect' us or else we suffer
He threatens us with these morbid actions
Because we are intended to be perfect
Perfect in His eyes
And yet He created us as imperfect beings
He evokes us how imperfect we are
He generates excuses that it's only human nature
But we're still to arrive at this petrifying region
For being created imperfect by Him
Unless we track these rules to perfection
And yet He created us as imperfect beings

You are the moon of mine,
Illuminating my prison,
An astral prison that I built myself,
To remind me your presence in the night sky.

You are the supernova of mine,
Unleashing bright lights like pyro,
Until it becomes the shape of a monster,
Petrifying but amazing at the same time.

Unfortunately I am just the dust,
Floating freely within the universe,
Struggling to be noticed by the moon,
Hoping for the light so I can be seen.

The sun's whispering to me,
"you are a dead matter" .

"I easily fell in love with you,"* He said looking straight into her eyes, petrifying her. *"And you don't know how much it scares me."

Simplified to a piece of meat with a spine,
Labeled the byproduct of life,

My molecular structure is nothing but a virus,
So pious, others think they understand me,
When they are also mirroring this miniscule existence,

Not just a beating heart and forgetful mind,
I’ve got time to dissect you, with my own ideology,

Lacking benevolence,
Unable to see a difference between humanity and vengeance,
Bluntly put we are the manifest of an infest

Economically choking the impoverished,
Politically petrifying reality,
Socially suffocating society like an infant in her crib,
You’ve diminished the privilege of innocence,
And believe body counts bring pride,

No matter what you think is best,
You are an earthly pest,
Consuming everything,
And never leaving anything for the rest,
It’s time to take our test.

Two ultramarine diamonds
Glazed like hailstones
Transfixing and adoring
With the courage of a thousand monarchs
Peering with an immortal persistence,
Like the twirling whitecaps of the sea
And how they never forget to kiss the coast goodbye
Petrifying all nerve endings
In every gap
And every adjacent membrane ofaxons
In every gland and cell
Recepting molecules of hunger and thirst
Set aflame by
Pummels of my infant and eager heart
Both silhouettes swaying in greed
Yearning, longing,  speaking,
Pleading with a meek caress
For incessant spasms of arousal,
A stifled sob made of silk
Hushed by the storm of a lull
Sapphire globes fasten once again
A duet of mercy
Cupping cherub faces
Tracing trails of promise with settled fingertips
Down chilled spines
And frozen echoes
Tangled in a warmth never wielded