need a new racquet**

tennis elbow blues
ice pack chill 20 minutes off and on

thinking out loud,
she pronounces maybe, I need a new racquet,

and the diddy man
looks up in terror
shouting way louder

"I am the only racket here,
and I so do not need replacing"

Estates within the woods, serene with sun.
Warm air, and white prim rose dresses.
Secrets dropped between blades of grass.
Hidden, lost in summer.
But, if asked just right,
Politely and precise,
They will bloom for you.
Quaint little used to be's.
Who used to beat
My heart.

Memories.

Back yard lawn chair, of crisp yellow and white.
Which once upon an unknowingly historic time,
Embraced the body heat
Of that King.
And his miniature kingdom,
Within me.

Lovingly.

It was Summer at the Racquet Club Estates.
His last Summer,
A chance to breathe alive.
Our Last debate,
A heart's final try.
Quaint little used to be.
Who used to beat
My heart.

Goodbye.

mom is sick her 90th birthday is in several weeks she says she has lived a long full life and is ready to die the doctors are trained to keep her alive i remember when the doctors kept dad alive while waiting for the cancer to attack a vital ***** i wonder if this practice of keeping people alive is humane mom forgets events 2 hours earlier walks into mirrors falls down wakes up with black eyes i’m having trouble sleeping thinking morbid thoughts maybe lots of people all around the world are waiting to die people ***** mutilated robbed cheated bankrupt homeless war victims old people with chronic diseases dependent on caretakers maybe millions of people are thinking about death waiting hoping praying for death faced with the growing problem of overpopulation why can’t we mitigate the suffering of those waiting to die i don’t understand



in early morning i drift out of sleep toss right turn left look out window glance Mount Lemmon stretch out on back planter flex dorsal flex toes extend arms out to sides over head look up at exposed redwood beams ceiling try to remember interpret understand what i was dreaming rise from bed brush teeth walk around make bed pull brush sheets try to take dump because i don’t want to embarrass myself in pilates class drink water slip on gym shorts head down stairs grab keys lock door scan garden always feel lucky if Saab starts drive to Tucson racquet fitness club pilates class



i am ready to move away from Tucson nobody here wants needs me no one reads my writings or is interested in showing buying my paintings sun scorches bakes intrudes invades rudely glaring mercilessly my skin suffers i am thinking about heading back east North Hampton Massachusetts or Hudson Valley area or Chicago where i have many friends or rainy Apeldoorn Netherlands where Pavanne and Shannon live or Eureka California where Shannon also resides i’ve paid my dues a thousand times hoping to achieve success i live in fantasy imagining outcomes that never come



younger attractive female doctor wearing white coat low heel black pumps enters room of 60 year old patient suffering from depression loneliness despair

DOCTOR please sit up and open your gown (she plugs stethoscope into her ears)

PATIENT you want to hear my heart

DOCTOR breathe deep breaths (she examines glands around throat under arms shines light into ears eyes nose mouth) hmmm what symptoms caused you to admit yourself

PATIENT i’ve been feeling frustrated defeated isolated anxious for a while

DOCTOR you look strong healthy height weight proportionate i think your problems are psychological you may want to find a good therapist

PATIENT i’ve seen many as a kid none helped

DOCTOR well if you think you’re ready to be euphonized i can schedule you for next week of course the hospital will need to make arrangements for disposing your body

PATIENT does it hurt

DOCTOR the drug industry has made huge advances in the last few years i’ve been informed the procedure is actually quite euphoric

PATIENT next week huh like Friday or Saturday next week

DOCTOR the hospital will contact you

PATIENT do i need to bring anything or what do i wear

DOCTOR the hospital will contact you with a list of details including an e-will if you have family or relations

PATIENT thank you for your kindness you’re really sweet and pretty i don’t see a wedding ring are you married or single my mom would love to hear i’m dating a doctor

Have you heard about our tennis player?
She is our first singles slayer,
She can serve and she will probably hit you with an ace,
She is impossible to replace.

She can be the sweetest girl you have ever met,
Before the game starts, we shake hands by the net,
But do not try to mess with her when she is playing the tennis game,
She could hit you with her racquet’s frame.

But let me tell you about this girl:
She can easily win the game,
Not only with her smart brain,
But also with her skills that will surely get her to the hall of fame.

If you ever see her around,
She never has a frown,
She will gladly give you a smile,
But do not forget to slowdown and take a look at her style.

You might recognize the girl,
It’s the one with the awesome curls,
You will see her around these halls,
And her pictures will be hanging on the walls.

She is our proud valedictorian,
She will forever be victorious,
One of our most outstanding students,
Oh what a big inspiration but she is clueless!

This journey has been tremendous,
So let me give a shout out to tennis,
Is the sport that brought us together,
I could not ask for anything better.

Now looking back at the place we were,
Only makes me cherish every moment I spent with her,
I will always be thankful for every advice,
That has helped us reach our own paradise.

The best I wish for her career aims,
I hope to see her in the Olympic games
And be the player she wishes to become,
I am a proud friend to see how far she has come.

I never thought I could be this close to her,
Nobody else I would prefer,
To say a “see you later”, at the end,
What a big blessing to call her one of my best friends!

HE ALLAN FAMILY STORY




SEEING ME AND MY BROTHER WERE INTERESTED IN THE SPORTS WAY OF LIFE

DAD AND MUM TOOK US DOWN TO THE KIPPAX GYM TO PLAY SQUASH, I COULDN’T HIT

A SQUASH BALL, SO I PLAYED RACQUET BALL, EASIER TO BOUNCE, AND I WON MANY GAMES

AND MY IMAGINATION, WAS AFTER WE PLAYED FOOTBALL ON  THE ALLAN FAMILY SPORTS STADIUM,

THE FOOTBALLERS WENT TO THE KIPPAX CLUB AFTERWARDS TO PLAY SQUASH, EVERYONE IN MY

FAMILY WAS A FOOTBALLER IN MY IMAGINATIVE FOOTBALL GROUND, PLAYING SQUASH OR RACQUET BALL

TO LOOSEN UP THEIR MUSCLES, AND MY BROTHER HAD A BIT OF A SULK, BECAUSE, A DECISION DIDN’T GO

RIGHT FOR HIM, , MEANWHILE BACK AT HOME, I LIKED THE IDEA, OF HAVING THE PRETEND YASS MAGPIES FOOTBALL CLUB

WHERE I WILL DRAW MENUS UP, LIKE CHOPS WITH GINGER AND CHIVES, RISSOLES WITH VEGETABLES AND MASHED POTATO,

THIS CAUSED A BIT OF BLUE WITH ME AND DAD, THEN MUM RANG UP AND I ANSWERED IT SAYING, YASS FOOTBALL CLUB

DO YOU WANT TO MAKE A RESEVATION AND MUM LAUGHED WITH AMAZEMENT SAYING, WHAT IF THIS WAS SOMEONE ELSE,

THEY WILL SAY, OOPS I HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER, AND THEN I WAS GETTING BORED OF TV

SO I WROTE MY OWN TV GUIDE FOR THE CHANNELL TVN/OBO, THE CHANNELL IN MY IMAGINATION, I PUT SPORTS SHOWS ON IT

AND ME AND MY BROTHER, HAD A HANDLE BALL COMPETITION, WHERE WE USED MY BROTHERS YELLOW SPONGE, AND

I OCCASIONALLY BORROWED IT, SOMETIMES WITHOUT HIM KNOWING IT.

I WAS IN THE LOUNGE ROOM TALKING MY PARENTS UNDER THE TABLE

DAD LOVED THE IDEA, OF TEASING BY GETTING THE LAST WORD IN

BUT MUM WAS DIFFERENT, SHE GAVE ME THE PEN AND PAPER AND

SAID, GO AND WRITE ANOTHER TV GUIDE, SO SHE CAN FIGURE OUT WHAT TO WATCH

YA SEE I WAS OBSESSED WITH TV GUIDES, AND I BOUGHT THE TV WEEK TO SCHOOL

AND PAUL WANTED ALL THE COOL POSTERS, BUT, I HELPED HIM OUT, I WAS NICE

POSTERS, ARE EASY TO COME BY, AND I BROUGHT MAPS OF CANBERRA AND

SHOVED THEM UNDER MY DESK AT SCHOOL, THEN I MOVED AND MANDY SAID

GET THESE STUPID MAPS OUT FROM UNDER MY DESK, AND I WAS OBSSESSED WITH LOOKING AT MAPS

I TRIED TO DIRECT MY DAD TO THARWA, BUT DAD CRACKED A JOKE TOO THARWA, MEANING TOO FAR AWAY

WE WENT TO TIDBINBILLA A LOT, THE TRACKING STATION AND THE NATURE RESERVE

I PLAYED BINGO WITH MY GRANNY, AND I WENT TO COLES DEPARTMENT STORE WITH MY NANNY

AND I LOVED THAT ALL SO MUCH, I PLAYED BINGO WITH LYLE AND ATE AT K MART WITH LYLE

LYLE WAS MORE OF AN OLDER BROTHER THAN A MATE, BUT WE MADE A PACT, TO GO TO

ACTTAB, TO BET ON THE FOOTY, WE NEVER WON, THAT IS WHY I DON’T DO IT NOW

I FELT MY DRINKING GRANDFATHER WHO DIED WHEN I WAS 3, SPIRIT WAS ALIVE WITH THE COOL KIDS AT THE MALL

DAD TOLD ME, I DON’T WANT TO BE ONE OF YOUR MOB TO ME, BECAUSE, I WAS TEASING HIM

I TEASED DAD, BECAUSE, THE VIBE WAS THERE TO TEASE MY FATHER

BUT DAD WAS A GREAT HELPER, HE WORKED HARD AT THE YMCA, AND AT ALL HIS TEACHING POSITIONS

DAD LOVED PLAYING WAR GAMES, ON HIS COMPUTER

ME AND MY BROTHER PLAYED A SOCCER GAME CALLED THE BOSS

WHERE YOU PICK YOUR TEAMS, YA SEE IT TEACHES YOU HOW TO BE A PROFFESIONAL SOCCER MANAGER

AND MY BROTHER HAD ALL HIS MATES TO PLAY DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS, HE ENJOYED THAT A LOT

L;IKE I ENJOYED PLAYING FOOTBALL IN THE FRONT YARD AND CRICKET IN THE BACKYARD

AND THIS WAS VERY FUN FOR THE ALLAN'S

the carbon looks as good as new.
a change of tape was all i had to do.
should have done it ages ago.
like a boy who should have worn out of his past year clothes.
now this change - you look new.

the end of the world is only coming if you want it to.
the stars won't collide as long as you hold them in place.
they'll still shine as bright.

i need to make it real. as real as possible.
i will be the last one to know and the first to go.
good.
bye.

This is not you that lies before us,

beloved Aunt, for you live on

in our hearts, our souls, our minds

as the with racquet and a ready smile,

as the doting older sister

with eyes shining like a proud spotlight

on two little girls on a crowded stage,

singled out and made special by your love.


You do not lie here cold and lifeless,

beloved Aunt, for you live on

in the warmth of your laughter

and your bright shining lively dancing eyes

and your girlish peaches-and-cream complexion

and in the memories

of two small nephews

in the endless summer of childhood

conquering the diving tower at Jellicoe Baths

or frolicking at Mission Bay

and you capturing all our shared and happy memories

with your trusty Box Brownie.

she was like a swan
came out to play badminton
jumping and moving
a kind of feather touch on earth
the earth would have enjoyed
her presence
a coincidence of her movement
on the net………..something
happening in my heart..
her eyes listening my gaze
though, am a stranger
she came and sat next to me
a sweet vibration
to both…my eyes revealed
resume to her…..
a sign of appointment….she
left her racquet….

universe, displace from me
this trauma in the breaking
of my father’s favorite scotch glass
for it is simpler to clear glass shards
from the dishwasher and laminate tile
than ventricular shrapnel from my chest

eyebrows
straight as a net
keep me serving lets
racquet, arm, the ball
is all i don't know

40-love
scoreboard soothsayer
divining the true value
of affectionate devotion
game, set, deuce off the bat
[wrong sport]

my serve is in returning
paper bags brimming
with your belongings
(our volleys never lasted)

game, set, match
[applause]

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into a crooked lane

plat of a miniature medieval
Bruges.  Racquetball,
a game of angles gone
sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams  
and my playing days when you
were my true opponent.  Never one
for racquet sports, you ran me

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.

There was, every spring, a new batch of pups,
Yipping, nipping, clumsy ***** of ***** fur,
Looking for all the world like speckled tennis *****
Before they’d learned any hard lessons
At the hands of a racquet.
They chased their tails and each other,
Not to mention various other denizens of the barnyard:
Frantic chicks, cranky piglets,
The occasional bemused draft horse,
And sometimes they chased us as well,
Yelping childishly, rolling with us on the ground,
Nipping bare fingers and toes,
Afterwards lying on the ground asleep,
Looking , save for the rhythmic twitching of their paws,
Positively angelic.

Come late August,
The time would come to set them on the *****.
We’d long since stopped thinking about it,
Much less questioning it
(I had, one year, asked my father if the puppies had to go
One time too many until,
With a look that brooked no further conversation,
He said flatly It’s what they’re born to.)
So we went on with the business
Of the soft, slow late summer
Until one evening just after sunset
We would hear the baying of the hounds
Out toward the back fields,
Mechanical and workmanlike at first,
But soon strained and syncopated with excitement,
And at some point there would be
A cacophony of cries and snarls
Until such time there was only silence.
The next morning we would visit the dogs,
And we’d pet them and rough-house a bit,
And there might be an oddly rouged spot
On their coats here and there,
Or one of them might sneeze out a tuft of fur
That didn’t rightly belong to them,
And every year our Uncle Bryce would slyly opine
You boys may want to be a bit more careful
Around their mouths now, hear?

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into the crooked lane

plat of medieval Bruges.  
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.

My memory seems faulty now
Like water slipping through clasped fingers
Not able to capture who you really are
But who I wanted
You
To be.

The smallest things make me
Remember.
A name that you wrote in a resume
Or the tennis racquet hidden in my closet
Or the pillow on my bed
Or some boy’s eyes, dark like yours

I never really had
You
So maybe I can’t voice this claim
But I find myself remembering
Which cupboard the glasses are in
Or the tattoo you’ll get after graduation
Things that don’t seem that intimate
But are.

I can’t complain
In earnest since
I knew
That this would happen, and i
[hoping against hope]
did it anyway
and my punishment is to be haunted by
you
day after day
after
day.

Come Irene!
Get that racquet from the side of the tank.
Your mother brought a shuttlecock from Kitale.
I love this one, its heavy and a bit crooked ... just to my strength,
You see, your late grandmother used the one you are holding and she played off with your grandfather on this compound years ago.


What is this game called?
Badminton.
You just hit this conical shaped ball called a shuttlecock towards me and I hit it back your side
Just make sure this ball doesn't touch the ground,
It's not hard like Table-Tennis.
Here goes...hit it back.
You're getting it... you're doing it right...


I remember it like it was yesterday,
Uncle Michael and I run down the street to play,
We could just run from your aunty,Gillian ...what a fast runner she is!
She wrote to me last week about her cat running around the house,
See, my dear Irene ,even after all these years we still keep in touch,
So keep in touch with Dad wherever you go, remember your brothers and sisters,
I'd love to see you go far, travel the world, Do what you love.


You got a voice in there, 
I've heard you sing from the kitchen window,
Write those songs down in your diary,
Sing to me, sing to Mama, sing to everyone, sing to the world.


Hey Walker, I didn't see you there...

I hated to pass the talking tree,
It made me feel all undone,
Raveling on in its revery
Like a racquet, coming unstrung,
What made it worse was the silken voice
Not matching a stringybark’s,
If I’d been offered a simple choice
I’d rather the voice was harsh.

It tried to attract my attention there
Each time I ventured to pass,
‘What are you going to do, just stare?’
It said, ‘Well, kiss my ***!’
It always tried to embarrass me
By being uncouth, and loose,
I said, ‘You’re surely the rudest tree,
We haven’t been introduced.’

It quoted Coleridge by the ream
Whenever I wore my hat,
‘A painted ship on a painted sea,
Now what do you think of that?’
‘I don’t know where you borrowed that line
I said, I have no notion, it’s
“As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean!”’

It used to sulk when it got it wrong
To wave its trunk with a clatter,
‘Who’d believe,’ it would say to me,
‘That getting it right would matter?’
‘I think He would, old S.T.C.
Would listen, hear, and note it,
Nor be impressed that a talking tree
Would get it wrong, and quote it.’

I turned up there with a saw one day
And the talking tree had cried,
‘I say, I’m not going to cut you down,’
I said, but it knew I lied.
For ‘April is the cruellest month,’
I said, and I wasn’t kidding,
I saw through its Eliot, silence its Pound
And cut off its Little Gidding.

David Lewis Paget

Years after giving up the game
for good I dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
my chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors, square
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by a jumble of tables,
five drawer files and armoires,

packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.  
Racquetball,
a game of angles

gone sadly out of fashion,
is the MacGuffin in my dream
as it was in my playing days
when you were always the real opponent,

King of Center Court
running me, stroking passing shots
while I dove heedless, headlong into walls,
losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again
only to find my forehand
serve impeded by jumbled
tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks and bureaus

arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.  
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.

Game of Tennis
Followed with Passion
Addiction or Abstenance
Inborn ingredient
Still a teenager
Unaware to decipher
****** into the genre
Of Obsessive Compulsive disorder

Borg and Connors
Superstars of the Sport
Fans of both
Supported them at the very core
Great Personalities with individuality
Each at the other end
Of the behavioral spectrum

Transformed the game
Purely on the popularity of their name
Remained a club Sport
Transformed into arenas
And increased the antenna
Game and person
Seen in unison
Dichotomy in reason
For fans not evident

Endorsements made them Ubiquitous
Every Magazine with their commercials synonymous
Personal life now on the front pages
Looking back today that hasn't one bit dated
Insights into their lives
Provided in detail
Imitation best form of flattery
Their OCD taken very seriously
They considered it reason for their Victory
Works for them will work for me naturally
Every detail loud and clear
Had both their approval
Fans in their minds clear
Anything copied makes you feel near

Borg had his list
So did Connors
Followed the list
In the beginning for fun
Didn't know that the foundation of a disorder had begun
Practicing in the same court
Wearing the same t shirt
Booking the same flight
Sitting on the same seat
Racquet pressure strung together
Lined up in a particular order
Picked from sheer obsessive behavior
Not shaving during the tournament
Hours of sleep determined
Time for a shower
No change to occur
Falling on his knees
Looking up at the sky
Thanking the almighty
with a sigh
Many more to list
I'll write another

Bounces before serving
Connors list beginning
Counting then till felt right
Umpire had to force with all his might
No of racquets no change
Hitting the strings before the game
Route taken from hotel ti stadium always the same
If even one of the above were to change
Willing to even forfeit the game
Shoe laces tied in a particular order
Order of things in the bag did matter
Pointing the racquet after a point
Fist pumping his signature
Was another measure of disorder
Many More to list
I'll write another

Followed these first with ease
Easiest trait to copy
But things turn ugly
Stuck with the OCD sans the trophies
In the Coaching business
Took gigantic proportions
Things to do before a tournament
Took longer than the actual event
Disease by defenition spreading
Personal life no more an exception
Already existing due to all the fan worshipping
Made worse by taking up the profession of training

Same route to work
Even socks chosen has a method
Time of departure never to endanger
List of things done in the same order
Even and Odd counting
Depends on the activity engaged in
Many more to list
I'll write another


Camel in the tent
Mind becoming hell bent
Following the list top priority
Everything else including thinking a rarity
Driving in top gear
Major issues in the rear
Only this matters
OBSSESIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

Those friends who knew me years ago
before our ways diverged,
may recollect
how tempered was my intellect
though rivalry emerged
whenever cricket bat
or tennis racquet
were flourished in a hand
that nowadays
is more prone to encompass
a fine Chateaubriand.

Tennis alas is of the past
and there, I fear, must bide,
but other sports and pastimes
I can still perform with pride.

So please set out those winks
that I may tiddle.
Dust off those mallets,
***** and hoops,
I’m not one of your nincompoops
and need no Queen’s flamingo
to win without a taradiddle.
Or we could turn to bingo.

Then there are those of intellect
who might like bridge or chess,
though possibly in retrospect
It’s best to acquiesce.

Ludo, Trivial Pursuits
and even Snakes and Ladders
might yet provide a good excuse
to encourage my swaggers.

The choice alas is far too great
and though it seems too late,
yet, dice in hand,
I bid farewell
with hopes still unerased
and one finger upraised.

Destiny took a turn
When i was four
Had vision problems
Could not see the black board

Forced to wear glasses
Bearing very high power
In the early seventies
Not very sophisticated

Thick and heavy
Layered and awkward
Wearing one to see
One in my bag for emergency

Became a target in school
For teachers and students alike
A victim to bully
No other target was easy

Called names like 4 eyes
They would take away my glasses
Not return it for houses
Almost blinded and struck by fear

The teachers were no less
Would catch their eye
With my conspicuous frame
A lane target my vision to blame

Savage in their treatment
Would get hit on my knuckles
As a form of punishment
Steel scale used as a weapon

Like a disease it spread
Neighbourhood was no less
Jokes would be made
Everyday put to shame

The frames weight
Would bring it down
Held by my nose bridge
I'd push it back to eye level

Did not realise
It looked silly and funny
Branded as a nut
Parents were summoned to school to call me a lunatic

The name stuck
Followed me forever
Playing Table Tennis my passion
One more place to be the victim

Same story different place
Match announced but never let me play
Held on to my glasses and racquet and made me beg
No respite for no fault of mine

Teachers Students Neighbours
Principal Vice Principal and others
No place to hide
Wherever i went always bore the brunt

Confidence took a beating
Started compulsive lying
Called out on every lie
Liar tag attached to the cuckoo already there

Abused made fun of beaten and targeted
Weakest link in any chain was guaranteed
Became the image that was projected
Helpless in solitary i used to cry

Tried to become likeable
Instead of being sensible
People pleasing would do the  miracle
Wrongly assumed the bigger became the battles

Trampled upon for no reason
Father's pet a new reason
Life at home was catching up
Only place left was filling up

Wanted to study in America
Not fit for decided my sister in law
She wanted to go before i had no idea
My I 20 was sent back saying no such person existed

Life at a dead end
Competition with me for no reason
Pushed life to the brink
Wanted me to fully sink

Father's favourite son
Went unpunished for every sin
The impression in people's thoughts
How wrong they were by far

First time for my father
Didn't know how to handle
Was as boxed in a corner as i was
I was getting the punches he was bleeding in his heart

Bully the word that sums it all
Bullied was all my life what i was
Me for being myself that is all
What was my fault ?

A victim of bullying
Shooed away by many human beings
All walks of life treated like a worm
Finally turned to Bruce Lee the God of Anti Bullying

Suicide is my thought of escape,
Crawling out of the hole I made,
Burying my thoughts beneath the sand,
It’s my only way out of the pain I feel;
Please explain why I’m not allowed to leave,
The thoughts that runs through my head?
I want to scream,
I want to cry,
I hate to admit it,
But I want to die,
I no longer want this constant burn,
I want to stop the voices in my head,
To stop cutting up my skin,
Like it’s paper,
Blade, being the pen,
And I’m an artist,
But I can’t quit,
Every cut a step closer,
To the completion of my artwork,
Once I finish,
The lines soon fade,
Til’ the white lines appear,
White like heaven,
The white lines is all that remain,
Every mistake I make,
I cut,
And the blood covers up,
For the mistake which I have made,
And then I’ll start over,
Onto a new, clean state,
And when the lines heal,
I trace them,
Remembering each story,
That lays behind each, white line,
I vividly remember the things you said,
The way you racquet me,
The way you make fun of me,
The way you laugh at my failures,
The way you beat up my successes,
This is why I want to die,
Suicide is my only way out,
The way out of the pain you have caused me see.

SO MUCH SIGHT
FOR A NAME TO BE FRIGHT
CHARACTER COATS VENUS FLAG POLES
THE VENOM IN THE US

THE MALE THE FEMALE
IN LIBERTINE WE TRUST

IS IT LI BRA AND ST VALEN
THE TWO STEPPING STONES IN LILY OF VALLE

COACH RIDES
MOUSTACHE RIDES
ALL NAUGHTY BY NATURE BY COST

CIRCUMSTANCES THROUGH MISTAKABLES
ORIENTATION OF RACE ALL "DA HAST"

LIQUID NAME FOR ELLITE CRAFT MENTIONED IN TUMES
WHEN OPENING THERE CAST

MAC IN ROW CASKET
OPEN SEASON ON THE TENNIS RACQUET