He kindly somewhat
In his mild gentle manner
Carved his initials into her skin
Like a tree stump
But he did it ever so gently
Ever so lovingly
Slicing so beautifully
Crafting so carefully
Everything he ever felt
Went into her with feeling
Sinking his blade deeper
Telling her
How much this means.
He couldn’t understand her fear
And her lack of cooperation
He thought she’d have
Some appreciation
His tenderness
What he was able to give her
To share with her.
His life
His experience
Growing up beneath the gaze
Of a demon
It’s all he knew of love
And now
he wants to share that
with her.
There’s a fine line between sanity and insanity in all of us, when it comes to love and relationships.

Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018,  All rights reserved.
Sara Kellie Jul 3
Look what they've done,
torn you apart.
In the name of fun,
some kind of black art.

I'd been thrown into the lake,
arms and legs tied.
I sunk to the bottom,
they thought I had died.
Out of the depths I arose
wearing a beautiful dress.

Some kind of new magic,
like a good witch.
A white art.
I don't seek revenge
for I have a pure heart.

It's now they'll see
that they could never be
someone like me.
Because I'm the greatest
mother fucker in a dress
they'll ever meet.

Poetry by Kaydee.
They struck me down and I'm now more powerful than they could have ever imagined.
Showing them love and equality kills them more than they could have ever killed me.
Think of a boy dark of hair, dark of eye but
with a shyness of manner to warm the coldest of hearts
and a smile to ignite the darkest sky
think of a boy who trained wild birds to do his bidding
and yet whose shyness with humans set him apart
think of a boy who I felt a special bond with
and still, these long years after, think of with sadness in my heart
think of a  boy, whose mother went abruptly away
others said he acted strange after that day
the conversation that he had with others before her leaving
now became words too difficult to arrange
in a manner - to a manner - of speaking
the local children laughed at him
but when they were confronted by him
for this not speaking just looking at them
their parents sought a childish revenge
they broke the glass panels in his house door
they smashed his motor cycle
and, if they had been able to
the rest of  this boy’s very being they would have stifled
and all because of that separateness they felt that he owned to
Think of this boy who from desperation
said he had a gun  - an air rifle
to scare them away if they hurt him again
Think of this boy, unwanted, without heat, without warmth
without food, alone in an empty house where silence reigned
The Powers That be took him for his own
and others’ safety they said
away - away to an even greater seclusion
they used  a convenient description for him
schizophrenic they said
this boy, this dark haired, dark eyed boy named Joe
this quiet soul who once loved and tamed wild birds
this boy named Joe for whom these tears I have long since shed
a boy named Joe one of many such
/          in a world where people can't fathom to usher in a monosyllable: like no? it's not exactly nigh-nine equivalent to the german nein... people have to say tak, ja, yes, and never actually imply ha-yah borrowed from hebrew, i.e.: "the" wisdom... seems pretty shitty, in all non-circumcised honesty of holding a fake of a petted snake cum shepherd's staff: with what was once tongue, and sword of moses... and then some linear busy bodies of geometric time-lapses into confining a stable-table for a philosopher's mind... but mainstream media... ah... what luck! people choke! choke! on having to say such a simple "word": given the other words, but... a syllable, akin, composing nothing! what a marvel... frankie, in the 21st century, contrasted with iggy pop, and john coltrane humming through the thick, background pact of it... like a catholic choir-boy taking revenge... oh sweet, sweet: sweet pleasures of today!


let's put it this way...

   if beer is: the piss of the gods?

whiskey?

            the piss of titans.

wine?
    do i really want to hear
the jesus metaphor?

      and as one truth concerning
speaking truth:

             nein.

that's not how the libra of male
drinking habits works...

        either boy juice beer,
or tongue numbing rattle-snake
bite...

     fuck!
   too much iggy pop and not
enough frank zing-tra-la-la
                    gets you all... fuzzy!

— The End —