She ain't nothing but a cereal killer
She's ****** with a gallon of milk
If you need convincing, Cap'n Crunch is still missing
And that Chocula guy is down for the Count

She ain't nothing but a cereal killer
Gets her Kix pulling off her Trix
As she bids them Cheerio being more in the know
Than a bowl of FrankenBerry buried below Honey Oh's

She ain't nothing but a cereal killer
Winning them over with her Lucky Charms
No way to deny she eats them alive
As she Frosts Tony the Tiger like Corn

She ain't nothing but a cereal killer
Finds pleasure in the Shredding of Wheat
Using Fruity Pebbles to go along with her evil  
As she spoons out her ***** deeds

She ain't nothing but a cereal killer
Easily making history out of Rice Krispy treats
What ever you do keep an eye on her Fruit Loops
That kind of crazy nobody needs

California Kids

I’ll call you up on Saturday
And invite you over.
Take the 101, 110 and 1;
(Sounds like an equation!)
And you’re there.
Just use your GPS..
There’ll be a party at my house,
Daft Punk playing on the Echo.
It’ll be epic, Echoic!
With some vintage’ tunes,
Crankin’ the Beach Boys,
Watching surfers
Shredding out-the-back,
Past prowling sharks in the shallows.
Lets go to the dunes and maybe kiss.
I know that you miss me,
So don’t ask me why
And when you come,
I won’t ask
“What are you doing here?”
We’ll eat fish tacos,
Guacamole, Pico de Gallo
And drink margaritas
While we debate French new wave,
I’ll praise Truffaut while you
Tell me that Scorsese is the man.
When we get drunk enough
I will suggest a walk
Along the iridescent surf.
You should say yes because
I’m safe now that I drive electric,
That I turned vegan
(sorry about the fish)
and wear cruelty-free clothes.
I don’t grill snapper anymore
And take my shoes off inside the door.
Maybe we’ll make it to Tower 28,
Lay down and watch the full moon
Like Jim Morrison did to write.
I’ll tell you I’m glad you’re alive—
I’m no poet, but you know that.

A confinement to the street,
I likened it to a bliss of pain.
Not extended like an overrun episode,
But the anxiety is sleepless,
When yesterday approaches,
I wrap myself in the ignorance,
Homeless, timeless,
It grows and defines,
Coarses through my fundamental
Lapses,
A boy becomes an atitude,
I wish i had these experiences in youthful insurgencies.

Its someday in the week,
I lose the raptured schedules,
To hunger is life.
To thirst is life.
The misled winter wraps itself
On my frozen life.
A faint emergence of time
Resumes,
There in the shadows
I once knew a man,
The visions of him asking to feed
My souless self.
Stretched by insistent graces,
In a road of certain contrasts,
Gentle into the street,
I laugh; the revolving doors,
I cry; what or who i never was,
A certain kind of grace to be
Within the containment,
the poor, the  restless,
bleeding my facades,
Shredding the faces I once knew
Destroying my world.

Once I sat upon a throne
Lost in the decimations,
I dont know who I am.

Keep walking.
Telling myself as the night freezes
I will be just fine.
Keep walking
Telling myself in minced
Thoughts as hope flutters against
Nowhere to go.
Keep walking,
The sun rises
And blisters on my feet
Calm the night as the safety
Of day lets me rest.

I will bounce back tomorrow,
And the streets become a ripened spring fruit,
Losing myself
And the art of loss
Is no disaster,
Not unlike losing my keys,
Not unlike losing places,
Not unlike losing names,
Until i reconciled myself
At the fork of the river,
Losing myself is not an art:

The beauty was in finding who I was meant to be.

we all live in closets. somewhere we don't want to escape from because we think it's more comfortable than what is on the other side of that door. we all have something we want to say but don't know how to say it. something we're not sure anyone would understand but us. our walls are a barrier. and i know these barriers keep us safe where no one could hurt us but ourselves, though they also limit us. i have a barrier between my mind and human interaction. nothing i think seems to get out of my tounge well enough for anyone to understand it. when you tell someone you suffer, he or she probably would think of it as something immense you're going up against when trying to fight your way through it. when you tell people you suffer (if you do tell them, that is.), depression is not what they expect rolling off your tongue. because most people don't think it's serious ENOUGH. you'll try to explain, you'll tell them what it's like in your head.

“well, i feel like my brain holds more weight than it should hold, and all the weight belongs to the thoughts screaming loud in it. the voices dictating how i should feel. how i should react. and my body complies with it.” “it's like, i have my worst enemy trapped in my head. then i realise, my worst enemy is myself..or these thoughts..but myself as well. and do you know how hard it is to fight back against yourself? you don't, ofcourse you don't. i mean you shouldn't know how that feels like. i wouldn't wish that upon anyone..although i wish worse upon myself. i wouldn't mind shredding my skin to pieces but i'd mind hurting others with my words. because no self worth exists, because i can't find it no matter how hard i look and i looked everywhere, but i ran out of locations now. so it's based on how people feel about me. and tell me, who could love someone as troubled as i, when even my own self, has given up on me?” “ah it's like having bruises on the insides of every inch of my body. it's when my blood cells are so focused on healing the ones on the outside they forget that what's on the inside matters as well. IT'S WHEN YOU HAVE SELF-INFLICTED BRUISES. it's when you don't want them to heal. it's when you want to bleed. it's when you don't think it matters. when you don't think, you, matter.” “it's when the sound of death tastes better than your favorite flavor of icecream. it's when you eat to fill your empty spaces, and then throw it up because you're not used to being full even it's only for counted minutes. it's all the days when you don't eat too. all the days when getting out of bed seems too hard of a task to get done with. so when i tell you i'm tired, i don't mean i need to sleep. (although i might need some of that too.) when i tell you i'm tired, know that i mean every step i take away from my bed takes a whole lot of strength i can't seem to find in myself.”

you'd reply with;

“i'm sorry. but you know? it's just because of your environment. and you let things get to you often, don't you think? i mean we all have those days sometimes. i even felt depressed yesterday, myself. but you get over it you know? why aren't you over it? do you pray? no? maybe that's why. okay, it's okay. it'll all be okay once you see things differently. i mean it's all in your head, okay? you need to be more positive, where does all this negativity come from? baby, tired is just a better word for lazy. and you don't want to die, do you? you do? well, you're too young to know what you want anyway. i was like you when i was a kid and look at how i am now happy and well. are you okay, now? you are? okay, cool. nice talking to you.”

and here's what i want to say but don't;

“i'm not sad. i'm empty. i'm not misguided, i know the way. but every way seems to be the wrong way for me to take. i don't lack faith in "god", i lack faith in myself. and i'm not okay, so stop telling me i am. stop telling me it's all in my head, i'm very aware that it is. hence, the "mental" illness. tell me, instead, that you want to hear me talk. tell me you'll listen even when you don't understand. tell me you'll be here even when it might not be enough for me. only a few might understand and i don't expect you to be one of them but just please stay.”

i think i want to stay in the closet for while. uncomfortable over misunderstood, don't you think?

The goth doesnt know what she wants anymore

her head deep in thought as she falls to the floor

spinning in circles her torment is clear

the blackness is back and wont dissappear

time is a healer or so they all say

but here in her head the ghosts are at play

tearing her insides and shredding her soul

breaking her being death becoming her goal

will she be missed probably not

no grave with a headstone just left there to rot

neither alive nor permantly dead shes left to wander

the path in her head.

I've got the rip down just right
The soft tear, grated misnomer
Perforated here in my middle
Like I was meant to come apart
Out of view
Hot with friction
Hot with longing
Kinetic energy
Shredding
Dividing
The low sound of cutting construction paper
Thick with each blade passing
A sharp kiss
Maybe
Gripping like this
The right tool for suicide in the wrong hands
I have hands like those
******* I'm dissolving in a tear drop
It never left the eye
The sting feels like drowning
Waterless
and
in pieces

I'm sorry that I made a sandstorm in your brain.
It's flowing through your thoughts and it's making you insane.

I'm sorry that I made a sandstorm in your heart.
It's shredding you to bits and tearing you apart.

I didn't mean to make a sandstorm in your head. Causing you to cry and wish that you were dead.

I wish that I could take your sandstorm away.
I'd let it slice my skin up every day.
If it meant that in my life you'd stay...

There she goes, pure as snow,
Just trying to get by in life.
Here you come, mean as a ****,
So eager to dim her bright light.

I see that sneer upon your face,
That devilish little grin.
From afar you look like such a saint,
But something evil dwells within.

She pretends your words don't hurt her,
But I know they tear her apart.
I can tell you're killing her slowly.
You're shredding her fragile heart.

You stab her with your words,
And you call her filthy names.
You tell her that she doesn't matter
And laugh at her terrified face.

She tries to shield off your words.
She tries to keep going her way.
She's lost, both inside and out.
She longs for an escape.

She runs, yet you still follow.
You cackle just like a witch.
Only I know what she's planning
As she heads straight for the bridge!

"Oh no," I whisper. "Please don't." I whisper
As my eyes fill with tears.
I scream, "I think you're beautiful!"
But it falls on broken ears.

Here you come, mean as a ****,
And you pull her last string.
There she goes, pure as snow,
Tumbling down a hundred feet.

She doesn't even scream;
She just soars into the dark.
Your grip is finally off
Of her tired and long bruised heart.

I wish she hadn't done it.
It haunts me every day
To see the sad angel face,
To watch her go that way.

I turn to you as you take in a gasp
And tumble to the floor.
You didn't think she'd do it,
That your words could slam her doors.

Well, I hope you're happy.
You drove her quite insane.
I yell, "I hope you're happy!"
You snatched her life away!

She had so much going for her;
I hope you're happy that it's all gone!
To her, I say, "Hope you liked the free fall
And that in Heaven you're better off."

I wish I could have caught her
And saved her on that day.
You wish you would have stopped her
Because regret now floods your veins.

There she goes, pure as snow,
Just trying to get by in life.
Here you come, mean as a ****,
So eager to dim her bright light.

Anything All of the Everything

Events of Summer quickly ensue, it takes hold of you quickly, while the police drive thru. You cannot find it half-way into the night, you could hold up on a park bench or lay your blanket on the slough. Perhaps when your dreams kick, your asterisks will come, build a map of your defense and then head for the sun. Some foe outwit the wounds of life, furry blister-like faces, when they take up the star dust diamonds, the trail guides take after hurrying up paces.

The festivities of fear are living oaths inside of marbled starve rocks, they harvest shoots and ladders, and keep tabs on wild beasts and livestock. There's no match throughout the campgrounds. There's no matchbook light to find us. If you're quick enough with your 70s, then perhaps you'll follow the nightness that's arrived us.

In aide of her lift-gate, shredding pensive miens and speeding mimes, taking ward of one thousand fathomed depths, assumes courageous anti-hate isms. She can come quickly with a syzygy, her van packed with fresh woes of Sunday, then around Monday humbly hides her stuff in the small hems of her bed linens. You can't outwit the governess who preys on handicapped children's thrift finds. She makes clothes and keeps her hands to bed. She bares new graves for time's new roman epithets and moving pictures. She  unplugs her bleeding tongues under some new sone for her monarchic archetypical audiophile party.

While the umberphiles sleep, nyctophiliacs stalk grizzlies. Mosquitos quaff at human blood, while their offspring keep drinking. The idle bugs throes, misanthropic and useless, teach electric lusters' mouths to grow into fiery hoops with which to slip past all the clueless.  The arachnids might dance, the haunting verbs they might fray. The Egyptians at first glance, try to hide their heroine pyramids away.

So hush little violet dormant flowers, fake your fertility and keep your skeptic drink. Keep each one you might meet, within one hundred feet of where you sleep. Keep your arms length's supine, your supplies out of reach, practice wrapping yourself up inside boxes where the souls can sleep.

If you only once catch a fool, avoid the plague-speak certain lips might tell. Each uttered word commanded with too much ******* across the bandwidth. Mortal courses can't be taught, human voices can't keep the draught, ferocious abstract engineered humanity has escaped this truant absence and immorality. You, you catch a fool, she could preach hurts and djinns, it could dot the I's of when, and unfurl the sighs of men. Berthed earthlings that the **** ascribes, hurts the worthless and sours true purpose widths of curfews and its curses, all these biomes perfervidly reserve the fury for their furtive perversity, elements to obscure the telemetry that has coddled such a dark conflagration of immensity, it's the cluelessness of these transgressors that forces the abhorrence towards all-white-everything professors.

I scream and sing while I do my thing
With my guitar I let the shredding begin
To go with the rhythm I bang my head
With the noise I make, I'll be waking the dead. Yeaahh!

Swirling like the leave that falls
My music's sweet its rock n roll
With my lyrics, I'm getting in your head
Oh baby tonight meet me on your bed. Whoah!

I'll make your world, jumps up and down
Until we both go deeper underground
Exchanging body heat with our melody
Oh baby tonight don't you feel so pretty? Ahhhh!!

I'm a rockstar baby come and sing along
I'm a drifter yeah! I'm a rolling stone
We sing a song, we come and go
We soar so high and then we go down low...oooohhh!

Oh heroes of our youths, drawn in
splendid colors and panels or flying across
screens for sake of justice, you stars
of infinity and all realities sparing us
from the scourge of boredom while you
saved the day with ease, right vs wrong
clear as the cerulean sky, for you we pine!

Your winsome smiles soothed housewives
and maidens and doe-eyed youngsters
even as your capes became faded
and tattered and no longer were draped
over bedposts of intrepid lady reporters
willing to overlook, like we all did,
the familiarity of your unspectacled faces!

Your somber tongues gravely implored
us to redeem our grimy criminal cities,
lighting our fervor by spotlight against
darkest sky and even in the absence
of grappling hooks or alone with only
the latest fashionable belt, with no
hot young bird in the passenger seat
of your improbable nocturnal sports cars!

Your responsibilities and power came
all woven together, kept you from looking
out of any of your eyes the wrong way
either up or upside down, holding
the universe together with chivalry
and astute entomological acrobatics!

Your master kicks rivaled any other
rat or amphibian, and it was pure art
how you would karate chop through
our mutated melancholy, radical dudes
freeing us in every dimension
from maniacal brains and threats
of shredding our dignity like pizza cheese!

Your ecology was right as rain,
bio-available when we'd ring you up
and always giving back the power after
cleaning up some toxic mess, blowing
our adolescent minds as you flew about
kicking *** and spouting corny puns
long before oddly-dyed hair was trendy
and when Earth was a few degrees cooler!

We mourn you now more than ever,
remembering you with longing
as true villains appear, their green rocks
growing heavier and more radioactive,
their twisted jokes severing us
from one another, spewing venom,
bidding us conquer this land
and scorching the world for spite.

We mourn you now, our heroes, gone
but not forgotten and barely evoking
this nostalgic sense that you never left,
summoning within us the courage
to claim our inheritance, to finally discover
those ancient powers you've bequeathed;
to finally step up and save the world.

A stiff wind broke the morning clouds. It was another gloomy sunrise, in a string of second-rate days. Kiera woke much like the sun, downtrodden and wishing to fall back down. She snapped down on the alarm, knocking it to the floor, and with two blinks was out again—back into a world she was beginning to recognise.

First the flooding darkness. Despite two weeks of this her body still rejected it. Her body hated it. Pathetic. Limbless shakes as the throbbing chill tore its way through her lungs, gripped her skin like sweat. She could smell the sharp stink of iron. When her vision came she saw her arms were covered in blood. A red too bright.

A figure she hadn’t noticed flickered out of her view. She turned her head sharply but saw no one.

Kiera realised she was walking. She held a square, brown-wrapped package, which would not stop squirming. As she struggled to keep hold of the ******* thing, ****** prints coated its sides. A postbox lay on the other side of the road—the same colour as the blood on her arms.

Kiera was furious. The ******* package would not stop squirming. She needed to reach the postbox before she dropped it. She was desperate—scared shitless. Why?

Kiera began to cross the road. Each step sent the package twitching, twisting. Her legs were bone thin. Her skin was shredding apart. Another flicker—edge of the vision phantom—appeared, but she barely noticed. The package was growing so heavy that her toes were breaking on the asphalt. She looked up and saw the postbox had receded.  How dare you? How ******* dare you, you *******.

She was on the wrong side. She had never left the sidewalk. How could she? She had no legs. Blood began to pour out of the postbox. It crossed the road, coating her torso, lapping the bottom of the package. The package stilled and began to deform in her hands. It was rotting.

Kiera had an urge to *****.

after my first true betrayal
I found myself mumbling
                                           snitches get stitches
shredding the dignity of my conscience
I left a paper trail of trust
   a reminder for those to come
sprinkled the strands over my scars
and let them settle into the backdrop of my pain
I learn from my mistakes
(even kept the hilt as a memento)

but Tre...
                Tre is different

I wish I could tell you I’m a loner
No more, whenever I need your hands
And lips holding every part of me, and
Shredding my threshold because this is just
A guard I build to keep people from invading
Our heaven, I wish I could shout and sing to the world
Our songs of love, they find freakishly weird,
Because they haven’t seen a love like this and lovers
Like we’re going to be, I would write in every inch of this
Air, and sand, and river, and sky,
About how I’m at loss of words to explain this feeling
Because with you, I’m not me and my words are not
Mine anymore, but just your smell and touch
I long to explore and explain to thousand stars and
Raindrops, just to prove that their beauty fails so
Horribly before your hazel eyes, and I know
Even petrichor would shy against your fragrance,
So I don’t have concrete answers whenever you ask
“what are we” and “what is this feeling”
Because I don’t know,
I don’t know how you turn my blood and bones
Into a wild whisper and I don’t know
Why your thoughts are enough to let a smile
Brew around me, because with you, I’m
Not me and my words are not mine anymore.

We strike when it's dark,
And we will rip your neck.
We sneak in the shadow,
We will strangle you to death.

We are one, too much to handle,
We will mutilate you, armed with a blade and a sickle.
We are the wind that blows silently,
We are ninjas that kills stealthily.

You can run as far as you can,
We will shred you to pieces with our  shurikens.
Don't breathe too hard we can hear your heart beats,
Our katana will pierce through your heart till' it no longer beats.

We have the heart of an assassin,
We live shredding blood of those who are unworthy.
We cleanse the world of the cunning corruptionist,
**** one, save a thousand! We are sworn to **** as cold as can be.

Thought you found home when you finally anchored your heart to his, but you only found wilderness inside an empty forest lost long time ago.

I met a man while I am moving on from my past. He was moving on also from his own little heartbreak. Whenever I am with him, I taught myself to never love a man's soul while his heart is aching for someone else's. But he taught me the other way, obliviously.

The ricochet comes. He can't love me back when he wants to. He can't take risks the way I do. He can't choose me when the universe give us the chance.

The ricochet hits me and I am supposed to be dead. But no, I was hit but was never putted into death. I was only shattered into pieces.

My little hopes and biggest fears will chase me to dreams and I have no escape. Nightmares will come every sleep and anxiety will attack me every waking up.

I will stare blankly in a dead air that used to give life to my existence before.

I am shredding tears for no certain reason and my heart is pulled down into the bottom of the sea.

I am loss. I am not found. If hope doesn't exist, then there is no chance I will be found deep down here.

I never had a heart, but when I found this empty long lost forest, when I took the risk when he can't, when I love him despite all his insecurities and incertitude, when I choose him when the universe gave me dozens of choices, I don't have a choice but to have one. For him and only for him.

Boy, I only have one heart but it is still hitched to yours and I don't have any plans to unhitch it.

World leaders thunder denunciations

          But my dachshund puppy annoys the cats

Bombing planes fly in nuclear drills

          But my dachshund puppy just ate a moth

Religious leaders are shredding their files

          But my dachshund puppy barfed up that moth

I don’t know if I’ll lose my job next year

          But my dachshund puppy got spanked by Queen Cat

The fat boys on the radio yell a lot

          But my dachshund puppy is barking mindlessly

My senator says he stands up for the flag

          But my dachshund puppy is stealing the cat food

My president seems to play golf for the flag

          But my dachshund puppy is napping in the sun

          And the cats are quite happy about that

“Are you afraid of the dark?”

No. Not at all, in fact.
I really don’t mind
A pitch-black room.

What I am scared of,
Is my dark.

The dark that swallows my vision
When I lay down at night to sleep.

This deep, dark dreamland
Is far more severe
Than what any nightlight could fix.

Sleep is a tsunami.
I am a swimmer in the middle of the storm.
With each paddle, I am taken out and under.

Insomnia is my buoy.
The constant rattle in my head
Reminds me of the tempest to come.

Nightmares are like sharks.
They eat and gnaw on my thoughts
Shredding my soul to pieces.

She lets me try it on.
I want it. But I don’t get presents like she does.
It’s beautiful. Bright with a white, fluffy trim. Zip and
poppers all the way up.
She widens her eyes. Twists her hands into claws
and she says “Little Red, come here and climb into bed…”
I laugh. Her wolf sounds just like Grandma.
Ma swings her arm back. I stop.
She turns to see what’s changed. It isn’t funny anymore.
I hear the thwack as Ma’s hand connects with her nose. It
was an accident.
Should’ve been the side of her head.
Now there’s blood.
She buries her face, wraps her arms round my waist.
A darker red blooms on the nylon.
She calms down but she’s shaking. We untangle and I help
her on with the coat.
I don’t want it.
We wait for a while in silence; shredding lollypop sticks,
peeling the top off an old lemonade-can.
She starts to cut neat, tiny crosses into her fingertips.
Not deep.
But I’ve seen enough. I feed the lollypop sticks and
lemonade-can to the cracks between the planks of the pier.
The hood covers her eyes completely. I think she’s stopped
crying.
“You look just like Little Red” I tell her.
She says “Maybe I am.”

Hey rock-star boy, shaggy hair, loud mouth, striking chords on your guitar
You might as well have been playing my heartstrings
Hey punk-rock t-shirts, smooth voice, bright eyes, I
Caught your glance once or twice
From
Shy girl, scared voice, straight A’s, no choice, I
Might as well have been taking down music notes in my books
Because no mathematical equations would ever add up the way I
Divided my boundaries just to talk to you I
Swore your song was perfect
From
Shy girl, corner dwelling, never speaks up, never acts out, never curses, never cries
There’s a reason guys like you aren’t with girls like me but
Tight hugs, this was different, wide smiles, this was different, soft hands, this was different
And I still somehow believe, you were different
But
Empty promises, fake tears, harsh lies, secret fears, deliberate deceit
Your song was playing on repeat but
The hard rock metal that once pumped blood through our veins was
More like the metal shredding my ribcage I
Felt everything sharper because I
Changed keys for you
Loud girl, sharp tongue, wider smiles, faker love, I
Glued wings to my soul, but let you call me Icarus, I
Fell into the sea
Fast swimmer, quicker to drown, SCUBA diver, sinking down
Oxygen torn from my lungs I
Breathed in different dreams for you I
Reached for different stars for you I
Can never close my eyes around you
Loud girl, center stage, honest tongue, biting rage, always cursing, always cries
Eating my words when you fed me lies
Hey
Rock-star boy
College drop-out, smoke in your lungs, breaking rules just for fun
The only “I love you” I’d ever spoken
The only time my heart was broken
Hey
Punk rock boy
Please get your song out of my head I
Can’t stand to hear this chorus again

Get your RSVP (Respondez s'il vous Plait)

Your presence is cordially invited
(If you please)
To the Troll Invitational Only Ball
Come one , come all !
Only the best heed this call
Featuring the Marque band ,
"Smashing Poets"
Playing their monster hits ,
"Clip You At The Knees" and "The Killer In Me Sets Me Free"

Join in the festivities
As we debase humankind
A great time is guaranteed
For all "Troll" beings
BIG or small
So come one , come all ye Trolls
To the Invitational Ball


Comments :

The Thaumaturge : When we're we supposed to get our invites ?

Thomas A Robinson : What ? You didn't get one ? Must be some kind of oversight !

The T. : I'm sending you hate mail as we speak so that you know my address this time .

TAR. : Will do , I'll be in wait . . . not !

The T. : I don't own a car and I was reading a book literally the other day .

Craig Moore : Is the ball going to be under a bridge ?

TAR. : Of course !

The T. : I feel like I'd be shunned at a trolls only ball since I'm more of an antitroll if anything .

TAR. : Well it takes one to break one .

The T. : Nice to know my efforts don't go unnoticed .

Craig Moore : But there is only one ?

TAR. : Proxy ! ! !

The T. : Oh alright . I've got like a billion of those .

TAR. : That's proxies , not proxy !

The T. : Yeah , I've got a billion proxy .

TAR. : Proxies ! ! !

The T. : No I have a lot of proxy .

TAR. : Ha ha , that sounds moxy !

The T. : Is it just a little bit foxy ?

TAR. : Now I'm shredding your invitation !

The T. : What ! Why ? I thought that would be a perfect example of trolling . Don't make me drop the B-bomb !

TAR. : Trolling - the act of dragging a lure or bait behind a boat in the hopes of attracting a fish to bite the bait or lure becoming hooked and caught . You're troll bait .

The T. : That was the whole proxy/proxies thing ! And as for you , you are a troll incarnate TAR and not even a clever one .
Yeah Thomas ! Leave yourself alone ! Anyway I was supposed to be invited but they tore it up after I arrived .

TAR. : And you call yourself a miracle worker ?

The T. : You want a miracle ! I'll show you a miracle !

TAR. : What ? Hack my account ? Been done already .

The T. : That's not a miracle . Tell me what would impress you ?

TAR. : Simple , eliminate all trolls from here permanately . Should be only a minor miracle .

Tap . Tap . Tap .

TAR. : I see he cannot eliminate even one troll .

The T. : What are you talking about ? They're all gone !

TAR. : Smoke and mirrors . Don't gaslight me ! I'm an optimist . One who sees through fog clearly .

The T. : My only weakness .

TAR. : So put up or shut up .

The T. : Honest is the best policy .

TAR. : Honesty ! ! !

The T. : Thomas A Robinson your obscene proclamations are easily dismissed by adults . What would you do to a child in a public restroom ?

TAR. : I would call you for advice . Whoops ! No I wouldn't ! I would take the knife out of your hand .

The T. : You remove the knife from my hand only to find out that I'm actually a large swarm of bees wearing a trench coat .

TAR. : I would be the bee and tan your hive !

The T. : Maybe make a moovee out of it ?

TAR. : Bagging the killer B's . Pyrethium dreams . Your honey's run dry . You sting me I **** you .

The T. : That'd just **** me twice .

TAR. : Well good night Miracle worker . Don't let the bee mites bite .

The T. : I hate those bee mites , sweet dreams are made of bees .

TAR. : Ha Ha Ha , dear Annie Lennox is fumigating now . You're a Pox on everyone .

Mya-Angel Madden : How dare I miss the Ball of Trolls ! Whatever happened to Lucifer ? **** .

TAR. : Ah , the days of Lucy, when the definition of a troll was perfected !
All others now are just doormats in comparison .

Pintu Mahakul : Join in the festivities and this is very amazing definitely .. .

TAR. : Thank you Pintu Mahakul .

sitting in the darkness
the moonlight danced along
the tears upon my face
I licked my own wounds
waiting to exhale my thoughts
Can you say nothing to me?
I would be ok with the silence
at the other end of the line
If you'd just call me to see...
Caught inside a land mine
that shreds souls with fear
are tiny little pieces of hope
that a voice will appear
and not say anything...
but will listen to a heart shredding
to a body hurt, a soul bleeding,
that will mouth nothing remarkable
uncaring where the wreck is heading
Unbroken thoughts are justified
when Silence lays down, by the side
of a battered body needing warmth
Two arms wrapping around
someone who is cold inside
is the remedy to a shattered mind
I thought?...
Ok, so it's hard to talk
Our inside voice decided
to take a walk, no softly, softly
gentle as she goes
No I'm ok but you're not
let's talk how the wind blows
How the stars align
I've got your back
Your sadness is well of Grief
but I don't want my penny back
I understand, really, who wants to listen
to a faceless voice just crying
making no sense whatsoever
Who wants to talk about Death?
said no one...Ever
If it were my choice?
I'd want your silent voice

men would always tell me about the
arcs of screaming air splitting through gaia’s hair,
the heads of wheat falling, light shredding, and the sun bowing before
Leah and her scythe

this woman spent all her twenty one years in the fires of idaho
working for her father
preparing food for her brothers before their schooling.
she was made to stay at home,
and there she worked and washed and read and cut and crystallized

business men in windup cars would see her off the highway
her muscles swaying with the wind, treetop hair flogging the setting sun
singing folk songs to herself in a falsetto that sounded like a rocking chair.

these men would stop to chat, but soon realize that this
Leah was burning too much for them.
her heart was different from city folk
and most country folk for that matter.
her ventricles were connected through a series of
crimson twigs and gnarled vines.
it pumped like any other heart,
but it would crack and wheeze anytime she left that farm.

those businessmen expected that she would be enthralledby anything out of town.
but it was the opposite; fancy gadgets bore her and
snazzy suits and autos seemed like pointless little ornaments.
she’d be more impressed by a man who could cut wheat like she could
a man who could shoot life out of the iron earth
and feed his kin with the pickings of his heart.

but she never quite found a man like that.
she stayed there, and let herself bleed into those idaho hills.
the roots of the grain wrapped around her veins
and her lungs breathed for the farm
just as its rainfall pumped her brown blood.

she never grew old that Leah, because she kept her crop so fresh.
every morning she watered and plowed and every while,
with scorching eyes and whipping locks
she’d swing her scythe, and smell the breaking spines of wheat,
and would quietly sing,
like a rocking chair.
Posted by David Clifford Turner at

You are the monster under my bed
The boogeyman I cannot forget
The black hand red fingernails creeping lightly on my skin like daddy long legs mama told me couldn't bite
Your lips are splinters digging into the holsters you carved into my bones
October 15th I can remember your blackened eyes hollow nostrils like full moons
You were the werewolf mama told me only came out at night to catch bad little boys
I tried so hard to be good for you to be on your nice list mama said you checked it twice
I bit my tongue till it bled while your boogeyman claws paper shredding my thighs blood coming up like well water on your wrists
I didn’t look when the sun came up and you turned back into a man again
I didn’t look under my bed that night because I knew nightmares weren’t what I was afraid of anymore and
night terrors weren’t what was keeping me so late
I didn’t ask mama if I was a bad little boy and if the werewolf was going to be coming back for me again
didn’t ask her to tuck me in
didn’t ask her to read me another bedtime story
Because you are the monster under my bed
And when I don’t cover my feet under blankets like mama said would keep me safe at night you grip me harder than mama could
I can’t forgive myself and I can’t tell myself
mama was wrong that werewolves and boogeymen don’t come for just the bad little boys at night but you let me know
I was the cautionary fairy tale mama let me know I was the boy who cried wolf
you whispered it in your growling hissing nails-on-a-blackboard boogeyman voice
mama never told me what to do if I was that bad little boy
mama never told me how to fight off the boogeyman
never told me ******* a werewolf
If I should run a stake through your heart or
use holy water
mama I'm sorry I didn't know
mama you told me you could forgive me
That October night I prayed while I was falling asleep
Mama said it would help
“Dear god please forgive me
I let the devil inside
And he won’t get out from under my bed.”

Chasing the dreams to touch the sky, shaking the roots of feminism;

Happy to shoot for the Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Gia's plagiarism-

All for her superstar Angel, she lived the attitude of lesbianism;

From Philadelphia to New York she sold, her fraternity and parental prism-

The ambitious gal, the ambition gal felt addicted to ******* and heroinism.

Climbing the hills in Beverly was not tough enough, shredding chastity for mean;

Hallowing for her Tomb Raider, she swallowed her city of sin-

All in her attempts she brewed her habits, she tattooed destiny for her queen;

From abortion to scandals;   she breathed to see her prolific akin-

The injured gal, the pitted gal still nearly was not doomed to grin.



Succumbing like the serpentine in salt, still longing to meet her dream star;

One fine morning she was found half-dead down the alley, waging her life-war-

All the fever she had, yet not looking to get out of the foxfire;

From one hospital to another, she was taken and was declared a patient of cancer;

The lucky gal, the ******* gal was lame enough to meet her jester.

The tumor had eaten her bones, like the steroids that made her a body-

Donating a million dollars in charity, made a brief appearance by Angelina Jollie;

All in her graceful charm, she penetrated hope to fight the disease folly-

From a life directionless to the motive of her strife, she kissed her cheeks and regretted being silly-

The ambitious gal, the ambition gal had just a single day to cherish her so called glory.

When he left, it was never new to you. There was no such thing such as shredding of tears. There was no kaleidoscope of memories. There was no hopes urging you to pull him back. There was no poem written in your notebooks. There was no entry in your diary. There was no wishful thinking while waiting for the wishing stars. There was no such thing like trying to talk to him and discuss what and where did you go wrong, because you knew from the very beginning, everything was wrong.

And then you dated him. You talked about your recent scores in your quizzes while eating ice cream with him. You celebrated your 19th birthday with him, and it was magical, the nicest feeling you never felt for so long. You had long conversations at night with him that you even dared to each other who sleeps first must treat the other. You have shared about the little things that made your day happy. You both have prayed for true love you thought you both once have. You found yourself motivating him through rousing words and so he does the same way to you.You say every single good night every dozing off moments at 2 or 3 am. And while the rest of your family was in dreams, you were there beneath your blankets giggling at his corny jokes while yawning. Your smiles to each other was in utmost real when you bumped each other on the busy hallways at school. When everyone stares at you both because of your weird chemistry, you could not give a **** care at all. You realize you don't want the whole world, just him in it.

And when he left, right after your 19th birthday, it was never new to you. There was no such thing such as shredding of tears. There was no kaleidoscope of memories. There was no hopes urging you to pull him back. There was no poem written in your notebooks. There was no entry in your diary. There was no wishful thinking while waiting for the wishing stars. There was no such thing like trying to talk to him and discuss what and where did you go wrong, because you knew from the very beginning, everything was wrong.

With no throe in your heart, you accepted everything--the way you used to.

My stomach a grave of dead flesh,
     I feasted on the carcass of


             The deceased
now entombed within.

There was no burial song,
       Just the ritual shredding

Of flesh.
        

I'm now content, and the bones
     I discard as if tooth picks

Of satisfaction.

  
I'm not sorrowful,
           For my belly is full.

As I gaze at the flowers,

  forna I will never desecrate
               your beauty.

I built for you
(another nightmare).

goodness,
is your heart still broken?

I consider your names from time to time
and fall under in wonder,
if the syllables were just an uttering-reach
for your attention,
or if they were failed attempts at catching
amusements-daze for your entertainment.
my sound waves wanted to cradle your letters,
to give you the alphabet in symphonies
harmonious with my admiration for you
and all I thought you stood for.

you flipped me on my stomach,
face down
trying to muffle the sound of my love,
what pain!
trying to force me not to love so loud.
I felt less than proud to
pull you out and leave you empty,
wishing, for once, not to be so untouched.

your passion for passing opportunities
to prove yourself worth the patience
was the only thing you held onto
when I opened my arms.
your touch no longer comfort,
more infectious and breathtaking
in a wind knocking your lungs down into your guts sort of way,
with all your broken promises jutting into my rib cage,
shredding the butterfly wings that used to arise that love-sick shutter
until I'm sick of love and left with blinds
that leave me to mutter about the darkness.

you were a creature of great wonder in the lack of light,
the shadows painting angels wings
sprouting from the backside of your heart
shooting through your spine,
your halo shining so bright that I lost my concentration,
I took a second look and lost my path
in a concentrated dose of your praise,
witnessed the sin seeping through your skin
as you sweat and soon there was nothing left
but the sound of your breath and the words
and the words and the words and the sickness
came creeping in like a crash.

your wings melt in the daylight
your teeth rot in your cheeks
halo crooked and eyes clamped tight
you sleep because you're too weak to speak
to another human being face to face
and from your face sprouted flowers made of meat
but the bees stung me when it was time to eat.

guilty by association.
guilty of procreation tendencies with absolutely no intention
of creating anything but distance from the wreckage.
broken hearts are broken bones
are breaking our breaking
we've broken apart and my heart
it has been shielded, restored into a beating,
living, loving organism.

for someone who wanted so badly to play the part of jesus,
you sure didn't pray enough, laugh enough or heal enough.
you didn't even try.

you were a wreck that I couldn't withstand,
a self-imposed torture,
because the thrill of losing everything
was too intoxicating to escape.

you were a right handed lover
and a left hand driver
with a ******* and not much else to say
with all that anger in your heart,
with all that hatred in your bones,
you will tear at your flesh to dig deeper
to try and understand something that's already been explained,
as all who once loved you will watch you rot away.

silver tongue city slicker
stay at home in your cabinet
don't come calling or knocking
it's too shocking: I'm thankful.

most positively,
I am free,
because without the wreck
there wouldn't have been anything to feel at all.

I was a ***** slushie flannel senior the first time I saw him,
an undid a button of morning regrets.
He was a nicotine stained midnight kiss I don't really remember,
A salt water perception of perfection labeled in a sly smile and small print,
he left bruises of lust on my wind pipes and I left my ear ring in the back seat of his Mazda.
He became my taxi driver,
my room full of people,
my absent fathers approval.
I took on my role of his unable to vote baby with librarian eyes.
And then one night he suggested an experiment to see if no other girl loves like the way my eyes beg him to stay.
He smiled down at me as if I should feel like I was in his gratitude,
he told me I should thank him for paper shredding me so I could learn to tape myself back together piece by piece,
so I could decipher my ripped description and learn to write again.
"Let me give you the most detailed inspiration, let me break you", he whispered, "so we can be equal".
Darling Slam the door on our hazy summer nights and remember me in disgust,
"Trust me", he said you need someone to look after you and only the smartest man can put a puzzle like your eyes together and only an artist will like the picture of your battle scares when you pick up the white flag.
I was naive that he thrived off a fight.
He claimed that the most intoxicating evening with me would be to be with me whether I liked it or not,
problem is I loved it.
He said he'd find ecstasy when I needed him less so he could crave me more,
and after way to many blue moon beer funnels mixed with the salt water of his absence he got what he wanted.
He took me to the doctor he used to claim to be yet I never once told him it was the frequency of his presents of not being present at all that made me bleed so deeply.
God I'm bandaging his self inflicted wounds for my own scabs wish list,
and now My fingers shake on how much I need his hands on my waist,
or how I'd do anything for those bruises out of love.
See all that's been on my mind is our ice cream melting pushed against the car first sober kiss and how he said he'd wanted to snap for me until I was oozing tears of joy cause all that he lectured about was learning to use a pen for myself again.
I prayed for inspiration,
I prayed for him to be my metaphorical daydream.
See this boy smiled religiously,
obviously aware that I didn't know a thing about happily ever after, he wanted to listen. Gripping my bible white sheets with his palms whispering,
Tell me when, where and I'll be there.
I believed him.
So for you my bipolar baby It's here, it's now and were finally equal.

you will write yourself empty
with talk of sieve hands and sifting hearts
and you will write yourself selfish
before anyone teaches you the definition of the word.

poetry is as good a punching bag as anything else
and you don't have to be lonely to come back here
but it's been months and I haven't been able to write anything worth reading that didn't begin with, "I."

here is my hand-me down hymn,
my rebel yell my soft and quiet
my church floor my vaulted ceilings
my elegy my aubade my fear--

I send quarter notes stumbling
when I'm not careful.

there have been poems I wish I could write:
my mom's hands like cracked mosaics,
my unforgiving, weak winter skin,
my sister's sharp wolf heart
my dad's icicle fingers melting
an entire four seasons spent
searching for words under rocks
the teeth of my fear shredding
the meat of this poem.

it has been a year,
and I don't worry anymore.

the quiet, craggy shape of my fear
will stretch itself out in the sun
when it's time.

until then,

tell them I'm home
tell the commas to come in
tell the exclamation points to vacate their tree
tell the question marks that now isn't the time for questioning--

tell the words I'm home.

Sad.  and it comes
tomorrow.  again, grey the streaks
of work
shredding the stone
of the pavement, dissolving
with the idea.
of singular endeavor.  herds, the
herds
of suffering intelligences
bunched,
and out of
hearing.  though the day
come to us,
in waves
sun, air, the beat of the clock
though I stare at the radical world,
wishing it would stand still.
tell me,
and i gain at the telling of the lie and the waking against the heavy breathing of new light, dawn
shattering the naïve cluck of feeling.
what is tomorrow  
that it cannot come today?
-Leroi Jones