PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
******* because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.

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-lights out-
fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous
ecstasy like a shot of ****** or morphine,
the gland inside of my brain discharging
the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as
i hap-down and hold all my body parts
down to a deadstop trance-Healing
all my sicknesses-erasing all-not
even the shred of a 'I-hope-you' or a
Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind
blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought
comes a-springing from afar with its held-
forth figure of image, you spoof it out,
you spuff it off, you fake it, and
it fades, and thought never comes-and
with joy you realize for the first time
'thinking's just like not thinking-
So I don't have to think
any
more'

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Your fingers are on my throat
   the world is rocking like a boat
an ocean
is unbearable
because it never seems to end
   and all I can do is float

   Your lips are rosebuds that never stop moving
   and somehow I find my own disgust soothing
my fingertips
are numb
whenever I lose myself to the waves
   but you're deaf so I'm unsure what I'm proving

   Your move was the deadly spawn of knight
   I sacrificed my pawn, paralyzed by fright
we will protect
the king
from sicknesses like you, *******
   Checkmate. I never lose a single fight.

I'm like a pill,
Because if you swallow my well-being,
You will be relieved of your worries, sicknesses, and ailments,
But too much of anything isn't beneficial for any of us,

And too much of me
Could leave your tongue escaping from your mouth,
And the irises of your eyes attempting to meet your brain,
Which is why you should take me
Within considerate reason,
And not take me for granted.

Swallow me whole,
Wash away your pride,
Feelings of me running deep inside you.
I swallow you,
I swallow you whole,
I swallow you down.

You are the perfect pill for my ills.
I can see the comely contents of your character
Labeled on a container,
And as soon as it becomes empty,
You will see me rushing
To get a refill of your grace.

Ever since you were prescribed to me on May 13th,
I've never listened to my doctors
Who assume to know
What is best for me.

I consume that dear, special, deep word
Like a space cadet of an overdose.

I need you within my reach,
I need your relief,
I need your reassurance,
I need you to care..

But what I need the most of from you,
Is your affection.

Originally written 7/2/11
Revised 10/15/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

When first thou didst entice to thee my heart,
      I thought the service brave;
So many joys I writ down for my part,
      Besides what I might have
Out of my stock of natural delights,
Augmented with thy gracious benefits.

I looked on thy furniture so fine,
      And made it fine to me;
Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine,
      And ‘tice me unto thee.
Such stars I counted mine: both heav’n and earth;
Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I serv’d,
      Where joys my fellows were?
Thus argu’d into hopes, my thoughts reserv’d
      No place for grief or fear.
Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,
And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face.

At first thou gav’st me milk and sweetnesses;
      I had my wish and way;
My days were straw’d with flow’rs and happiness;
      There was no month but May.
But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a party unawares for woe.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain,
      “Sicknesses cleave my bones;
Consuming agues dwell in ev’ry vein,
      And tune my breath to groans.”
Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believ’d,
Till grief did tell me roundly, that I liv’d.

When I got health, thou took’st away my life,
      And more, for my friends die;
My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife
      Was of more use than I.
Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend,
I was blown through with ev’ry storm and wind.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
      The way that takes the town;
Thou didst betray me to a ling’ring book,
      And wrap me in a gown.
I was entangled in the world of strife,
Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threaten’d oft the siege to raise,
      Not simp’ring all mine age,
Thou often didst with academic praise
      Melt and dissolve my rage.
I took thy sweet’ned pill, till I came where
I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happy be
      In my unhappiness,
Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me
      Into more sicknesses.
Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me
      None of my books will show;
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
      For sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust
  Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;
      In weakness must be stout;
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
      Some other master out.
Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.

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When you are able to perform those miracles that means more followers in your church
All i will give is just a small ............. which you will wear or put on and the world start praising your name
Are You A Pastor The ...... will provide Healing Powers to all manner of sicknesses and diseases, deliverance from satanic manipulations, perform miracles/wonders and rising above. It also attract Mass Wealthy Congregations to your Church/temple.
ARE YOU A PASTOR OR HEALER LOOKING FOR SPECIAL POWERS? ATTENTION: dear pastors and religious leaders , this is the ring that has turned many ministries and pastors lives today. It has helped many pastors get famous and churches gather lots of followers and not only followers but important people like government officials and big political leaders today , lots of synagogues and churches today are performing miracles and wonders , healing the sick by the help of this ring. The Ring also provides Healing Powers to all manner of sicknesses and diseases, deliverance from demonic manipulations, miracles and rising above.It empowers every word of your preaching to touch people's hearts thus giving you a powerful magnetic personality. It is a very powerful Ring for one to build intuition power and foresee future .Very useful for person who does Speculation or Healing.
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Another sweet dream stolen from me
        the morning bare no sympathy
           Each day i awake the same
      Not eager at all to play this game
          A happy face I'm told to wear
       I brush my teeth and comb my hair
       Longing to return to my paradise
  For Even just one last hour would be safice

For Grace Bulmer Bowers


From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts.  The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering.  Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night.  Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores.  Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative.  "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

XVI. TO ASCLEPIUS (5 lines)

(ll. 1-4) I begin to sing of Asclepius, son of Apollo and healer
of sicknesses.  In the Dotian plain fair Coronis, daughter of
King Phlegyas, bare him, a great joy to men, a soother of cruel
pangs.

(l. 5) And so hail to you, lord: in my song I make my prayer to
thee!

It's always good to be a rock
Incapable of being influenced by anything you might
Encounter and shy away from only to explore later on
From all the sicknesses and worries that plague so many
Minds at present

But so-called rocks are liars.

Do you realize that races are overrated,
since God is no respecter of persons?
Colored perceptions of hatred and bigotry
may ultimately destroy our existence.

Who needs people that:
• Lack brotherly love and respect for others
• Lust for power, wealth and *******
• Lack vision and purpose
• Lack maturity and wisdom
• Have attitudes of superiority
• Are poor in spirit
• Lack discipline and self-control

Colored attitudes, regarding skin tones and hues,
pale in contrast to uncontrolled emotions.
Without responsibility and accountability,
people get themselves in trouble rather quickly.

Who really wants or needs:
• Red’s lustful, passion for someone other than your spouse?
• or Green’s destructional envy of others’ wealth or possessions?
• or Yellow’s fear, smelling of ***** from peeing ourselves?
• or White’s collection of powdered deaths?
• or Blue’s inner sadness or coldness towards others?
• or Brown’s poverty, shame and overall uncleanness?
• or Orange steadfastness for a Godless life?
• or Purple’s smugness from a self-conceived ideal of royalty?
• or Black’s foreboding sicknesses and death?

Our human collective needs to find real commonality,
within this brotherhood of man, as planetary stewards.
Under girded with a genuineness of concern and love,
true understanding can lead to harmonious relationships.
We all have the ability to commune with God’s Spirit;
however, we each must have a desire to do so.
Utopia may be unattainable, unlike… unity of community.
And yes, I forgive you, for thinking I might be racist.




Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Acts 10: 34; Gal 2: 6; Deut 10: 17; 1 Pet 1: 17

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http: //www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

I used to believe that we couldn't get any closer
than a doctor - patient relationship
Cause everytime you'd come to me
you'd always ask for a diagnosis

I'd ask for your symptoms, check your pulse
your temperature, even your recent meals
then you'd tell me about your recent pains
your heartaches, cramps, and muscle strains

Little did you know than I wanted more
than stories about sicknesses that deters you
Like your favorite color, favorite fruit
favorite band... stories you never told me

I hoped to be more than just your doctor
a person that just cares for your well being
I care more than the sicknesses that bother you

I wish you could trust me more

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
   Though foolishly he lost the same,
      Decaying more and more,
          Till he became
            Most poor:
            With thee
          O let me rise
        As larks, harmoniously,
    And sing this day thy victories:
  Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

    My tender age in sorrow did begin:
   And still with sicknesses and shame
      Thou didst so punish sin,
           That I became
            Most thin.
            With thee
           Let me combine
     And feel this day thy victory:
     For, if I imp my wing on thine,
   Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.

And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.

But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.

For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.

A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.

Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.

And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.

Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?

Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?

These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.

To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.

And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.

White Interceptors illuminate, cry, and leave ribbons of red and blue,
  accelerating north on Featherbed. Streetlamps hang like midnight ornaments.

It starts to rain, turning the tar streets into slick mirrors.
  I can see my lights lead me, sweeping the asphalt.

Kent is still too dangerous to gentrify. The trashcans are spilling
  cereal boxes and empty two liters. I imagine a two-thousand year-old
mountain of trash, corroding and forming this neighborhood.

  Barefoot children walk around aluminum cakes, reaching for the rain.

Skinny cats trot across the street, green and yellow eyes,
  leaking through the dark. I name them after sicknesses.

The humming of my Camry grows louder as I squeeze by
  dripping, patting hands. I now recognize the moon.

Buildings swoosh by faster and faster. Minutes go by and I
  find myself on the outskirts; the trees sway, dodging rain.

My phone rings like a frenzied roach. Picking it up,
  'Hello.'

'Sure. Yeah, I'll be right there.
  'Nowhere.
    'I'm going nowhere.'

The phone bounces on the grey seat. A screeching.
  Coming to a stop; my chest almost touching the center
of the steering wheel. All becomes still.

  A buck with velvet antlers stands in the rain.
It runs into the dancing forest. Much like me.

We are who we are, because of what they are.
The need to be perfect. The need to be thin, skinny, beautiful and popular. The need to be in control. Self-destruction our only friend. Anorexia, bulimia, and ednos, our sicknesses. Self harm - the only way we know how to control our pain. Suicide... The the only way we see as a means to escape. ****, molestation and abuse filled our sick childhoods and now we all pay the price for it. We pay with the blood from our veins, the ***** from our stomach's, the tears from our eyes... We pay for their crimes until we are empty and can not give any more.
We are what we are, because of what they are. And we scream out for help. We cry for forgiveness. We do anything we can to beg for mercy and yet, no one answers. So we cut, and we starve, and we purge until we have withered away to nothing but scarred up bones. Just empty shells of the kids we used to be... And still they don't notice. So we try to **** the pain inside... Over dose. Hanging. Gunshot. Slit wrists.
And then... they notice... But for us, it's already too late. They made us who we are. Whether or not we succeeded, we are already dead inside.

i have so much love in me and around me
it is impossible to bathe in anything else like
a ****** resentment or an unlimited reservation of sadness

even though those sicknesses are okay and are always curable,
i feel too alive and sure of myself to cough up a loogie of ill-peace

how can I not be okay - right now?
is there a way to prove myself otherwise?

always - we are
HERE
and nowhere else

if only we'd just take a step back and take a look at the illusions
of past or future we've been rolling around in

those are just stories!
and the essence of who we are is not replicated from any external judgement
because a judgement is just another illusional story
that pries into our belief that we will not make it through another day.
but you can, and i can
and you deserve love and i deserve love

and if you take a step back and really look at where you are,
you will see that
you are okay right now too.

We should have learned

I can get hurt to

I am not immune to these waves of emotion

Utterly lost self control

A simple text

I was taken

Now I have an ex

An O is left in my chest

It's the piece you took

And you left me nothing to replace that

Which is in great fact

The reason I love you

And in that reason I've lost you in a pitiful way

Susceptible to the sicknesses

And that's crazy

Baby baby baby

Maybe if I didn't show as much affection

Gave you protection

Or let all things be free

But change this I can do

It hurts because it's real

Or naivety tool me for a spin

Left me in a dizzy spell

Casters magic

To a witch I know wasn't at first wicked

To the naivety you exposed with a condescending nature

I stay and remain to pace around

And its amazing to how I can reference you to everything

It's my fault for not understanding

And your fault for not accepting

Either or this chore was something your effort wasn't given

Or gave up on

That " I love you" isn't for me or anyone

You don't think I know I know what you done

Hearts collect

In a barren basement

The minds making

Where trinkets dangle

And you bare your fangs

So even if the all wasn't enough

My loving apparatus has a crack

Of all the pressure

Where your ghost haunts my memories

With the centipede nest

Followed by the butterfly of death

Or a sheet of white flower

To the relevance of every poem that's to pretty young and dumb

All the words I slew from my lips

And your acid tears

This will of addiction

With your art of rejection

This forever flu

62 cuts at negative two degrees

Is why I still love you

Just not in love with you

Eccentric

Visions

******

Merry Christmas Eve

Eternal knowing
Enter this holy sacred place an actual event in history the most important action to ever occur in human history this determines
destinies in the manger is the Christ child dwell think of the implications your journey can be in some cases the same as the wise
Men a long and arduous one nothing is more precious or crucial now look up from the past to the present but more importantly
The future this is a dark future for sure the area that I have to explore this story will set the tone I believe most knows this poem
A man without a country written by Edward Everett Hale (1822–1909 it takes you into the world of a young naval officer who is found
Guilty of high treason against the United States his unusual punishment was felt to be fitting although the toughest sentence ever
Passed on a prisoner if he could be that calloused and cold against such a nation who’s high ideals and love of freedom could be
Trampled under without care then his punishment would be for the rest of his life he would never set foot on this blessed shore again
The story details his first reaction of brashness but then as time passes he has a change of heart he falls in love with his native land
But his plight is to always be shifted to a ship that is setting sails to faraway lands his home only the hold of ships it tells in deep detail
The strain on the men that must continue this punishment and his own life as it ages the despair the reality of not belonging the
Aloneness that crushes him and grips your heart as the reader while this bears on your mind I will take you into mine this is what rips
My heart as this man I look at people I don’t just casually glance I study them at deep levels when I see them hug someone touching
A most human need to be loved and give love to be accepted then my burden beyond the manger the cross as I said before beyond the
Open grave that is the ultimate reason of his birth the word says who shall escape if they neglect such a great salvation as this just like
The young naval officer that betrayed his country here is the punishment more awful than even the flames of the lake of fire see as I see
These precious real people separated from Jesus the greatest love never as the song says sheltered in the arms of God never hear his
Voice his touch that’s true hell my friend our families will follow us in to this domain but it’s called outer darkness we will be all alone
Before we had distraction on earth quiet peace oh yes and we consume more alcohol at the time that is supposed to be set aside to
Honor his birth than at any other time of the year all will truly be burned as wood hay and stubble we have this great invitation to be
His home by becoming the temple that he will live in from a desolate waste land to a land where ever you go he is with you a king
Above all king’s resident within your body that has become his temple with all the gifts of the spirit love mercy peace and many more
That elevates you to the highest plane giving you opportunities the base life never can even hint at the only thing is it does benefit and
Feels God’s love though it is imperceptible this will end I hope we don’t lose all that is human and become like the enemy I met a
Demonic angel when I was in Napa California he was trying to act as a messenger from God words can’t explain the instant recognition
Of who was there though unseen it was repulsive my mind pictured something bubbling with every imaginable disease how appropriate
Since hell is where all sicknesses comes from and instantly I understood the ease of this and his kind how they perpetrated the holocaust the word
Says my sheep will know my voice I knew who his master was if we don’t make it this going to be our lot to exist in and with this filth
That filth will pain us the most knowing we were invited to walk in holiness be loved given a city a universe at our feet all is asked is do
the right thing He will give you power for each step.

you exhaust me
in the morning
where sunlit  window is in
terrible           defense

empathy is      an open house
come on in,     patients
you've got       the front door
as sicknesses   seep to me

When I gave up, I pretty much just stopped, like two feet firmly planted into quicksand. I just stopped.
When I could no longer take a step, I just let my arms fall down to my side, fingers spread and just sighed.
Chin tucked to my chest, an even breath, then a scream that only echoed on the inside.
When I stopped screaming, I was still sinking and the crushing absence of movement made me bold. I struggled and I flailed but to no avail did I become free from the quicksands hold.
Within reach of my fingertips was a ghostly branch, from a tree that had weathered sicknesses untold. But still that tree reached out for me and as I took hold of it's ghastly brittle fingers, and even now in my mind it lingers, I took that tree out by the roots to sink in cahoots beside me, lingering in this quicksand.
I immediately apologised profusely to the tree that now sinks beside me.
The tree answered back, no, please it was I that lacked the fortitude to save thee.
Oh no! I thought, it was my troubled mind that led me to sink so deep, it was me who should weep quicksand tears for the tree who fell for me so blindly!
So me, and the tree, used each other, you see, one to stay afloat and the other to lay down finally,
to hold another up kindly.

1 Who has believed what we have heard?
And who has the arm of the LORD been revealed to?
2 He grew up before Him like a young plant
and like a root out of dry ground.
He didn’t have an impressive form
or majesty that we should look at Him,
no appearance that we should desire Him.
3 He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of suffering who knew what sickness was.
He was like someone people turned away from;
He was despised, and we didn’t value Him.
4 Yet He Himself bore our sicknesses,
and He carried our pains;
but we in turn regarded Him stricken,
struck down by God, and afflicted.
5 But He was pierced because of our transgressions,
crushed because of our iniquities;
punishment for our peace was on Him,
and we are healed by His wounds.
6 We all went astray like sheep;
we all have turned to our own way;
and the LORD has punished Him
for3 the iniquity of us all.
7 He was oppressed and afflicted,
yet He did not open His mouth.
Like a lamb led to the slaughter
and like a sheep silent before her shearers,
He did not open His mouth.
8 He was taken away because of oppression and judgment;
and who considered His fate?
For He was cut off from the land of the living;
He was struck because of my people’s rebellion.
9 They5 made His grave with the wicked
and with a rich man at His death,
although He had done no violence
and had not spoken deceitfully.
10 Yet the LORD was pleased to crush Him severely.
When You make Him a * restitution offering,
He will see His * seed, He will prolong His days,
and by His hand, the LORD’s pleasure will be accomplished.
11 He will see it out of His anguish,
and He will be satisfied with His knowledge.
My righteous Servant will justify many,
and He will carry their iniquities.
12 Therefore I will give Him the many as a portion,
and He will receive the mighty as spoil,
because He submitted Himself to death,
and was counted among the rebels;
yet He bore the sin of many
and interceded for the rebels.

In the most quiet voice possible while still being heard
Whisper to yourself a secret out loud, and with a smile.
Please, let it be your own, and not one you've kept for another.
Don't break a promise on my account.

Now, breathe. As if you weren't before-- good, like that.
Do you hear that now? Has the loudness returned to sound?
What was the secret? Not specifics, give me broad themes.
Did it involve a regret, something to have been done and not said?

Your secrets are mine, too. We share them now.
For what paupers we are we are rich in schemes.
Pathological lovers, and our smiles wider than opened meadows.
They might flood this town one day, turn it into a lake.

Did you forget to say, 'I love you'
You shake your head, your mouth quirks.
Eccentric lips kissed to heed a platitude.
Are you breaking up with me?

Why does hope feel restless and final,
does that feeling make sense the way I described?
Is it the contemporary nervousness known as anxiety?
Do you know a healthy person? Are they nice people?

Are you still with me? Willing to listen and reply,
Follow through on my few dictations with glee.
Now that I have your attention it's the last thing I want.
Everything I desire is meant to be unprompted.

If that's true then why did I leave my own surprise birthday?
Oh. Because it's an annual occurrence. There's nothing spontaneous in an anniversary.
Is spontaneity the key to my happiness, or is impulse? How related are the two words?
It's legal to marry your first cousin where I'm from, but we don't talk about that.

Sorry, I'm back. To the whispered secrets again, yes.
But, alright, hold on, I think I have something here for myself.
Is spontaneity the key to my happiness, or is impulse?
Do we lose choice if we're influenced, or ill? Only if you're cited a 5150.

Lost the thread, and mine, too. I'm sorry, this was meant to be for you.

Forgot what I was saying, can you repeat the last thing back to me?
No, before this and that, before I went quiet.
Right. Yeah. I remember now. I'm tired, get the **** out.
But don't leave me, please.

---------------

Morning, darling. Did you sleep well? Were your dreams strange?
Sorry to cut you off, I'd like nothing more than to listen, but I also have images,
the likes from which I cannot wake. Didn't Joyce make a similar remark,
No, his was about history. Am I a plagiarist for having ever read?

Neanderthalic poets were the best, I don't care for their new verses as much.

Brush the slept hair from your face because I saw it in a movie once.
Am I cliche for repetition? Pretentious for lowering myself in the lake
to see the creatures nipping at my toes? I didn't see anything down there.
It's too dark.

"Got a light?"
Scoffing a denial like I'm a better man. It's 2017, who even smokes anymore?
My thoughts are the myriad of flaws in my personality. Each one a used **** ******.
Adrenalinic joy pulsed into a tight fit devoid of any semblance of human contact.
That's my way of saying I hate myself, and the thoughts I think.
"Be happy. Smile more. Travel the world."
So I can be depressed in Egypt with more wrinkles in the old age I didn't want to reach?
This actress has phenomenal range. Who is she again? No, the brunette.

Who gives a **** about a blonde anymore?
I'd like to see her deliver some of my written lines, if you catch my drift.
No, I actually want her to play this character I've been writing.
Is my libido tarnished, or am I still recovering from an assault that only exists in my mind?

Stop talking, you're drowning out my favorite part.
Sorry, nevermind, we lost the station. Look, the state line.
White noise and static. I don't know the radio outside of town.
Why aren't we listening from our phones? I needed the nostalgia to feel bad about my choices.

Yes, it worked. It always does. Kissing cousins get found out,
and I wear my impulses as a tattoo sleeve. That is as scarred wounds on my forearms.
And thighs.
And once my neck, but it healed clean as an only slightly lighter shade of skin.
It took two weeks to heal. The grief from having to continually hide it kept me feeling fine.
Maybe I need to lie, more.
This isn't a picnic for me either. Implying picnics are worthwhile events and not cornerstones of an America that was painted into existence by Norman Rockwell.
The irony of hobos using the same red and white sheets to bundle their lives
as the ones used to create a slice of Americana cheaper than the cardboard cutout
apple pies at your local grocer. Is that even ironic?

**** the bourgeoise. Said a white teen.
Where dead end roads are called cul-de-sacs.
No, I won't judge this family further for your smug confirmation bias.
They are good people and you don't deserve them.
Who cares if dad is an accountant, or that mom is a criminal defense lawyer?
That daughter is addicted to the dopamine of comments and likes.
That son is a *** addict in training, and his next week's girlfriend will regret her nights spent.
Which one is worse? Let's dissect their lives.

They didn't choose their station. Or when it'd all turn to static and scratches.
"Change the station. Turn the dial."
To what? It's all white noise and radio signals, and it's being cut down through the air.
The density of space is frightening.
Did you know neutrinos don't interact with matter in the ways that a photon does?

Oh yeah, tell me about your dreams. I think I've calmed myself enough to nod my head,
with a crooked smile that barely shows my teeth. This is my listening expression.
It worked on our first date when I pretended to be interested in your major and we ****** after
bad garlic bread and cheaper wine. You weren't easy, neither was I.
But we had a fever together and needed to sweat out our impurities.

You told me to take the ****** off. Didn't even know I put one on.
What a minx you were, -- oh, right, your dream. So, what happened when you opened the door?
Oh. You woke up? But, wait, what was behind the door? Where did it lead? Was it locked?
Who directed you to the door, the concierge from that hotel we stayed at during our trip to--
Where was that again? Didn't that guy have a mustache, though? You said the one in your dream--
Yeah, right, of course, I'm sorry.

She brushes her hair before bed. Puts on this mask that smells of avocado.
Tastes nothing like it. Yes, I tried it. Twice. I've huffed kerosene with better flavour.
Oh, it's very bold, has legs. It'll swirl in your nasal cavity for days after you breathe it in,
if you breathe in deep enough. What's the point of getting a shallow high?
Now I think I'm getting somewhere, I desire depth.

Sorry, what were you saying?
Oh. You are leaving me? But the cheap Italian dinners we had.
I think you're overreacting, that doesn't sound right.
Okay, yeah, but. No, I mean-- well, no, there's-- No, but.
Fine.
I'm fine. I'm sorry.

Where did it go wrong? I should have known when she wanted me raw.
Nobody sane wants that from me. Maybe it was when I told her I hated her mother.
She hates that ***** too, the **** am I thinking? Clearly it was when I forgot
the tea she bought from the yearly festival in the hay maze.
We sought to get lost.

Maybe it wasn't a one thing, but the overall of these events.
Occurrences accumulate, and memories carry over into the next day.
Like when she woke first after our supposed one night stand,
and instead of quietly creeping from my bed, which I woke to expect
the lukewarmness of knowing there were two, instead she laid there and watched me sleep.
That bothered me to no end, because in my dreams I have no say in how I look.
What if my brows were comically arched, or expressed an emotion I wasn't feeling.
What if she saw the twitch I took a year during middle school to correct after I was teased.
I failed, a decade of quiet self-ridicule for a muscle that took it upon itself to act without thought--
"Did you know your cheek sometimes droops down as if you've suffered a stroke?"
No, I didn't know that, I've only lived with my face as long as I've known you so I appreciate your observations.
Still, I smiled, and pulled her closer without the thought of gravity.
Now she was letting me go.

We need to unify and get to the root of the problem.
There are four main forces in nature;
electromagnetic, strong nuclear, weak nuclear, and gravitational.
The crux is the unity of conventional with quantum. We don't understand gravity
as it works in a world that relies on thought experiments and metaphor to be
perceived by the general public.
**** the Copenhagen interpretation.

So, she woke up and watched me sleep. She stayed with me in bed and we did nothing but
cure ourselves of sicknesses we had yet to ever diagnose. She asked me where I got my scars.
With the gleam of a subtle sadist she traced them with her fingertips, then her lips.
What a peculiar woman. Why did she ever agree to marry me?
Wait-- no, why is she leaving me is what I should be asking.
Is it the baldness? Doubtful, she's who told me to shave it off in college when it went premature.
She found other places to dig her fingers into me. She was resourceful.
Why is this in the past tense, she's left me, not died.

Why am I feeling surprise when I've anticipated her dislike for me since we shared a Cabernet
I mispronounced when ordering. Why do I only reflect on the one dinner when we had hundreds?
We still have that old bottle. I bought the whole **** thing at the time not knowing you could
purchase by the glass. Looking back I wonder if she took that as a sign, that I wanted her drunk
to ****. Or did she sense my mistake and instead embolden me with the scaffolding needed to
keep up the facade of my crumbling masculinity?

As we got older together we poured more expensive wines into that bottle. It was a whole ordeal.
Every single time, from one bottle to another poured down a slide, which at first we made from stock paper, but then she saw a funnel in the store. We called it our little slide of heaven,
and down came manna.
Even during dinners where we had friends over, their pretensions worse than mine,
we'd simulate an uncorking of a better wine with an app on our phones.
You can download a lot of different sounds.
Our old Cabernet was a twist off.
And we'd see the eyerolls, and pour them a finger less than the rest. Romance deserves alcohol.
And the romantic need it most.

We wrote our own vows. For our marriage, that is, and we renewed them every two years.
We agreed to do that years before the idea of marriage was anything more than a thing
we told ourselves to comfort each other in the idea that the future is anything worth pursuing.
*******, how did we ever make it out of ours 20s with the thoughts we shared?
You crooned to me, once, it was this night where we had walked down to the playground a short half mile from your apartment. I mean, sure, we went there a lot, but this night was different.
Even you agreed the wind blew in a direction that felt strange. We couldn't figure out why
our scarves were billowing in our faces-- do you remember how you tore yours from your neck?
And with all the punctuation of an engagement ring being thrown at the accused you threw
the scarf I bought for you after a three week deliberation on whether the fabric blend would make you itch or if the colour I chose would clash instead of match whatever it was you wore, and it got caught in the wind without the embrace of your beautiful neck and we watched in the dim quiet
of a streetlight glow as the scarf disappeared into the rest of whatever was that way during night.

It took entire moments after we watched it go for either of us to speak. You crooned, like a kettle on a hob, or the hungry moans of a wolf scavenging the last remnants of life in the world, your regret for what you did. You apologized to me, and almost fell to your knees from passion
for your plea. Asking to be forgiven by me.
As if I cared about the money, or the colour. I only worried about your neck and decolletage.
It was cold, and a half mile is a long way to walk without a scarf when you expected to have one.

Instead of giving you mine we shared the one I wore.
Praise Solomon for the nuclear family, because to him divorce meant separation.
So we engineered a response to either of us being a have-not and we became socialists.
You didn't even have a toothbrush at my place, and the only thing we shared was an enjoyment
for ******* with people. Yet, wrapped as mummies in a romantic comedy we stumbled as nervous kids in a three-legged race back home.
Home. Where it was to us then. Your second floor, four bedroom apartment. Or my town house, whose rent was cheaper from a grad student's suicide the semester before.
I lived alone, because I'd tell gullible people stories of ghosts.
You helped me with the idea when I was afraid of having a roommate move in.
They left in tears. We laughed, and proceeded to **** on the floor where he died.
At least, I think it was a he. Is that sexist of me?

"Anybody can **** in a graveyard." I said for pillowtalk,
and that subtle sadism came back to your eyes, and it parted your lips.
But you never said a word.

How about the time.
Remember when?
Of course you do, you were the second billing in the same film as me.
But of course you've made a decision. Who am I to disagree?
Is this the part of the script where I fall to my knees?
Will it count if it's not done as earnestly as I actually feel?
Roleplay always excited me, but did you take my fetish too far by pretending to love me all this time?
I didn't want you to change.
But we grew older together. You barely aged, and I swear you got taller.
Idyllic and ideal, the small town feel of a front porch. And back yard.
Is your Eden elsewhere, Eve? Tell me and we'll leave. I swear to you we'll be okay.
That was something I told you anytime you were upset at something more serious than not.
Anytime you were actually in need, and not only wanting more attention.
It's weird how we come to sense the others in our lives. The conformity of time spent together.
Boarding schools make kids gay. I never knew you, did I?
Of course I did. If not, you're a remarkable actress. You should come to a casting session I'm holding.
In this fantasy I'm a ****** Hollywood producer with enough money to front confidence, and enough debt to break two knees. Meanwhile, in the time before I end up presumed missing and buried shallow in a desert somewhere, I go around and **** the fresh from Kansas teenage girls that get off the Greyhound around the corner from my house.
My ******* God. You're so ******* tight. Jesus ******* Christ.
Sometimes I'd use your actual name in the moment, too heated to remember my own direction.
Take two.
Three.
That's a wrap, we're finished for the day. Until dusk then, my love.

"Oh my god, hon. I was kidding." And she kissed my cheek.
"You're stuck with me, I'm afraid. Plus, the divorce laws in this state are ****.
I wouldn't get anything from you."
You smiled wide and stared at me in expectation.
"Yeah, of course, I knew that."
Why did I feel as if I had been drowned?
Why did that feeling keep me buoyant?
I'm sorry.

I came to a place to find you
I came to a place to love you
I came to a place to accept you

My pastor taught your Word
My pastor preached your message
My pastor spoke your revelation
When He spoke…I heard you

I then found you

I came before you in your presence
I came before you and worshipped your name

You healed me of my pain
You healed me of my distress
You healed me of my sicknesses

You’ve gotten me through the test

With you I conquered over Satan
With you I conquered over Evil
With you I conquered darkness in my mind
With you I conquered through it all
Now thanks to you I have a clear and sound mind

I became victorious
I became a conquerer
I became a winner

With a joyful and humble heart
I became a child of God

The past
Such a funny place to pay a visit
Also a scaring Heaven
travelling to it through pictures
Through diaries
Through experiences and conversations.
Wondering if today is that future
We were dreaming,
Planning and sharing
In the past.

An escortion to the past
Take us to the tears
Our unconguerd fears
Promises shared
Love felt
Friends we have left
Lessons failed to learn
And those learned
Mistakes made
Heart breaks
Joy that had faded
Repented pain
Smiles and broken fate
Sicknesses won
Our dead ones, our efforts couldn't save.
The cheers, the quarrels
Broken Commitments and understandings
The peace, the unrest
Sweet dreams, nightmares
Snub, ego and abused meekness
Hymns, dances and sadness
Lies discovered, truth untold
Folks turned foes, treasures sold
Hatred bared, relationships mismanaged
Sins forgiven
And those too hard to be forgotten
Loses and Crisis
Celebration that had ended
Glory that has been blinded
That giant step
That right choice
The chance
That luck
A great victory
records made, glorious history.
The rise, the fall
The frowns, the fun
Dews and twinkling sun
All in all
Travelling to the past
Is an adventure of mix feelings
Sour and sweet memories
Drilling and refreshing

Since it's where we are all coming from
It's a place we can't foregone
A place not too healthy to dwell
But a place we should always go to learn.

Behind Sister Bridget's
black habited back
one legged Anne

gave her a one fingered
up you sign
the nun unaware

walked on down
the lush green lawn
the girl with burn scars

on her arm and leg
mouthed
I'm going to tell

but her wide eyed stare
betrayed
she never would

just a maybe
-if-I-had-the-nerve
gesture

hey Skinny kid
Anne said
in lowered voice

hand to the side
of her mouth
as she'd seen spies do

in war films
or on TV
how about we sneak

into town?
the Kid impassively
shrugged

his narrow shoulders
buy you some sweet
if you'll come?

that decided it
and he nodded
and as the nun

walked down the lawn
chatting to the other kids
who were convalescing

from sicknesses
or burns or accidents
Anne and the Kid

sneaked off back
towards the big house
now a nursing home

for children
she on her crutches
he following behind

looking back
towards the lawn
and once inside

they ventured out
the side door
along the path

by the hedge
and down the side road
that led into town

pass traffic
she crutched along
the Kid bringing up

the rear
her one leg treading
the paving

the stump swinging
silently
beneath her skirt

and the Kid
catching her up
walked beside her

and she said
got to get out
of that **** place

with all those
other kids
and those holy nuns

with their tall tales
and frustrated dreams
the Kid said nothing

he was thinking
of the night
she wanted him

to scrub her back
in the bath
or that other time

when he helped her
from her wheelchair
and accidentally

touched her tight ****
by mistake
and the WHAT THE ****

of her words
and the secret feel
had him wandering

outside
his safety zone
like a child at night

finding themselves
in the dark
all alone.

I say this prayer and I’m leaving it for you
Because you know what I’m going through
I don’t ask for money or for fame
Just for health so that I may see
How to raise my family.

With good health I could make a living
And handouts will not have to be given.
So many of us with death related sicknesses both young and old
And when we go to the doctor is when we’re told.

It is a burden which is hard to bare - then with the family
This news we must share.
How do you tell a loved one that you have a certain amount of time to live
When in your heart you have so much yet to give.

So dear GOD this prayer goes out to you
Let us see what you will do.
We know that not all of us can be saved , some of us must go to our graves.
Because you have a job for us to do , and it can’t be done
Till we’re with you.
© L . RAMS 090315

The reason for the existence of the universe is for us to see what we really are.

Through out time we have been experiencing every single aspect of the universe, of life.

It is neccessary for us to go out and get lost in the world in order for us to come back home.


Life is the game of games.

Life is a play of consciousness.


When we begin the whole journey of life as consciousness, we must go unconscious.

And our goal is to return to consciousness.


It is very important that we are as aware as possible when we are experiencing everything and anything from life and the universe.

Every lesson of life has to be learned and understood before we can go beyond life.


In order for us to know that which is unlimited and immortal in us, we have to first see that which is limited and mortal.

If we never experience unconsciousness, we will never know what consciousness is.

Every single one of us is a spec of consciousness finding its way back to its source.

At some point we are bound to get tired of life.

Because although life is beautiful, life also contains uncomfortable and unpleasant experiences.

Like for example, being sick.

Although life is beautiful, we are bound to get tired of it.

We are bound to get tired of sicknesses, diseases, old age and death.

We are bound to search for that which has no death, which does not get sick, which does not get old.


When every single aspect of life has been experienced, we are bound to search for the eternal.

We are bound to search for God.


There are mysteries that can be known and there are mysteries that can not be known.

Those mysteries that can be known bring us peace and those mysteries that can not be known keep us in peace.


When ever an experience or a situation is there for you to experience, it is important that you put the mind aside and that you don't look for the answer in your mind.

For example, if you are ill or very sick, you might desperately start thinking why this has happened to you, for what reason must you go through this.

If you want to know why such uncomfortable things are, you have to put the mind in silence and allow silence to answer you.

If you don't silence your mind, you will keep asking why but you will never get an answer that satisfies you.

You will go back to healthiness but you will not know why sickness was.

Therefor, next time you get sick, again you will ask the same questions and if you don't allow the answer to be revealed by the sickness itself, again you will miss the lesson.


A sickness is suppose to remind you of that which can not get sick.

A sickness is suppose to teach you the balancement that must be kept in order for you to stay healthy.

A sickness is simply just another teaching of life.

You have to allow the sickness to teach you and allow yourself to learn.

And in order for you to learn from the sickness, you have to remain open to the sickness.

Don't condemn the sickness thinking "this should not be" .

Instead, see what it was that got you sick.

See what it is that will make you healthy again.


Everything that this world contains, good or bad, is supposed to be a teaching for you.


So it is important that you remain an openness in all moments during all situations.

Don't close yourself with believes.

Remember that the mind is not the master.

Remember that the mind is a servant of the master.

You, consciousness, are the master.

i went to my doctor this week.

"i feel
disconnected
from everything. like i am living
in a dream--
i am numb,
and i am scared.
i'm on autopilot all the time."

she asked me questions
about my dark thoughts,
my sicknesses;
acid boiling in my stomach,
crippling hammer-and-nails-to-the-temple headaches,
sweating even in winter's bitter chill,
my inability to sleep without fear.

i'm rubbing the tops of my hands and it hurts.
it feels like rug-burn.
my hands are turning red, raw.
i will be picking the scabs for days.

"do you think about hurting yourself?"

"no, i would never do anything," i lie, as i am currently hurting myself.
she doesn't notice.

"do you ever think, when you go to bed, about not waking up the next day?"

"yes."
it caught me off guard,
i couldn't lie to that.
i am shaking.
i am rubbing the tops of my hands.
i am repeating phrases in my head.
i am shaking.
i am rubbing the tops of my hands.
i am scared.
i am scared.
i am scared.

i am on autopilot.
i can't turn myself off.
i am scared.
i am rubbing the tops of my hands.
they are raw.
they are raw.
i am thinking about the scabs.
i am on autopilot.
i can't turn myself off.
turn me off.
turn me off.
turn me off.