With your words that made me fly somehow.
But hidden within ur innerself its always been your sweetest lie.
Talking bout your dreams devouring me like ashes twisted and slowly disappearing.
The truth acts like a spirited-away. Letting it fly back to its inside.

There's this always inside of you. Something hidden and somethng blocked. Stopping you from outpouring what's inside.

Mind and heart was in despair. They were always contrary but hearing all! With your honesty, i know there is all the droppin of everythng. All numb but eyes were all blown. I cant stop it.
But all a could say. Everythng was fragile.

Revenge has always been part of the human soul. not in its anatomy form or any interior or exterior aspects.
But functioning with its own parts.
Its the anger! Where it all starts. Jealousy and hurt were the main stream and always end to suffering.
Thats all for love. We'd all be needing for us to feel even.
Just a pinch of happiness just to get fair for someone that we love but did somethng wrong within us breaking us. Attacking every tiny vessels which in the end, Turning us into an evil creature.

It was a buss - telling me it was that simple thing. Not to make it more bigger. But lets end this up.
Still it hurts,... Still. Its another woman. Such senstivity arising.

a bit like listening to
enya's take on the lord of the rings
soundtrack...
who, the ****, wouldn't
wish to drown, listening
to these Celtic mermaids?
i know i would...

the lunch?
salad....
  cherry tomatoes, fresh pepper,
fresh chillies...
      guacamole with chillies...
god, infused with lime...
greek goat's cheese...
           crunch iceberg lettuce...
and?
****... must have missed somethng...
well...
there was also prosciutto...
like i once said:
i hate bacon...
    prosciutto?
             give me a bucket-load
and i'll play the chipmunk...

   god i hate bacon...
ugh...
     it's lile eating gorilla turds
with a comparison
to what tuna steaks will never be,
and what smoked
salmon slices share with
prosciutto...

the bits that make a whiskey...
smoked salmon...
           if the Japanese will not
entertain salt in their sushi?
**** it...
we'll smoke the ******* out...

what a glorious statement of
attaching oneself to hubris...
  and the Celtic mermaids?
one question:
can i drown, right here and now?!
i want to drown!
i want to turn into a merman!
i want to cry!
oh god... for all eternity!
i want to cry!
i want to cry when
beauty is expressed so piquantly!

i want to be acknowledged
my by second mother, art,
who would never dare
to engage in the ancient greek
ritual of placing two coins
over my eyes to pay
Charon...

             oh sweet Celtic mermaids
from a missing Odyssey!
I.R.A.: punch the grieving
paw of the Anglican lion
surrendering
with a take on dentistry!

i want to drown...
   you songs turn the salty
seas into sugary fountains!
   i want to drown!
embraced by your voices
in the choir or the echoing
chambers of oyster shells!

   i never liked sushi to begin
with...
either the north sea smoked salmon
slices...
or the Baltic Sea raw herrings...

                 the English?
leave them...
   congregating on the money...
surmounting there sphere of influence,
the Atlantic Ocean that becomes
a pond...
   leave them... bestow a leverage of
stalling them...
         keep them comfortable...
keep them exclusionary...
  keep them: 50+ years too late...
that will buy us time...

           keep them sifting through rat ****...
we need them disorientated,
looking at a cul de sac,
rather than a road with, other, road
genesis injunctions
of what life, twist and burden turn
we have to share...

         now... i don't cry because
i'm sad...
      i cry... when beauty is made
sacrificial...
             and since so few cry at beauty?
i have to cry...
because?
  whatever is being regurgitated
mainstream?
   does not gravitate me
to the necessary emotional stratum...

all i can think of is...
  
               Celtic mermaids of Ireland...
and drinking buddies of Scottish
trans-gender kilt highlanders,
Welsh longbow men spies
   of Swansea...
   and the English?
guess it's just a case of talking:
"right across the... 'pond'"...
     like ******* are...
pond people my ******* god...

          i would have feigned the delusion
of... a shared tongue = a shared
cultural reference!
but in sudoku?!

   linear + sq. ≠ diagonal -

England and the U.S. and Australia?!
a dog barking up the wrong tree...
it always was, it always will be...

          i'll rephrase my concept
of England and America...
   being "specially" connected...
what? like retards?!

                        Pontius Pilate:
i'm washing my hands clean of the affair...

ask a Swiss... what he might have felt
about **** Germany!
no?
                           no what?!

      this country already constituted
a perfected allowance to deem my
ethnicity equivalent to vermin,
rats.... foxes...

     well... better this commentary
stays underground...
i wouldn't want some, ******,
reading this sort of wording;

mind you, he, it, she, they,
might forget it 10 minutes later.      

god, i hate bacon...
   but prosciutto?
                            as long as it's combined
in a salad...
  with fresh veg., and greek
goat's cheese...
    no, *******, problem!

SPRING ONIONS!

Acceptance-
It's somethng every soul craves
Though most never see it
Within our fragile days

But the few who are so lucky
Don't relize how great it is
They dont live the lives-
Lives as deadly as this

I was going to skul "yes" without fittng shoes,i have no extra books,i have no pencil either pen an one of all i have no health,i have a deases called hunger with a cure but not discovered yet,i live without proper food without nutrition but just know that i have malnutrition some say they will do somethng about my situation an oh maybe they will ...um tired oh poverty and always will be....i was polite,i was listening to people an have no say an do what i was told just for money coz i had no money for food,education an health i am young bt look old poverty is cruel it try to make me look like an old age,it just like an insects in my food an ofcorse that i dont have..it knocked at my door an i open thought it was someone it push an pull me down an make me kneel for it an i did ,it made me its slavery inside my house come on inside my own house? And i obey?well i had no choice, i slept at the floor without a blanket an without my teddy,then i had a dream and quite dream, i dreamed about money and i dreamed about the end of poverty,then i woke up and busy searching for my money "oh my dream money"     searching my empty pocket with an angry face thinking that my money was stolen from me,then i realize it was just a dream, an again i realize that when i live with my unwanted friend is not because i want it.,,,,its because i want more....

I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.  
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.



I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.  
People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.



I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.  
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.



I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.



I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.  
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.



Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.  
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                       ­             
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.  
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.

Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.

Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.


But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.

I will not sleep tonight.

She sweeps away the cobwebs with her fingertips
The silken web of a spiders thread
Do Spiders ever wonder I wonder
About using somethng more lasting
Does it depend apon the feast they have consumed
As to the quality of the thread they weave
After all to you and I
A cobweb is merely that
A nuisance
A sign of dirt
Unkept ceilings hanging with the tombs of yesterday's memories
When the sun shines through the web
It becomes a piece of art
A piece to be fashioned in silver or gold
And laid to rest upon the rich girls breast
She sweeps the cobwebs from her fingers
The silken web of a spiders thread
Then pins to her breast
A piece of art
A reminder that beauty is often flawed
To the eye
That can not see in black and white

You make it so hard to talk
about serious issues
I never meant to be a
Reason tears hit tissues
It's a tough situation we
Now find ourselves in
And I got no instruction Manual
that tells me if
My next move is right
Chances are its wrong
I want to believe our love
Was way to strong
To be beat by what's at our feet
But maybe it's not
I can only be what I am
And im sorry for all I'm not
My stomachs all in knots
I wanna make the choices
That stop or prevent
our angered, raised voices
But resentment poises
And stands opposed
But when I communicate
U act like case is closed
If I were to give u a rose
It would be the wrong color
I do one thing and it seems
I should have done another
Constantly criticizing me
Telling me what's gotta change
When I've changed enough
Things and yet it's the same
Nothing's ever good enough
You always find a way
To make me feel like I'm the
Problem somethng new everyday
And I just can't alter Everything
that makes me, me
I've never asked u to change who
Your were or ur beliefs
So why should I, and when
Did u start to hate
EVERYTHNG I am like I'm
Gods biggest mistake
I've only ever wanted the best
For you and me but
I have compromised things
And tried to clean myself up
And be better like u asked but
Funny and hurtful thing is
I never asked or demanded u
To ever change ****
Now I feel less loved and
More judged as if I
Am competing when I am
Already the best guy
To ever be in ur life or hey
Maybe I'm wrong, my mistake
So now I win the "biggest loser"
Without a decline in my weight
I won't top that line ...
So that must mean its the end
I'm sorry I did my best ill
Always love u bye , best friend
Soulmate lover, ull always
Be on my over active mind
Are we going seperate ways or
Is someone getting left behind.....?
it's like we're falling apart
And maybe it's goodbye this time
Are we going seperate ways
Or is someone getting left behind?....

As hard as it may seem;to be inspired at times,
There's always inspiration around us,
Its not even somethng to wait for,
Inspiration is actually something to find,to search for,
Its all over,you just have to be receptive,
And to view things with your mental eye.