i deal within the realm of the currency of words -
words are my currency; sure, you can throw coinage
into the affair, or what i'd prefer to be called:
the gambler's cauldron, the days when history
is not built through will and outside the casino...
these days are built through
chance (luck) and outside the church...
    wasn't ever attending
the church the biggest gamble?
was theology,
ever not inclusive of the notion
of gambling?
   atheists don't gamble,
they have no notion of chance...
they lack the adrenaline junk
bound to adrenaline...
    immobile senile *******
and they know it!
   atheism will not attract
as much emotional concerns
to upset the stance of apathy,
only because atheism has
no degenerate attitude of
capitalism, which is gambling...
come on! people love to gamble!
the more wealth they amount
and can no longer see any use
for it... they won't invest it in others:
they'll waste it! they'll gamble it
away!
   atheism feeds no idea supportive
of gambling...
    even in the dialectical medium:
one side says:
    i know that i don't know,
   but how can you be certain
  that you know?
likewise: i know that i know,
but how can you be certain
          that i don't know?
   theology has so much of gambling
inviting its scarred hearts
and inhibited ambitious ones...
     people talk of western civilisation,
but what talk is there is
western communism,
          serious communism?
people only understand the capital,
and the gamble with it...
          better to gamble,
than to become philanthropic...
             i've never seen days where
money is so squandered...
but you might as well
   throw pebbles into the whole
dynamic,
  wishing for a philosopher's
   stone to come from the other side...
pascal's wager is alive and well...
    atheism can't fathom a worthy reply...
what can atheism provide for
the gambler?
      what's to gamble for?
   what gamble does atheism provide?
pascal? he was smart enough to explain
the human dynamic of a thrill...
   people are adrenaline junkies...
they do un-imaginable feats of danger,
can't theology equal that,
  on a microscopic level or slight deviations
of felt emotions?
     people gambled, gamble,
and will continue to gamble,
  simply because the idea of money is
so limited that it had to fill the vacuum of its
existence with both gambling, & communism...
how can atheism usurb pascal's wager
when atheists can't stop people gambling?
what is the atheistic wager?
      is there a worthy gamble?
     this is why people become so heated
in the theological dynamo...
             they become a tsunami,
a tornado, a hurricane...
             simply because atheism has no
gambling dynamic invoked...
    there's no god, death is certain,
what is there to gamble with?
another hour of a boring stalemate sunday
before the next working week begins?
that's not even a gamble!
           people need to gamble!
  please... please...
you have nothing for the theological gamble...
atheists have no sweet scented nectar
of an argument...
   no dubious fickle state of emotional
turmoil...
                    atheism is just another
boring framework of "revised" boredom...
        say to to people who gamble,
no one in this world wants to live a certain
life,
       and die with a certain truth...
                there's always the quest for
potential, for uncertainity, for adventure...
     atheism is probably the worst assertion of science...
man is born into the certainity of existence,
but lives, and wishes to die
            into / with the uncertainty of essence...
i.e. was war ever essential?
     was love ever the sole purpose of explanation
and worth the crown of above all explanations?
       man is in this affair a quasi-specimen
of the civilised typos...
      strange affair:
             he is alone, the natural world's typo,
rather than the kin of monk chimp & anzzy...
  i find it as follows:
  it will be hard to relieve theology of
the gambler...
                        and therefore gambling itself,
as a worthwhile invitation for
universal socialist philandering with
                   philanthropy...
as i find it as follows:
    atheism is no place for gambling,
   even it be as eloquent as the gambling
of pascal...
                      i suppose atheism does
hold the joker hand of gambling:
   an actual end of gambling,
   and a return to communism,
  whereby gambling is replaced by utopian
philanthropy...
                   here's your god.

What caused you to write a book and have it published?
Thankfully, I’ve enjoyed a career in IT (Information technology) for over 25+ years. However, I’ve been downsized out of a job four times – the last time in 2005, I was unemployed for nine months. During that time, I looked at over 19,000+ companies to find one job. With more jobs in my field being outsourced to lower wage earners overseas, I decided I needed an exit strategy from the corporate world to launch a more stable career and income.


2. How long have you been writing?
I started officially writing poetry in January 2001; it was a natural progression from working on my website. I started my website (Bunganut Lake Online) back in 1999; as I added content over the years, I started writing short stories about fishing, followed by haikus about fishing and Nature; then I started writing senryus about traffic (see honku.org) and later about God.


3. How long did it take to finish your book?
I spent about 13 months to write the manuscript of my current book; once I initiated the book making process with my publisher (BookSurge), I had the final product in hand in 3.5 months.


4. What is the name of your book and what is it about?
The name of my book is “Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory”; the ISBN numbers are: 1-4196-5051-3 & 978-1419650512. It is a book of poetry, geared to inspire people to develop or strengthen a relationship with God.


5. Do you want to write more books and have them published?
Definitely; I have four completed and unpublished manuscripts; in addition, I have five other manuscripts started. All of these writings are poetry.


6. Who or What was your inspiration when writing your book?
Jehovah is my inspiration; He’s always been my Source, Redeemer and strength; most of my life, I’ve blessed to attended Church and receive Salvation in my youth.


7. What is your favorite author and book?
After the Bible (KJV), my favorite book is: How to Rule the World: a Handbook for the Aspiring Dictator by Andre De Guillaume. (It’s a humorous look at people and their desire for power.) Most of my reading is technical stuff from sources such as PC Magazine, so I don’t have a favorite author (in the traditional sense). There are number of poetry writers that I do enjoy [who are too numerous to mention, such as PDK (AllPoetry) and Gershon Hepner (Poem Hunter)].


8. What is the best thing about writing?
The best aspect of writing is the freedom of expression and the power to choose words, conveying ideas and concepts that bolster one’s imagination.


9. What are some of your other hobbies?
I love spending time at the lake in Maine where I own a summer property – activities include swimming, fishing, campfires and working on my website; I also enjoy board games, such as backgammon, scrabble and others, as well as computer games (ranging from pinball to Wolfenstein).


10. What caused you to use BookSurge?
I looked at a number of publishers and was disappointed at their offerings and reputations. For me, BookSurge was chosen because they are owned by Amazon.com; in addition, they provided all services required for the bookmaking process. Although I spent a fair amount of money, to me it’s worth it. For now I’m tapped into a global economy with a quality product. No one wants to spend their hard-earned money on an inferior product – so I did what was best for me.


11. What would you tell others that wanted to become an author as well? What steps would they need to take to get started?
Now that I’m published, I find myself more than willing to share my experiences. The first step is to have a notebook or clipboard to store and write down thoughts and ideas. Second, one must identify what one has passion about; one’s writing must come across as sincere and knowledgeable; third is to produce the manuscript; once the manuscript is complete, then start the bookmaking process that is most affordable. Once the book is published, the real work (and reality) of selling comes into focus.


12. How does your family feel about you being an author?
Some family members are very proud and supportive, while others are still mute on the subject.


13. Do you have a website to promote your book?
My marketing plan employs the use of multiple websites; I’ve posted my writing on a number of poetry websites, such as AllPoetry, Poetry With Meaning, Poem Hunter and others; in addition, I have created a “lens” on Squidoo.com. At some, point, I’ll advertise on my own website. In the future, I would like to develop a personal website geared towards marketing my books.


14. Can people buy an autographed copy of your book if they wish to? If so how would they go about doing that?
Yes, people can purchased autographed copies; the best approach is via my “lens” on Squidoo.com; the link is: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


15. Do you think in the near future that you may write and publish more books?
Yes, I am planning to publish more books of poetry.


16. Is it hard work being an author?
That depends on the goals one sets for himself; for example, if one’s desire is to earn a comfortable living from one’s writing, then yes it’s difficult. With the presence of the Internet and related technologies, it’s very easy to be published, but no guarantee to make money.


17. What are your dreams and Goals in life?
The ultimate goal is to become the Christian man as seen by God Himself; after that, I would like to assist others to publish their own books, continue work on my website and develop my own business software for the marina operator.


18. Could you tell us a little about your book and what caused you to want to write it?
My book is a personal expression of faith; The Word tells that we are “more than conquerors”; in a sense, I achieved that ideal since my humble book is “now available worldwide”.


19. Is your book non-fiction or fiction?
I would classify my poetry as non-fiction. To me, a relationship with Christ and having faith is real.


20. Could you tell use where we could get a copy of your book? What bookstores are carrying it and what online stores are carrying it?
None of the brick & mortar bookstores are carrying my title as yet. My book can be purchased via Amazon.com, Borders.com or from me directly via the Squidoo.com “lens” at: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


21. What kind of promotional tools do you use to advertise your book?
I am using several promotional tools; my work has been submitted to two book contests; it is part of the Beijing International Book Fair (in China); I use the Internet and have set-up consignment arrangements with several businesses. I also have printed marketing materials, such as business cards, postcards and bookmarks.

A patriotic fervor producing fealty
A noble cause compelling loyalty
Paired with a callous indignity
Brash enlistee plunges toward destiny
Honor's badge worn with impunity
Duty's moniker embossed with magnanimity
Insatiable bloodlust quelshing all insecurity
Unbridled ego clamoring a garrulous enmity
Toward the villains who shattered blithe serenity

First skirmish, pageantry displaced by gravity
Mettle varnished with aura of invincibility
First battle, fallen comrades question mortality
Successive battles, severed limbs, caustic wounds challenge credulity
Fragile mind being conditioned to atrocity
War's heavy mantle now shorn of indemnity
Threatening mind's sanity, hearth's perpetuity
Once faceless foes now scream their humanity
Once noble leaders brim with insincerity
Supportive countrymen now fickle, distant entity
Cheering press now rank with duplicity
Only solace, hardened comrades equanimity

Pastor Nate Yarborough knew since early on that he wanted to be a clergyman. He grew up in a Christian home and believed in God as long as he could remember. He dreamed of being a minister someday and becoming the pastor of  his own church. At only thirty-one-years-old, his dream came true. He was young, yet head pastor at Hope Christian Church and had a medium sized congregation that was thriving. To add to his dream-come-true, he had a beautiful wife, Veronica, and darling three-and-a half-year-old daughter, Michaela.

Jesus was the center of his life, but Veronica was the one who kept him grounded. Michaela was just the light of his world, a special blessing in his life. She was a happy baby who was just a typical daddy’s girl. When her father came home from his job she would squeal with delight and go running to him, at first as a wobbly toddler and then to a quick, little girl who would sprint to the door.  

“Daddy’s home!” she would announce in a big voice.

Nate would swoop up Michaela up in his arms as he planted gentle kisses upon her little cheek. “Michaela, my sunshine girl!” he would shout. “There’s my little beauty!” He definitely wanted more children, but he was thankful and felt so blessed to have her be his very first.      

“That is how we should with our heavenly father”, Veronica told Nate, in admiration of those two in action, “and not run from him in fear.”

Yet one day Michaela was having seizures and became quite ill. She transformed from a bubbly child to one who fussed and cried and didn’t want to play very much.  Her worried parents took her to the doctor, and she was put through a battery of tests. The church was praying for little Michaela, but the diagnosis was grim and shocking. She had a brain tumor. Her parent’s worst fears had been confirmed. Her tumor was malignant and it was inoperable.

Veronica would open up the outpouring of cards and letters of well wishes from parishioners. So many people were praying for the family. Veronica had hope even as her husband was growing distant as his little girl became sicker and sicker. In spite of treatment, in spite of prayers, little Michaela succumbed to her sickness. Her bright, little spirit was forever gone from their home.

“We will have more children”, Veronica assured her husband through her tears. “We will get through this—together. With God’s help, we’ll get through this!”  

Nate didn’t respond. Veronica felt him stiffen in his lackluster embrace. She stiffened, too, for she knew that wasn't of Nate's character, and she could tell by his face that he wasn’t buying any of it.  

His sermons now became shorter, far less engaging. They weren’t full of encouraging stories or inspirational words of faith, of challenging the defeated to never give up, and imploring everyone to always turn to the Lord—in bad times as well as the good.  

People in the church rallied behind Pastor Nate and his wife. They offered meals during the time that Michaela was laid out in the funeral home and finally laid to rest. They offered more prayers, encouraging words, and hugs for the couple to make it through this rough storm in their lives. A pastor friend of Nate conducted the funeral but Nate hardly heard a word. Veronica grew worried.

There were many in the congregation who grew concerned, too. They still were supportive, but now the elders and deacons had no choice but to gather at a meeting and figure out what to do. Nate’s leadership role was falling apart. His life, no doubt,  was falling apart.

“Why does God punish some on this earth who are innocent?” he asked one time at the pulpit.  “There are no answers when your heart is torn out from you, when you serve God with all you have, and He does this to you. Why? Perhaps, there is no such being as God. Perhaps, it is wishful thinking and we have all been duped…I’ve thought about it and I’ve searched the Scriptures, yet I get nothing there . I think the atheists aren’t so out of bounds, after all.”

Sitting a few rows back, Veronica looked nervously around. She heard some of the gasps in the crowd, heard many whispers, and saw the shocked faces. She laid her head in her hands and was too scared out of her mind to even pray.

“We are sorry, Veronica”, one of the elders told her one day. “We tried to reason with your husband. We care about you both, but this cannot go on. We asked Pastor Nate to get seek out some help—to step down temporarily—but he didn’t even flinch. He says he’s never coming back. He just doesn’t believe anymore. And he just doesn’t care. ”

Veronica tried to get Nate to go to counseling with her. She needed it, too, and he wasn’t helping her any. This church was his dream, and sure his daughter had tragically died, but he needed to hold it together—for their sake. To crumble on her was too much on top of losing her daughter. He just couldn’t do this!

She could handle her grief far better if they could remain a team. But he didn’t want to talk, wouldn’t listen to anyone, and now how were they going to make ends meet without his role as pastor? Nate fell into a severe depression, and Veronica felt helpless to do anything about it.

After a few months of trying to get through to him, her faith grew dim. How could this happen to them? To save herself from going down with him, she decided she had to walk away. She didn’t want to, but she had made up her mind to move back in with her parents.

“It’s for the best, for now”, she told him. “It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

Nate sat there, staring at the blank TV. “Do what you want”, he replied.

One of the parishioners, Craig DeArmond, decided to pay him a visit. His mother, Marge, always admired Nate’s sermons. She was a big supporter of his, and wept when she heard of the news of his daughter's death. It was evident to her that his faith took a huge dip—actually a crash landing—and his world that revolved around his belief lay in shambles.

Craig was saddened by how quiet the place was, how unkempt and uninviting it appeared. He’s been to the house before, a once pleasant place to be.  Now, it was bleak and joyless. “Will you talk to my mother?” Craig asked him. “She’s sad since my dad passed away a week after last Christmas, you know. Forty-eight years of marriage has been much of her life . My mom could use some counseling.”

Nate looked at him without much emotion. “Let her talk to the current pastor. She doesn’t need me.”

Craig said, “But she looks up to you, and it might do you some good, too.”

Nate scoffed at that. “Look, I’m not in the faith business anymore. There’s no way I can be of comfort.” He dismissed Craig with his hand and said, “She goes to me or she goes to a fortune teller—tell her she’ll get about the same results, either way.”

Craig stood up over Nate, hoping Nate would look up at him. He wouldn’t, so Craig was about to walk away but turned around and replied, “God forgive me, for I want to make this clear. Listen to me, Nathan Yale! You are one selfish *******!”

Nate suddenly shot a look at him. “A what?” he demanded.

“You heard me”, Craig said, his arms crossed. “I know you are a man of God—or at least you used to be.  He grew more bold, was on a roll and said, “Look, you are pushing everyone away! People who love and care about you have lost you! Your wife, for crying out loud, is a wreck! I know you’re in pain, but—”

“What do you know of my pain?” Nate shot back. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Perhaps, he had been crying or even drinking.

“I don’t know!” Craig shouted. “But what do you know of faith?”

Nathan didn’t know what to say, for he was never prepared for this. Craig continued, “My mother lost both of her parents by the age of thirteen. She grew up in an alcoholic home, so she watched her parents slowly drink away their lives. She had no choice but to live with her aunt while her other siblings were spread out to stay with other relatives.”

Craig had Nathan’s full attention now. He took advantage of this and pulled up a chair and sat right in front of him, saying, “Her aunt’s husband—her so-called uncle—wouldn’t stop pawing at her and trying to put his hand up her blouse. She had no lock on her bedroom door and so this guy would sneak in--and guess what? He ***** her! At first, it was shocking! The second time, it was Hell. The third time it was worse! The forth time….should I go on?”

“Oh, God, why?” Nate said, tears in his eyes at the thought.

“Yes, he ***** her”, Craig repeated, “until one day she was pregnant and her aunt was demanding how she ended up this way , calling her a **** and shaming her. Mom finally blurted out that it was her uncle who got forced himself on her, and the aunt didn’t believe her.”

Nate was fully engaged. “What happened to your poor mother?” he asked, trying to keep his mouth from quivering.

“She was kicked out on the streets... nothing but the clothes on her back. With nowhere to go, she went to a friend’s house. The stress was so bad on her that she miscarried the baby, laying on the floor in agony. So the authorities placed her in a home for girls and never did she have to live in that house again…but the scars are still there--ugly, deep scars!”

So Craig left Nate’s house, but Nate had joined him in the car. Craig told his mother what he had revealed to Nate—without her permission—but he felt he had to do it. She agreed it was the right thing to do.

Nate gave Marge a huge hug during his visit. She was such a motherly figure, and he admired her for what she went through. “How on earth did you survive?” he asked her.

“Like you”, she confessed. “I was so angry with God. I hated Him, just hated Him. But when I was living in the home for girls, I met a girl who had huge faith. It was sickening to me, at first. I thought to myself, ‘How can you have such faith when you’ve ended up in here?’ And she didn’t know what happened to me, for I was too scared to tell anyone back then.”

“But you have great faith now”, Nate stated. “Better than even I ever had, I’m ashamed to say. I’ve seen your faith in action! ”

Marge put her hand to his cheek. “I fought for every bit of it”, she said. “I didn’t want to believe in God, but their was a nagging presence that wouldn't go away!”

Nate smiled. “I love the way you put it, Marge”, he said.

“Well, I had that friend who talked about Jesus, and then I went to rent out a room of a woman who took in boarders. She had a strong faith, and she took me to church. I’ve never been to church in my life, and I just wanted to get her off my back for asking! But my heart slowly softened, for I never thought that I’d ever believe in God…and didn’t want to…ever!”

“Neither did I…after loosing Michaela”, Nate said. “I loved her so much." He began to cry and put his face in his hands.

Marge put her arm around him and said, “But I found out that I really needed God. I needed to forgive a lot of people—my mother and father, my aunt and uncle—especially myself because I felt so hateful all the time.”

Nate sobbed, “I feel hateful, too—and guilty. I don’t know if I’ll ever have faith again. It scares me to feel that way.”

Marge held him in her arms like he was her little child. “Oh, but you haven’t really lost it, Pastor. You see, I didn’t want to believe in God, either, because I felt He was against me. If God existed…well, than how come my parents were alcoholics? How come my uncle ***** me? How come I got pregnant and the baby died? Ended up by myself? How come…how come? I think we all can ask our share of questions in this world.”

“They are valid questions”, he admitted, tears still streaming down his face. “Frankly, many problems pale in comparison.”

Marge couldn't have disagreed more. "No, Nate..,pain is pain. Yours is just as valid as anyone else's.  It just is just when it is an excuse to be bitter that is dangerous.  And I used that as a reason for being bitter!” she said. “But the bitterness was killing me. Slowly, I was dying.”

"But you made it through. You're quite alive, Marge, quite alive... and quite amazing."

They lingered in conversation, for they both needed this to take place. After it was over, Nate went home, feeling like a dam of walled up emotions had been finally released. It was certainly a start. He called Veronica up and he managed to say, “Veronica…please forgive me. Let’s start again…our lives together…” before his voice broke and the tears poured out again.

“Of course”, she responded, her voice trembling. “I already have forgiven you because I’ve been waiting and praying for this moment to come.”

By know you are old enough to try to understand
What love is between a women and a man
You see, at this point you don't have names
And Gregory can't settle the same.
Gregory is your farther as you know
You're not even a thought yet we can't wait for you to grow.
You won't be born in the next five years
But as soon as you're planted I'll cry happy tears.
Daddy and I are preparing
For when we  have to start caring.
Everything we do right now is for your advantage
So there won't be much struggle in your life to manage
Dad will soon be in the real world
And I will be his supportive girl.
I will still live with grandmama
And he'll still live his mama.
As of now that is okay
Because as long as we pray
God will be there for you, dad and I
Assuring us everything will be fine.
Ten minutes before I was stressing
But then remembered that God is always blessing.
That rule is for you as well as the rest of planet Earth.
I can't want to give birth
But I know I'm not ready
I gotta take it slow and steady.
Daddy will get the best job and make good money
So your days will always be sunny.
I will continue to learn and save some funds
And the best will never go undone.
I'm two years behind and dad is two years ahead
So that we can afford the best place for you to lay your head.
Dad is so sure and confident that I am the one
no matter how much I say I'm done.
I couldn't imagine myself with anyone else by my side
No one can handle the bumpy ride.
Dad would go through it all for you kids
He even went to Madrid.
But I hope and pray we never disappoint
Because we became joint
Without the love and motivation
How could we have reach salvation?
I started on February 16th
Everyday into every week
Building together
For an amazing forever.
So when you're mad at us just remember
That things will always get better,
We did nothing but try,
For you everything we buy,
A family we will always be,
Although sometimes we might not agree,
We work the hardest we can,
And made the strongest plan,
For you, our creation out of love,
Which is made of
Some of dad, some of mom
And a whole lot of love bombs.
So as I study tonight
And dad fight the world full of spite,
We remember everything we do
Is motivated towards you.
When pa is playing in the back yard,
Or i'm rocking you back to bed as a guard,
We value every moment
For you kids to never be broken

Love Mommy

P.s. I forever love you kiddies

He didn’t grow up in a good home.
He didn’t have a supportive mother.
He didn’t have a father worth speaking of.
He didn’t know how to read or write.
He didn’t know that 2+2=4.
He didn’t have any friends.
He didn’t know that such wonderful things existed.
He didn’t play or run outside.
He didn’t have the permission to.
He didn’t graduate high school.
But he didn’t drop out.
That night, he didn’t stop drinking.
That night, he didn’t use his head.
That night, he didn’t care.
That night, he didn’t put on his seatbelt.
He didn’t see the car coming.
He didn’t hear the crunch of the metal.
He didn’t hear the screech of the tires.
He didn’t wake up.

I thought I would never laugh again,
I thought I would never smile again,
I've only realized that I needed time and space to think,
I needed time to know what I want
Even though I knew what I wanted.
I only got a time to find myself, 
I only got time to find who "Am I"

I'm glad that my heart is healing day by day,
Hour by hour,
I'm glad that my wounds are now healing.
Is it because I've found happiness?
I would say;
Every piece of happiness I have, 
Comes from my very own supportive friends I have,

The pain I was feeling before
It was preparing for my happiness,
It was preparing me for my destiny,
This pain was basically showing me that I can also do everything for myself.

I thought that I've failed in life,
Because I can't stand up for myself,
I thought that life has given up on me,
But then I realized that it was preparing me for another day.
Life has showed me that there are people I cannot trust,

So, I was lost because no one could help me,
I was lost to an extent where I've come to realize that no one wants to hear me,

I was lost but then I was found.
I was found by someone who can prepare me for tomorrow,
Someone who showed me the correct path,

Someone who allowed me to lean on her shoulder when times were hard,
I will never forget the day I've met the person who contributed much of her time on me,

The person who talked with me and made sure that I understand, 
And at the end of the day I feel better.

The person who contributed her time,
Her space and showed me that life has it's own ups and downs. 

Someone I've trusted with all my secrets and became true to me.
But the question is;

How does this become part of my happiness?

This became part of my happiness 
Because only one person became interested to hear about my pain,
Not only that but also to help me step by step.

I believe that I had to trust only one person,
"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them."

Happiness has been all my heart was looking for,
It was what I always wanted.

I believe that for one to find happiness,
They need to accept themselves for who they are,
And begin to search for it different ways.

Here I am today,
I managed to find happiness,
I've managed to search for the seed to happiness. 

I think I needed happiness to find myself, 
But firstly I needed to forgive and let go,
I've managed to find the seed to happiness,
The seed to freedom, 
And the seed to find myself.

The most important thing is;
Find a seed that will grow the flowers of happiness to your life,
The flower that will unlock the seed of happiness...

A- She is just like me. A leader. A strong, independent, bisexual woman, she controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.

B-He's a nice guy, a bit pretentious, but nothing too special. The first time I saw Friends, I new that Ross was literally the letter B incarnated.

C- B's best friend, goes by male pronouns, but is gender fluid sometimes. He is much more genuine than B.

D- One of A's closest friend. She is cool, and kind of like a bad *** English teacher.

E- A ****. Your typical school bully. He's dating D.

F- E's wing-man, but like the stereotypical wing-man, he is kind hearted, but too much of a shy follower. And he likes D.

G- H's brother. Good student, slightly over weight, and just as homosexual as his sister.

H- The "mom" of the friend group. She is smart and supportive. My favorite lesbian of the alphabet.

I- A real cool dude. Spiky hair and sunglasses. He likes to lean against brick walls and just look cool. Very cool.

J- He is K's best friend.

K- She is J's best friend.

L- He hangs out with M, but not too much because he really isn't found of her littler sister N. He's too much of a wimp for my taste.

M- She is a really independent confident girl. She goes on double dates with O, P, and her sister N. She has a side thing going on with the letter A.

N- She lives in the shadow of her sister. She kind of reminds me of my own sister.

O- He is P's best friend, and always tells him what to do. He reminds me of E, but they've never met.

P- Let's O push him around. He hangs out with O, M, and N. But his true love is Q.

Q- She is quiet, but strong. She is madly in love with P. They sneak out together a lot. She has over protecting parents.

R- She is the leader of the Q-R-S friend group. A transgender and asexual bad ***. She supports Q and P, but not S and T

S- Tries to listen to her older friend R, but is just a good kid making bad decisions. She has a HUGE crush on both T and U.

T- Loves U. Strong male, plays football and works at a car wash.

U- She's a princess. Very quiet and polite. In a relationship with T, but I don't know her true intentions.

V- U's older sibling. A-gender and a CEO of some big business.

W- Same personality as H, but not as motherly, and bisexual.

X- The third wheel to the X-Y-Z clan. Also agender, and really just a fly on the wall. They sees a lot, but really don't like to socialize. But they really like going to the zoo.

Y-  Z's beta. Her best friend, and wife. They are ride and die ******* for life.

Z- Just like A. Exactly like A. Only she is in a committed relationship with Y. She controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.

Remember when you told me you loved me and that without me you had nothing?
Well now it looks like you have nothing but a crippling sense of self-importance and a surprising lack of guilt.

Remember when you asked me to give up my future; almost all my money, my plans, my friends, all for you. You demanded it. Threatened to lock me in your room to keep me from leaving.

Remember when I would say no to something you would make me feel like the worst person on earth? As if I had personally attacked you; that I should beg for your forgiveness, for your love. Your love was conditional: do what I say, give me what I want and I will show you affection. But what I gave you was unconditional, regardless of day, or night, or every text you responded to with “k”.

Remember when you would feel bad and make me feel bad too? All those cold nights sat on cold benches with you being cold towards me. I set myself on fire to keep you mildly warm. You just watched and asked me to do more for you.

Remember every second day you mentioned the word ‘Canada’ and said how much I had hurt you by following my dreams?

Remember when you said you didn’t want to see one of my closest friends again? Or that you didn’t like my parents who welcomed you into our home with open arms and warm smiles.

Remember when you told me being gay was a sin? That I’m going to hell?

Remember when I helped you write those ******* assignments?

What did you do for me?

I remember everything I did for you; all those lies and excuses I told to my friends, my family, myself just so I could make you happy. And what did you want? More.

More ***, more time, more company, more  affection, more help, more reassurance, more ******* therapy from me.

You took all my energy, my patience, my love and what happened? You wanted more.

You see at the end of the day you didn’t love me, you loved the way I made you feel. I treated you like a god. You treated me like a *** toy, a counsellor, an emotional punching bag.  

I see you writing things now, making yourself out to be the victim of some cruel liar who betrayed your trust. I broke your heart once. You broke mine a hundred times and would have done it a hundred times more just to get what you wanted.

Life isn’t fair. Maybe you don’t deserve to feel how you do now but I didn’t deserve to go through what you put me through. Grow the **** up.

I hope you see what you did. I really don’t think you’ll ever understand.

I only see now because I have met someone who is everything you are not; loving, kind, supportive, a gentleman. I know what real love feels like now, not just the idea of it. It feels nothing like what you gave me.

You did so much damage to my self esteem. You made me feel like I had done some unimaginable horror by living my own life. But now I’m better. I realise you don’t deserve to breathe the same ******* air as me. Choke.

Move the **** on.

All you’ve got now is memories, but not true ones. Maybe I lied to you but at least I’m not lying to myself.

The pain felt because of pride and the need to be superior
To revenge some wrong percieved is not right no matter how turned or explained
If you can't be supportive you are not needed so move on
When looking for death and trying to stay positive I must remove that which pushes me toward the goal of death.
Why, why would you do this or be this way you have hurt me more then I can forgive or ever forget. The one I love isn't supposed to hurt me or the ones I love, but to hold me up and support me but you can't.
So we are done with the petty self serving hatred you carry yourself in shadows living in darkness and emptiness. Though you won't be alone you will find some man willing to accept your hatred and anger ignoring their own self respect to accept hour abuse.

Everyone in this bar is swimming in blood

Because of the lighting...

Like we are all sharks in the midst of a feeding frenzy
And because we've eaten all of the baby whale or whatever
The water around is blood red and we're about to start
Taking bites out of one another
Women swim in and out of focus but I know I haven't shaved for a couple days
And I could hardly seem **** or manly or supportive or wealthy or kind
With my greasy hair pushed back under my baseball cap
And my big puffy adidas coat
Like I'm a drug-dealer from The Wire
Except white

I probably look exactly like that one ****** polish kid in season two who works on the docks but then tries selling drugs and it doesn't work out very well and I can't remember how or if he ends up dead but I do remember he has a big ***** (my ***** does not look exactly like his).

Anyway we find a booth, my roommates and I
And I text my handsome Romantic friend who lives near the bar
I love him but I also think he is kind of a sucker (suckah) sometimes
But he is super earnest and funny and loving
He is one of the few people I know who beams at people when they are talking
He meets us at the bar and so do some more of our mutual friends
This girl with large glasses who i spent the night with once is there
She is currently spending her nights with my handsome Romantic friend who lives near the bar
I am really happy for them because
     They have been friends so long
          And finally seem to be in a comfortable ******
                 Relationship and it just happens to be with each other
                    But they get along so well and have so much in common
                       And I've known them both for a while and always wondered
                          why they weren't "together"
It just seems good

I am privately jealous and insecure
The shark in me looms behind my mask
And I think vicious mean territorial thoughts
But I don't really want to spend another night with this girl with the large glasses

My love is restrained
Put in a choke-hold by an older brother or big mean friend
While my handsome Romantic friend who lives near the bar's love is boundless
He is a dog you can hear running through the house to meet you at the door
I'm simply not home
Or sick

I drink double whiskey after double whiskey
My roommates and I take a lift home
But first we make our lift driver take us through
The McDonald's Drive Through
I have never ordered a quarter-pounder before
I've had the Big Mac and I've had just regular cheeseburgers
But never a quarter-pounder
And I say "it's okay because I'm being fat for the holidays."
My roommates have heard this too many times and have stopped laughing
Our lift driver is a pretty brunette who wants to start a juicery in Miami
She is practical and sincere
I tell my roommates I want a girlfriend like her when we get out of the car
They don't believe me
I don't really either

Who said being wrecked doesn't allow one to smile ?
Who said **** like that !?*


Softness is not a weakness ; it is a strength.
Maybe one doesn't notice anymore but this world
is cruel. Softness allows people not to notice that cruelty.
A smile in the early mornings, a gentle touch when you feel down,
A hand after a fall, a hug when loneliness is one's only friend,
Love whenever one needs it. Softness. Courage. Caring.

Softness when one doesn't wait for a payback. When it is from
Pure altruism. Altruism, a rare quality that can quickly be a weakness.
Simply because that strength one must tame, is tiering. The courage to
give everything and not wait for anything back… Softness.
Sadly, to integrate that softness into one's life, it means that,
That one has been wrecked before, that one knows the cruelty of our world to be able to be caring, loving, supportive.

And then comes softness. When one can smile and still be wrecked. When one makes you the priority before oneself. When one can give you a hand after a fall. When one hugs you so tight all the broken pieces come back together. When one loves you no matter what. One's soft.
Softness. Is. Not. A. Weakness. It is pure altruism and pure caring.
It takes courage and bravery. It is a strength hard to handle. And it is rare.

This little fairy always thought that she was important
In a way that it would not to me or even you.
She thought "I bet they thought I had a respsonsible face"
as I stood in the "Name the Fairy Day Today" queue.

That day she waited all day, (she was last out of bed)
She had arrived late (of course) and was last in line.
The others had been named, (they were all proud)
and this last name they had. well it was absolutely fine.

The others giggled behind her back (she didn't know that)
and was ridiculed whereever they went that very day.
The Fairy of the Rose and Forget-Me-Not were supportive
and not spiteful like the rest in a caring sort of way.

These fairies knew the real reason for her name but kept quiet
They did not want to shatter this little fairy's dream
Besides which when it was time to meet their maker
These two fairies had the best golden tickets to redeem.

That is what you get if you are a good and kind little fairy
is a golden ticket to extra love and devotion and stuff
The last thing a fairy wants is a damp grey cloud to sit on
which has run out of nice things,  fluffy things and puff.

It is not hard to be nice they thought, takes no extra effort
So they were that to this hopeless little fairy that's always late.
The fairy of everything sharp and dangerous a name in itself.
But then to her it came with instant love from a nice playmate.

A playmate or two in fact which was more than most got.
So in her head she thought that she was well liked and respected.
In truth I suspect the rest were jealous and envied her status
But this little fairy (despite her name) always felt protected.

I sit in my seventh grade health class
*** ed freshman year
My twelfth grade english class
And they talk about ****.
They talk about it like it's an idea
A textbook definition
A rare shadow of society
That doesn't happen to real people
At least not people you know.
They act like there is only one way it happens
It's either a creepy forty year-old man who comes into your bedroom uninvited
Over and over again.
Or, as you grow up,
A boyfriend or date with whom you are, in their opinion,
'Stupid' enough to get drunk with
Passed out on a bed
Your clothes are like weights that anchor your heavy soul.
Maybe my form of abuse was different
As I was in his bed
Which felt more like a coffin full of spiders
As spirits plucked every last bit of life from me
Like guitar strings.
He was not a crusty old man with years of experience molesting children
He was my beloved fourteen year-old cousin
Who had struggled with Aspbergers his whole life.
I had looked up to him regardless.
How could I hate someone who was sick?
How could I hate someone who may or may not have
Understood the severity of what he was doing?
He only molested me once
But it molded my impressionable mind
Like silly putty
From then on I only fell for men
Who had bloodstained hands
And crooked smiles.
It is no wonder that at sixteen
Even after I had dealt with the aftermath of his hurricane
Another boy took advantage of me
And left me seldom sleeping.
It is no wonder that I did not recognize his abuse right away
Or that even though I knew he had wronged me
I would not call it assault.
It is no wonder that instead of press charges or tell my parents
I chose to avoid it
Confiding in my therapist only because I was backed into a corner
Treading quicksand all the while.
The harder you fight, the faster you sink.
After I told about my molestation at fourteen
My parents, although they were extremely supportive,
Told me to keep it quiet
Not to tell everyone.
Their intentions were exceptional
But they made me believe I had something to be ashamed of
When I realized this wasn't the case
I screamed at the top of my lungs
Shouted across the valleys
I was going to be heard
And when I joined forced with others who
Had dealt with similar events
Our ashes piled together
Created a smoke signal so vibrant, so immense
That people had to intentionally avert their eyes in order not to notice it.
We are not the bruises of society
For you to poke and **** at
To see how much our wounds hurt.
We are not for your corrupt education system
Your industry
That you can choose to use for your campaign
Just when our stories are marketable.
These stories do not all look the same
Different chapters
Different pages
Different font styles.
My story is mine
And I do not get to pick and choose
Take my assault off the shelf just when it looks pristine and proper
I live with this everyday
And just as burn victims still have marks that remind them
Of the incident
I still have pieces of me
That struggle with this event on a daily basis.
But I choose to use it in a way that makes me whole.
I cannot change the story
But I can change the ending
And I accept the fact that it will never be a porcelain doll
But it is my battle scar to show as I please
I am a survivor
That is my bragging right
And no one else's shame.

He says he says so many things, that ring and sing in my head,
She says things and she never regrets things, that means everything.
If I don’t like myself so much I just hush up and listen with a rush
And blood pushes old thoughts of friendships back to the surface,
To revisit I flourish, nourish my crushed ego back to health,
With myself image, the key to a happier self.
If I could capture how they see me and leave it live stream
While I’m dreaming I would feel worth it,
Broken, sarcastic, supportive, gorgeous and worth it.
My baggage looks like nothing to them compared to my
Kick *** advice and ability to stick around,
How funny I am when I play clown drying your tears,
And laughing at things that aren’t funny.
She thinks I’m the coolest sense sliced bread,
And he says I’m the only one he lets so far into his cryptic head.
And they all say I am the strongest girl they have ever met.

"You didn't have to look my way,"
Every time your gaze would catch my own, my heart would flutter.
Your blue eyes made me weak with feelings of forever.
Your eyes always held the weight of your emotions,
every time you looked at me I could see the love you had for me.
Your eyes would be light as if they were a feather flying in a gentle breeze,
your eyes were the sweetest I had ever seen.

"You didn't have to say my name,"
Your voice was the most fascinating sound my ears had ever discovered.
Every time you called my name I thought I would melt into a puddle of the sweet sugar you made me into.
Your voice elegant and delicate, your words floated in the air like a bee searching for pollen to make the sweetest honey.
Your voice carried out the heavenly desire your eyes displayed.

"You didn't have to smile at me,"
Your smile never failed to dazzle me, it would ignite my circuits and start a flame.
Your smile would complete the look of love and awe your eyes and voice would hint at.
Until one day, your smile turned cold and no longer ignited a flame in my body.
Your smile disappeared as if it was all just an illusion.

"You didn't have to offer your hand,"
You offered your hand to me and off we went, sailing the seas together.
You were very helpful and supportive.
Until one day when your assistance was no longer useful.
Your hand did not rise to guide me but to strike me.
There was a fire in you still, but that fire was full of violence and gloom.

"Now you have to go,"
Your flames released embers that set a wildfire between us.
We begin a never ending tumble downhill filled with malicious words,
and ill will.
Your words sank deep and doused the fire inside my body; reducing me to ashes.  
You're keeping me captive and I can no longer be at your command.

"Set me free, my honeybee."

every time i hear a poetess cite this subject i never think of Sappho, but i ought to, these are poetesses that really want the hetero realm to remain intact - it's heart-breaking to hear a woman say these words - you end up being the third party transformed into the second party and she the Echo to your momentarily engaged with Narcissus - the third party makes the frank gesture to compensate the open heart of the poetess... o.k., let's funk the **** like mimes touching invisible doors... an overly stimulated society in terms of *** when there are apparently too many people, or the evolutionary zenith fro category mammal to category insect is backfiring on us individually - and as science fiction predicted, we are telepathically ******* each other senseless, just like the aliens we've become on this planet, momentarily sober when an earthquake, a tsunami... a terrorist attack... otherwise there's been no attempt to for the military to become active dispersing a tsunami with bombs (Better Bombing Syria), or harnessing lightning (some sort of incubator magnet) - well, i have seen a girl get spat on in the face... you think i considered my mother being diagnosed as o.c.d. with help of specialists? i just get the feel for the place - not out of spite... the cats haven't had their nails clipped for a month... they're not petrified by the vacuum cleaner every day... they've become sort of abstract animate art... when the male castrato sings an opera before bedtime i become a nervous wreck... the beauty of the silence during the day, pretends to be a dog barking at night left out in the garden... even though he's inside on the windowsill in the toilet, and i'm on my windowsill in the bedroom smoking a cigarette.*

this poem just makes me think one thing:
so what's the problem
with female genital mutilation if
*** is nothing more than a conversation
between a mantis and her mate
rather than Zeus and Hera?
that's what it sounds like - ****'s sake -
i'm not that into Robert Frost
and Simon & Garfunkel to match-up
a counter argument for a need to talk in bed -
my grandparents slept like French kings -
each to his own separate beds -
one went to the other for the jelly-bean babies -
and when did the unrestrained
Oedipus complex become a debate on
mortgages with that famous: still living with
his mum - economics - not psychology -
the popularity of some theory always ends up
some macabre populist interpretation
by the better off, marginalisation of realism -
oh, here comes Sartre - you should ask him...
still living with my father -
and because of this i've made kangaroo jumps -
the atmosphere in the house is... serene...
the only female presence is a cat -
(she's away tending to her mother, another month
to glee in bliss) -
the house is cleaned only once a week, the food is made,
i just learned she could very well be diagnosed
with o.c.d. - does this look like Norman Bates
scenario to you? let me tell you, a woman with
o.c.d. can be worse than a woman with
h.i.v. - obviously i'm exaggerating -
i allow my father conversation about Irish fascists
on construction sites (foremen) - Irish fascists...
Irish fascists... leprechaun fascists... LEPRECHAUN FASCISTS!
she just tells him to keep it on the building site -
i'm more supportive of my end as homeless in a forest
than in a cosy home with a woman.

I’ll lay here and let the sun make love
Penetrate the shielded part of my being
to bear the brightness of its warmth
right to the base of the unmoved core
and when hysteria sizzles time passes
right to the century of the ancient timeline
where women sadness was denied access
only to be healed by a scientific ***** massage
that gentle movement of finger in the pelvic
to bridge the eruption with the explosive paroxysms
where a woman would relive forgetting
all the unattention behaviour bore by their husband
women wombs would be removed so as not to feel
women ****** desire would be numbed so as not to feel
women would be sent into asylums so as not to feel
They are ****** women confiscicated to a domestic gloom
Let them tend to the men and gain no societical standing
until the doctors got tired of it all, with broken hands
those cramped fingers and supportive bandages
tired of motioning and fumigation of the libia
with sweet smelling and relaxing oily lotions
It was as simple as that...... the change of notions
and the innovation of the handheld vibrators
eradicated hysteria in mere 1952........

THE SUDDEN MOMENT OF BEING KIDNAPPED BY THE DEAD



YOU SEE OSAMA BIN LADEN AND RONNIE BIGGS, SACKED TED BUNDY, BECAUSE HIS EARTH BODY

WAS TRYING TO BE NICE, SO OSAMA AND RONNIE GRABBED PAUL BERENYI AND BRIAN ALLAN

AND FLEW THEM AROUND THE PLANET JUPITER *******, AND BROUGHT ON WILD WEATHER

IN NSW, AND TRAP SO MANY PEOPLE, YOU SEE OSAMA AND RONNIE STRAPPED PAUL AND BRIAN

TO A ROBOTIC DEVICE, AND MOVING 5000 MILE PER HOUR, BRIAN AND PAUL SCREAMED CAUSE

NEITHER OF THEM WANTED TO BE KIDNAPPED TOGETHER, LET ALONE AT ALL, AND THEN, RONNIE BIGGS

GOT HIS TRAIN WHISTLE, HOWDY PARTNER, HOWDY PARTNER, I HAVE BRIAN ALLAN AND PAUL BERENYI

BOTH *******, NEVER TO ESCAPE, AND PAUL, TRIED TO DO A MIGHTY LEAP, OVER TO TWO MOONS, BUT

FAILED AS HIS LEGS ARE SO TIGHT ON HIS STRETCHER, AS ADAM WALSH, IS STILL STRAPPED TO THE SUN

THIS IS SWEET REVENGE FOR BRIAN AND PAUL, AS THEY ARE TRYING TO GET OUT OF THERE, YOU SEE

OSAMA SAID, YOUR KIDNAPPER IS DYING SLOWLY BUT SURELY, YA SEE BRIAN ALLAN HEH HEH HEH

YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT OF HERE, AND BRIAN AND PAUL WERE SCREAMING, AND THIS IS GOING TO

BE HARD AS *******, CAUSE BRIAN IS DETERMINED TO RID THESE EVIL VOICES, AND STOP ERECTIONS

IN HIS ****, WHEN HE SEES A KID, OSAMA SAYS, BRIAN ALLAN AND PAUL BERENYI AE WITH ME, THEY ARE WITH

US, WE’LL NEVER LET THEM GO, PAUL SAID, I WANT YOU REFORM OUR WAY BRI=URN AND THEN BRIAN SAID, MY MATE

PAT FROWNED AT MY GRANDMOTHER, BUT IT WAS IN GOOD CONVERSATION, HE WAS A NICE GUY, AND WHETHER OPEOPLE TEASE ME OR NOT

I SAY, TO MY VOICES, TEASE ME ALL YA WANT, AND OSAMA SAYS, NEH, KEEP BRIAN ALLAN AND PAUL BERENYI

FLYING AROUND JUPITER, ABOUT 400 TIMES, AND BRIAN ALLAN, WHO BELIEVES IN THE PARANORMAL, BELIEVES

HIS SPIRIT CAN BE BROKEN UP IN 23 PIECES, IN ORDER TO NOT DIE FROM UNLEASHING THE KIDNAPPER FROM WITHIN,

BRIAN ALLAN THOUGHT, WELL, OK, I NEVER KILLED A KID, OR BRUTALLY BASHED SOMEBODY, BUT I COULD’VE HAVE KIDS

OF MY OWN, IF I WAS TO GET PAST, MY **** GETTING AN *******, FROM LOOKING AT LEGS OF YOUNG KIDS, I FIND

THIS HARD, AS, I AM BEING TEASED, AS I WRITE, YOU SEE, AS I TYPE, THE PARANORMAL FEEL, OF ME, GETTING WEIRD DELLUSIONS

OF MY OLD MATES HAND PUSHING ME AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER, EVEN THOUGH I LIKE COMPUTERS, A LOT

YOU SEE, YOU HAVE TO BE CAREFUL, OF OSAMA BIN LADEN, HE COULD WRECK, ALL POSITIVE PARANORMAL ACTIVITY

AND IF HE HAS HIS WAY, NOBODY WILL BE SAVED, AND AS BRIAN IS TRYING TO GET FREE, BUT OSAMA SAID, WE WANT YOU TO STOP

YOUR ERECTED ****, I HAVE AMAJOR PLAN, TO CHOP IT OFF, BUT THEN BRIAN SCREAMED SO LOUDLY, ******* ******* OSAMA

YOU SEE, AT PRESENT, BRIAN ALLAN, IS FORCED TO BE A SHY OLD FOGIE, AS HIS CRACKED FEET ARE REALLY HURTING, AND BRIAN

IS GETTING SILLY DELLUSIONS, OF THE PARANORMAL, TAKING HIM FROM THE SIMPLE LIFE, AND REALLY MAKING BRIAN ALLAN STRUGGLE ON EARTH,

GIVING BRIAN ALLAN NO ENERGY, FORCING OLD MATES SAY, I AM NOT YA DADDY, I AM NOT YA FUCKEN LITTLE DADDY, BRIANY

AND, THE WAY OSAMA MADE BRIAN ALLAN STRUGGLE, BY TAKING HIS HAPPY BODY, BUT BRIAN ALLAN, SAID, DO THIS, TAKE ME

I WILL PREFER YOU TO DO ALL PARANORMAL THINGS WITH ME, I CAN TAKE IT, DUDES, YOU SEE, I USED TO ASK PEOPLE ON THE STREET

TO KIDNAP ME, MEANING I HATED MY DAD TREATING NE LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY, AND BECAUSE OF THAT, I BECAME MORE RELUCTANT

TO TALK LIKE A SILLY KID, BUT I HATED MY DAD LAUGHING AT ME,  I TOLD HIM TO SHUT UP, LIKE AN ANGRY ROBBER, DAD AND MUM WERE

SICK OF ME, THEY CALLED IN A POLICEMAN, TO STAND OVER ME, AND IT WAS CLEAR FROM THAT DAY, THEY THOUGHT I WAS NEVER

CUT OUT TO BE LIKE THEM, I KNOW, I AM A MESSY KID AN ADULT, I TRIED TO BE NICE TO MUM AND DAD, BY WRITING STORIES OUT OF MY HEAD

AND I STARTED WRITING STORIES OF DESTRUCTION, DAD NEVER LIKED THOSE STORIES, AND TOLD ME, THESE STORIES AIN’T NICE, BUT, ME

I WAS WRITING STUFF OUT OF ME, THE CANBERRA CROWD, EVEN THE YOBBOS, ARE MORE SUPPORTIVE THAN MUM AND DAD, MUM HATED ME USING NAMES

DAD HATED DUDE USED IN STORIES, YOU SEE I CAN’T BE THE (QUOTEY FINGERS) SORT OF MAN, THAT THEY WANT ME TO BE, SURE I NEVER HAD ***

BUT IT WASN’T MUM AND IT WASN’T DAD, IT WAS I WAS GETTING A BAZ FROM KIDS, I AM NO PHEADPHILE OR MEN MY OWN AGE, I AM NOT GAY

I DO GET ERECTED ***** ON WOMEN, BUT MAINLY WITH KIDNAPPING THOUGHTS, AND I AM NO KIDNAPPER, AND BRIAN WAS SAYING ALL THIS STRAPPED TO A ROLLERCOASTER

GOING UP AND DOWN UP AND DOWN JUPITER, AND PAUL BERENYI, WAS ALSO SCARED, BUT SEEING HE WAS DEAD, HE DIDN’T HAVE TO REPASY HIS DEBT

YOU SEE PAUL BERENYI, KEPT TRYING TO GET THE POSTER FROM MY TV WEEK, AND ALSO HE PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER, ON AN AREA WHERE IT HURTS LIKE ANYTHING

AND HE SHOWED INTEREST IN A SCHOOL PROJECT, JUST TO PUT A DRAWING PIN UP MY ***, AND I HATED THAT, MIND YOU, IT DID STOP, BUT I DON’T WANT TO

START IT UP AGAIN, SO WHAT I AM DOING IS HELPING THE HOMELESS GET INTO HOMES, LIKE THE CANBERRA REX HOTEL AND TURN IT INTO HOMELESS HOTEL

AND PUT A BAR AND BISTRO, AS WELL AS DOCTORS AND DENTISTS AND LAUNDRY ROOMS ROUND THE CLOCK CLEANING CARE AND CHEAP ROOM SERVICE

AND AS OSAMA BIN LADEN AND RONNIE BIGGS, TOOK PAUL BERENYI AND BRIAN ALLAN TO SYDNEY, AND CAUSE THOSE VIOLENT STORMS, THE WORST OF IT IS OVER

AND BRIAN’S KIDNAPPER IS DYING, AND PAUL BERENYI AND BRIAN ALLAN WENT BACK TO THE SUN, WILL THEY BE SAVED BY THE POWERS OF ATHENA

I N T R O D U C T I O N
HOW TO EXPRESS LOVE

“Some call it bewitched, but I call it love.
There is an emptiness in the freedom of being alone,
And liberty in being caught in that divine spell.”

I have been here before, and with this pen, I express myself through words.
To better understand myself, and to avoid being misunderstood.
The day that I stop writing love poetry is the day that my pen's ink will run out,
Along with my sense of connection to humanity.
Love is hard, and even more difficult to describe,
Too complex to express simply by stringing words together.
Yet here I am, trying over and over,  
Always feeling limited, unfulfilled, and unsatisfied.

I have been here before, trying to express my feelings when in love.
It is frustrating, and most attempts are ripped apart and disposed of.
I have been trying to describe love for years, and still feel unsatisfied,
The countless filled notebooks are evidence of all the times that I have tried.
I cannot find how to put it simply but in a beautiful way,
I could write about it for hours and hours, from night until day.
But to fully understand love, I must reflect back and see,
How I love, how I was loved, and how I love me.
____________

P A R T  O N E
HOW I LOVE

I have been here before, I am comforted by love's familiarity,
Its pleasantness, shining like rays of sun, enveloping me in warmth and sincerity.
Its floral fragrance in the form of beautiful golden sunflowers,
Bundled with red ribbon at the stems, followed by conversations that go on for hours.
Its sweet taste in the form of kisses all over my cheeks and face,
Until there is not a spot that his lips have not touched, and I point lower to a different space.
I want more but I am too timid to say,
But my rosy cheeks and bashfulness give it away anyway.

But, I've also been here before, reminiscing on this familiarity,
I am then reminded of the heartache that follows, and I get a sense of polarity.
The shattered promises of forever, and the final goodbyes,
The returning of sweaters that smell like him while holding back desperate cries.
The empty and cold interactions as he shuts the door behind him,
The sinking loneliness of standing alone in a room that is now too dim.
The racking sobs as my heart begs me to stop doing this to myself,
So, I take the thought of love, lock it in a box, and tuck it away on a high shelf.

But, I have been here before, knowing that I cannot stop,
Love is embedded deep inside of me, it is not something I can just drop.
My heart knows how capable I am to feel such raw emotions,
It flows gracefully through me, and soars with plummeting waves like the ocean.
My heart demands to spark a flame in the one who ignited these feelings inside of me,
It yearns to douse them with loving adoration and unwavering loyalty.
It demands to be expressed, through every form of self-expression that I use,
Whether that is poetry, painting, music, or whatever outlet I choose to let loose.
____________

P A R T  T W O
HOW TO LOVE ME

I long to be cherished for not only who I am, but who I was, and how I came to be,
So instead of writing about love, I will write about how to better love me.
I have not been here before, so I will take it slow,
If it helps you better understand me, please let me know.
This is for you, if you want to love me,
It is complex and it may not come immediately.

Please understand that it will take time,
For you to love me the way that I need, this is not just a rhyme.
This is new to me, I have not been here before,
If it makes you see the real me, for you I will write more.
I have not been here before, but I am still using the same pen,
If you follow my trail of disorganized thinking, please nod every now and then.

I am honest, and I will never lie.
I want you to be my best friend before being my guy.
I want to build a sense of familiarity, to know about you and your life.
I want consistent communication so we can avoid all strife.
I want passion and longing, the magnetic pull between our lips as they unify.
I want "I love you"s to be meaningful, not fillers when our conversation dies.

He must know that the "he" in this story, could also be a she,
My ability to love isn't limited by appearances that fade with time, life’s bittersweet guarantee.
He must know my personality, strengths, goals, and my dreams,
And when we fight, he must remember that we are not on opposing teams.
He must know how to support me and my life goals, how to motivate me,
When the coldness of the world makes me search for ways to escape reality.


He must want the best for me, for me to be happy, even if that is not by his side,
If we realize that we are not compatible, or our relationship makes us feel unsatisfied.
He must know my weaknesses, my flaws,
My tendency to push away when overwhelmed, and how to find the probable cause.
He must know that though I love to care for others, I am not great at caring for my own body.
My self-destructive nature has a story of its own, and it is not shared with everybody.
____________

P A R T  T H R E E
HOW I WAS LOVED

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I tell him about my life,
Like the times I fought bare-****** against life’s merciless and cold knife.  
I am not a hero, not even in my own story,
But I am not one to boast or seek any type of glory.
I have grown and matured from my battles, so do not be afraid,
There is no reason for you to rush to my aid.
I find myself apologizing for the scars that I embedded on my own skin,
Sometimes it was easier to find comfort at the bottom of my bottle of gin.
I am withered, no longer beautifully brand-new,
So I apologize for sometimes randomly feeling sad out of the blue.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to help him understand me,
I am bound by my demons, and can't remove the shackles that would set me free.
He feels a need to fix me, as if I were a broken wine glass,
I bring attention to the glass pieces on the floor that he should avoid and overpass.
He thinks that sweet words could be the glue to adhere my shards together,
And praises the curvature of my body, accentuated by a jacket made of leather.
He believes that he could love me more than anyone else has, and by doing so, he would mend me,
I quietly sigh, close my eyes, and slowly count to three.



I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to make him see,
My broken pieces are not meant to be picked up by fragile hands, nor by anybody.
He learns this when the sharp sting of glass runs along the tips of his digits,
Understanding that my scarred fingers were from all the attempts I made when I felt brave and ambitious.
Trust me — I know how much it hurts, I do not want you to share my pain,
I know that I am a sad girl, but still, some happiness remains.
I want to embrace this darkness, my ability to feel emotions so immense,
My dear, there is no need to put your fists up in defense.

I have been here before, and I watch him try to fit the pieces together,
But they are merciless and weigh much more than a feather.
They are not a puzzle, they do not even fit me anymore,
But he becomes frustrated, exclaiming that this is more than he asked for.
I try to make him understand that they do not define me,
I only want them to be a visual for my story, I do not need them to feel free.
I want him to see my past and my struggles laid on the table,
Only then he will know how strong the roots are that ground me and keep me stable.


I have been here before, and I don't feel like rhyming anymore,
It took me a long time to understand myself and what I stand for.

He thinks I am a broken wine glass, but he does not understand.
The glass shards that lay before him are all of the times I've lost a piece of myself;
The innocence that I clung to for so long, and had to let go of in order to survive and adapt.
The ideologies of supportive families, shattered by abusive alcoholics that no one questioned.
The expectations of loving and supportive friends, broken by betrayal and abandonment.
The life that I once knew, had to leave behind, and the shock that crackled my perspective and forever changed me.





I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to reassure him,
But he is drowning in my sorrows and has forgotten how to swim.
He feels a need to scare away my demons, and cure what plagues my mind,
He becomes frightened by my pain and wants to protect me, so he covers my eyes.
But my self-destructive nature was never his job to correct,
I try to show him that I am grateful, I never meant any disrespect.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I express that I am his equal and that we are the same,
I am not expecting him to be anything more than he is, I am not a helpless dame.
But he feels that it is his duty as a man to complete me, to support me, to give me a reason to smile.
I put down my pen, and stare into his eyes for a while.


Though I may be broken, I am complete on my own.
The only support I want is holding hands as we walk side by side, not in the form of you carrying me.
Our world is beautiful enough to make me smile, I only want to enjoy it alongside you.
____________

P A R T  F O U R
HOW I LOVE ME

I have been here before, and I have been through all that.
For 23 years, so that makes me stronger than you.
I am better equipped to deal with certain things on my own,
Those broken pieces are not even a part of me anymore.
My demons do not need to be slain by a knight in shining armor, because they are more scared of me.
They know what I've overcome, and know that I will not take **** from anybody.

I've been here before, and with the same pen, I acknowledge my strength,
I've rebuilt the walls of my broken wine glass exterior with precise width and length.
I designed them using the knowledge that I gained from where I went wrong,
I shaped and molded them with the experiences that taught me how to be strong.
And I planted flowers that blossomed when nourished by my own self-determination,
I spent many years adding to the durable and unbreakable flooring and foundation.
I painted the inner walls crimson red, and hung golden accents from the ceiling,
And laid down mats for meditating when I am hurting and need healing.

I have been here before, and I've created this for myself,
I will invite you in, if you'd like to see it for yourself.
I am strong, I am intelligent, and I hope to be more brave,
But I am a lover and a fighter, so please don't think that I need to be saved.
I want to share this beautiful experience of life with you,
But it is not a journey that you have to carry me through.
We will put on comfortable shoes and make our way together,
And we'll prepare for obstacles, challenges, and unpleasant weather.

I have been here before, and I see that look in his eyes,
The corners of his lips curl down and he feels the need to apologize.
I don't need an apology, or for you to change who you are,
Let's enjoy our time together and have a cigar.
The universe granted us to cross paths for a reason,
So please enjoy the warm weather with me this season.

There are so many beautiful sights out there,
I don't care what we do, or where we go, we can go to Times Square!
As long as I am by your side, and you love me,
In the purest and passionate form, it would make me so happy.
Put the other headphone in and listen to this song,
I think now that you better understand me, you can do no wrong.
I put my pen down as we listen along,
I dedicate a playlist to him, filled with love songs.

I have been here before, and even though my pen is down,
It seems that I cannot and will not stop expressing love.

As I went to school for the first time
I saw the Big Dipper
And I was reassured
When I was on holiday and didn’t
Want to go home
Because of the bullies
The Big Dipper was there
To support me
As a graduate from high school
There it is again
And when I move out on my own
I seethe supportive dipper
Shining bright in the sky
Thank you for being there
Great dipper

trading:**
scissors for hair
false smiles for real tears
cruel words for honest confessions
draining corpses for supportive souls
loneliness for solitude
the hum of numbness for booming self doubt
pretending for admitting
hard shell for nakedness
anger for sadness
distractions for reactions
avoidance for opportunity
wide open wounds for well deserved closure
indifference for uncertainty
emptiness for openness
hell for health

i’m trading
ingrained habits for a new consistent way of life
i’m really scared.

Okay fine.

Okay fine,
Now you are racist,
If you don't want to date someone other than your own race,
Just because someone else won't approve?

You are homophobic,
If you're not nice to gay or lesbian people,
Just because you were raised that way?

You are sexist,
If you don't like the other gender,
Because you have learned that your own gender are more supportive, reliable, compassionate, understanding or trustworthy than the other?

Okay fine,
There may be political problems,
But why care,
If your own country are too deep in the ****,
To get out?
- and no, helping won't solve it if racism, sexism or homophobia is still such a big deal!

Deal with gay or lesbian people,
They have excepted the fact that they may be wrong to love their own gender,
Why can't you?

Deal with people of the other ***,
You live in a world where you have to talk to both,
Talking to a gender you don't like,
Does NOT make you any more lovable or understanding,
It makes you human,
So get over the fact that the other *** may be worse than your own.

Racism,
Have you seen a white person tear up?
Have you seen a black person tear up?
Have you seen an asian tear up?
Have you seen a brown person tear up?
Have you seen a colored person tear up?
Have you seen an indian person tear up?
To either one of those, you must have said yes,
Have you seen any of those, who have cut themselves?
Do you know of any one of those, whom might have had smelled, tasted, heard or even die and decompose,
In any other way, than your own race?

We all have red blood,
We all decompose in the same way(taken the different ways of decomposing of a HUMAN),
We all have the same struggles;
Financial,
Love,
Peace,
Statuses,
Popularity,
Even more personal like illnesses.
How can you believe in the belief you do,
If you hate?
In a way, all of our beliefs are the same,
They are all linked,
Because it goes about peace and love!

Okay fine,
We are not all the same,
But we are.
We are all different,
But we aren't.
We all want to achive stuff in our lives.
Get over the fact that some people are darker or lighter than you,
This is the 21st century,
Get over yourself and the need to be better than anybody else or the need that you want to lable someone!

Poppa's hands are wore and aged
They have seen a century of history
All the wrinkles and scars from the years
Life made it's mark, the world has issued its sentence.

Poppa's hands were once strong and steady
Sweating and bleeding in the fields
Holding the weapons of war, holding the hand of a fallen soldier
Gentle and Hard at the same time

Fighting the evil of a **** Nation
Protecting and Serving with every motion
Struggling to use a pen to write to his love at home
Wiping away tears, all at the young age of 17

Poppa's Hands are gentle and wise
Holding a baby with a twinkle in his eye
Watching the child grow, catching each fall
Supportive and harsh, strict and kind

Poppa's Hands held mine through the years
Guided me through his garden, working with the land
Running his hands through the dirt
Picking the fruit and vegetables provided by our lord

Poppa's hands gave to his fellow man
Always willing to lift another soul up
Poppa's hands supported my Nanna in her final days
Held and stroked her skin until the very end.

Poppa's hands are now to weak to move
Unable to lift his great granddaughter in the sky
Unable to climb a tree
Unable to be what they were once
Now I can hold my Poppa's hand and pray
Pray to guide poppa's hands to his true home

Never imagined life to be so complicated,
Could somebody tell me what’s wrong and what’s right;
Hippocracy and fearlessness are the partners whom I haven’t dated
With an affair with them, sadness and guilt have taken their plight.

What do I do? Am so **** confused,
Am in grave need of an extra supportive soul;
So could somebody get me and my shadow fused?
To confront the challenges and reach my goal.

Wish I had a mind which could practically see things in black and white,
Never once halting to wonder why I did, the things which I did
But regretting is one of my mind’s hobbies, flooding my eyes in the darkness of the night
I want to gather myself and attain stability, am scared of a gradual mental breakdown as time slid.

I keep searching for the definition of my existence
Searching for the pieces which could help complete this puzzle,
But I wake up every morning, giving god the day’s attendance
Only to stay confused and put on a muzzle.