I'm jittery as ****,
just plain out of luck.
Wishing I could duck
out and take just one drag.

Surely, that wouldn't be so bad.
I'm going a tad mad.
My will has never been ironclad.

Nothing happens twice.
Once you've missed your chance,
There's nothing you could do about it.
You can try hard and make it work again, but timing isn't always going to work with you.

A tad too early, a tad too late;
Never the right time.
You need the perfect momentum, and once you feel it, Grab it. Make use of it. Because once the momentum is gone there is no bringing it back.

And sometimes, the feelings don't go away when momentum does. But momentum goes away, even if the feelings are still there. So speak up and don't waste you chance, or live with the regret of trying to make your momentum happen again.

You loved her,
        A little too sudden,
        A little too early.
        Was it destiny? Maybe fate?

I never thought,
         I would see my life
         Walk past by me
         Just because i was a tad too late.

*June 20, 2015
9:43 pm

Aint it sad We lost whatever we had We have no right to be mad We have done
another so bad We should both be glad We could have tried just a tad Aint it sad We gave up on anything we had We gave every excuse to be mad We thought of ways to do another bad We both could never be glad We couldn't try even just a tad Aint it sad What we had Makes me mad We did so bad I am not at all glad We tried a tad Now I am sad Aint it bad Aint is sad? Whatever we had.

SDPope

Let's see..
well,

..there's the writer who never gave a **** about anybody but himself

..and the writer who had a fetish for pouring melted candlewax onto her own toes, while being watched by her cat

..and the writer who owned a chimpanzee named Tom, one afternoon when the writer wasn't home, Tom frenzied around the house chasing down a moth, this caused obvious concern to the neighbors, who heard the commotion last for an hour or maybe more, ah well..

..and the writer who began experimenting with a dream machine, but stopped upon feeling his brain's physical presence within his own skull, weighty, and terrifyingly colorful!

..and the writer who did the same thing, except kept going and found herself bored with it after a while anyways

..and the writer who broke down out front of a Walgreens in reaction to a phone call detailing a nearby tragedy involving two cars + a logging truck (and a tad of ******* but shhhhh) grief was part of that performance, but also in knowing he may have been directly responsible for the crash (coke was given by him, to the driver)

..and the writer who experienced the best ****** of his life without even a single poke of physical contact to his ****!

..and the writer who became addicted to biting her knuckles, to the point she needed to see someone about it

..and the writer who filed for divorce after finding out that his lover had caught numerous ****** infections/diseases (and only having been told by their cousin, too! probably from two recent trips to South America unbeknownst to their partner)

..and the writer who had a hobby of taking photographs of lampshades of varying textures, ages, sizes, and which emitted sometimes very exotic colors from the bulb inside.

..and the writer who never left his city, due to a paralyzing fear of travel

..and the writer who fell in love with another writer who was in love with someone else (as is usually the case)

..and the writer who passed away yesterday
..and the writer who will pass away tomorrow

..and the writer who admired the work of Charles Bukowski and tried too hard to be like Charles Bukowski, at the peril of those around him

..and the writer who's family hasn't messaged her in a few months now, and continues to wonder why

..and the writer who's favorite song was "I'm So Happy (Tra La La)" by Lewis Lymon & The Teen Chords, though in reality she was never happy (let alone SO happy) and often played the song as a front to convince herself that everything would be just fine
"JUST AS HAPPY AS CAN BE"

..and the writer who never knew they were a writer and never wrote anything in their life but **** it if they did!

..and the writer who's favorite month was July, favorite day Saturday, and time of day at around 2pm

..and the writer who's last words were never written down or heard by anyone outside their secluded office to which he screamed "HELP!!!" and then died from heart attack

..and the writer who actually lived only three blocks away and was good friends with the guy, and found his door unlocked and the smell came first

..and the writer who found it funny to imagine getting involved in certain scenarios inappropriately contrasted with specific songs, settings, or themes. An example: funerals where everyone shows up in clown costumes, sunbathing in the Arctic, being invited to a nice dinner and the restaurant is playing loud shoegaze music, closely befriending the person you hate the most in the world just to see if you can, and bringing a large cage of parrots to see a movie with you

..and the writer who really DID some of those things mentioned above (I won't say which)

..and the writer who wrote about all these other writers (me)

..and the writer who may be reading about all these other writers (you)

Some people think that as an
Adult
I can be a tad rough
Rock solid skin
But as a
Child
I was exponentially
Worse

Kicked
Screamed
Cried
Teased
Scratched

A walking terror
My father deemed me
"Crab-Apple Lynn"


The neighbors would
Whisper
Of that horrid five-year-old
Girl
That would push and
Tackle
The boys down the street

And on the night
That I kicked my
Brother's friend in the
Groin
And he tumbled
Down the stairs
Word spread like
Wildfire
That Crab-Apple
Had struck again

Notorious bully
Walking with balled fists
Kicking over Lincoln Logs
Smashing Play-Doh sculptures
Sneezing purposefully
Spewing out green phlegm
And wiping the boogers
On fellow peers
Half-grinning
At their cries

Feared by all
But respect
Was the one thing
The miniature version of
Me
Could not earn

And despite my youth
Despite the over-sized chip on my shoulder
Tiny me
Found a way
To flip around
Turn a leaf
Turn a page
Turn a head

Completely change
Altogether

And suddenly
Crab-Apple disappeared
And Sarah grew in
View

It was as though
Somehow, someway
The little me knew that

Fear is worthless

This waiting room is painted of pain,
featuring faces with mouths down-turned,
impatience taking up these empty seats,
of family members already lost,
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate's
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients
to be visited during the night shifts,
by nurses and doctors,
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan - barely hanging -
is closing in full circle,
a whole life lived.
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling,
alongside the walls' stripes
designed with a print of doctors' usual words,
"I'm so sorry for your loss."  

If life truly begins at forty,
then hers ended at the starting line.
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor
if it weren't for olympics silently running in the background on the tv
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound.

It ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation
a possibly cancerous lump.
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages,
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn the pages over better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box,
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing.
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time.
It was just a little, smallish lump.
these news are hard to swallow.
my eyes are peeling onions.
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out.
Grandma's sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting "pressure".
neutral colours ***** the Scrubs' floors,
hypothermia lurking in the corridors,
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm.

It was a game of musical chairs,
But when the seven trumpets sounded,
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation.
An angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now.
With a plot twist, it's less players each round.
Who dies first wins, I've tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are *****.
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin.
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away - the whitened clay still one,
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh.

It's also winter our hearts,
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral.
And his life was a summary,
too brief a breath, as the contraction is.
No sympathy to bother saying
"I am".
Public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

Twenty-twelve was a scar,
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs, from the bottomless pits,
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely,
so very early.
Some of the things we will take to our graves
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves.
And hurt still drops in drips,
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood-washed tiles,
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares
are too real to be dreams.

uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS

harry and the force




you see young harry stone who was only 13 years old, started being trapped by these

weird paranormal forces beyond his control, well ted bundy, says, i think there is a bit

of hooligan in his itchy feet, and harry hated this, because he was only 13, and he was

too young for tinnea or dermatitis or anything else like that, you see the forces would reach

out into his body, to grab the computer nerd, and said to him, you are scared harry, and we

are trying to **** you ok, harry screamed, LEAVE ME ALONE,  and the forces said, neh oh neh

we will never leave you alone, cause your still a little young dude, harry, harry, wanted to be free

from these terrible forces, but there is no way, known to man, that forces want to leave harry alone,

harry said, leave me alone, i am only young, i am only young, let me go, i am too young to

to be trapped by paranormal forces beyond my control, but the forces said, you are never too young, buddy

we will push the computer nerd away from you, and in the meantime, we will reach in and grab

your little young dude or your hooligan, and harry said, leave me alone, i am not a family person, like that

i am a tad too shy to be a family person to a kidnap, i want to get out, i am too young harry screamed

i want the forces to treat me like a family hooligan, but the forces said, no, i will make you suffer, and harry

was starting to get upset with the forces, but couldn’t control himself, you see he said, let’s put twisted sister

on for a party, and then buy fish and chips, and then harry went away to squeeze himself through a drainpipe, and

one man put a bin lid on both sides and asked someone to hold it, so harry couldn’t get out, but harry can’t escape

and was terribly scared, saying please, take the families, not me, take the families, not me, but the forces said

i prefer to take you, trap your feet, because you are scared, and instead, of making you run away from  us, we have

our ways, to get caught up in your tinnea itchy feet, harry asked, can you left me go, or i will get this fist, and put it

right to your head, and then the forces pushed his feet down into the carpet, and every friend harry had, was forced

by the forces to be harry’s kidnapper, and every time anyone teased harry, the forces will make the teasers kidnappers also,

and harry said, i am a family person, and the forces said, yeah a family person to a tease yeah, don’t be like us harry,

be a little shy boy, allow us, to push your feet down, harry got sick of everyone treating him like a hooligan, but everyone

was having fun using harry as the forces little skate goat and you see all the itchiness, if you look at the X-ray of his foot

ands the paranormal activity, which is forcing harry to be too shy to muck with the families, but the real reason, harry

was saying, i am not like those families who get kidnapped killed or murdered, i hate family people who go to bed early

harry also said, he likes family life, but he likes staying up, while the nerdy family people (little going to bed cool kids)

go to bed, and harry would listen to music watch youtube, perform on youtube, watch TV, and read street machine magazines

but the forces made all his mates like his family better, because they went to bed, so much in fact, they went to bed leaving

harry to be a little young dude staying up all night, playing cool for nerdy families who head off to bed, you see harry loved

to stop up all night, he found that fun, but his father and mother were getting worried about harry, but harry said, he is young

and he runs free, you see every time someone teases him, he would feel kidnapped by the nerdy family people, and

would go home and keep his feet planted on the ground, with the forces saying, harry, you are a family person alright

a family person to a tease, and harry was very upset and yelled out, LEAVE ME THE **** ALONE, his friends said, neh oh neh

you are still a hooligan, harry, but harry got sick of this, in fact he hated, saying just because he stays up all night, doesn’t mean he’s a hooligan

in fact harry is a stay up late little cool dude, and all his mates found harry is cool, and they all said, your like us now, harry

and harry yelled out it’s my life it’s now or never i ain’t going to live forever, i am going to live while i am alive, it’s my life

my heart is like a open highway, i am going to do it my way, it’s my life, and harry then told the forces, don’t you think bon jovi

is really inspiring, man, and the forces said to harry, we are going to keep your feet glued to the floor, like your a hooligan or a nasty

little young dude, and the forces then said, you sit up all night, we go to bed saying don’t be like us, harry, don’t be like us, harry

be a little young dude, buddy, you like us, as they would say to a person who loves to stay up all night, and the forces begin

to bring out a methane filled python and it took a bite out of harry, and harry cried for days, after he woke up with his family

standing on each corner of the bed, and harry noticed the python bites on his fingers but that was to improve the quality of your life

and harry’s sister said, your one of the young dudes harry, and they all went into the kitchen to have breakfast, and the forces

stayed away till the next night, where they can capture harry again, but harry likes staying up all night, playing cool for his nerdy family

HARRY IS BASED ON MYSELF AS A KID, the forces forced me to tie myself up, i have a mental illness all my life, even as a child

i really never thought it was a big deal, don’t follow my path, beat the forces, ok beat the paranormal forces, i was and i stress was one of those crazy people

BUT STAYING UP LATE IS COOL FOR AN ADULT AS WELL, i really don’t want the forces to trap me, anymore, because playing cool for my nerdy family is cool

.i (am) giddity giddity getting it... lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment in reality.

blow backs and...
i've never heard so much
politics on the citizenry level of
implementing the discovery
of politics...
    
    i love Tuesday nights in
these parts of the world...
German army jacket, hood...
walking really slow,
drinking a beer,
smoking a cigarette...
tense upper-body frame,
not moving my hands
that much,
intimidating posture...

  passing cars don't count...
**** me...
like a scene fro the Vanilla Sky
beginning...
in Times Sq.....
but this is Romford,
the outback that somehow
constitutes London...
i made a count...
how many people did i spot?
3... and that includes me...

i love Tuesday nights...
and then making lunch
for my father going to work...

next time i hear the following...
all these internet bums
imploring for donations...
they're...working?
making ******* videos?!
that's work?!
  that's work?!
and me writing is what...
Stephen King ***
David Koontz?!

they're working?!
right... making existentialist
quasi-*******
with a return of: how else
to be a consumer?!
that's work?!
    work... come to think of it...
what's work?
low unemployment levels...
yeah... go figure...
but the jobs on offer...
aren't they, just a tad bit
*******?!
         the sort of work that
is summarized by ctrl + c
              and a cntrl + p?
if there is so much work available,
sure as **** the work is "work",
i.e. it's *******...
it's not a plumbing spot...
it's... the sort of work
that... could also come with
a contraceptive message,
a ****** career...
            why even bother doing this,
this... "job" when you can align
yourself to making contraceptive
precautions?!
so... you want me...
to do this, "job"...
this waste of time bollocking of
the lesser actor?
        no ******* chance...

unemployment is down...
well of course it is...
more meaningless jobs
have been re-imagined!
    no wonder!

i'd understand a cinema cashier,
there was a sense of aura,
notably with the popcorn scent...
but now?

no... over-population isn't
a problem...
but meaningless jobs are...
a ******* problem...
    ******* attempting to suffice
my escapism with a meaningless
function that is...
about as much a trade
as a peanut is a watermelon...
*******!

i'll huff... and i'll puff...
and... ****... forgot the cucumber...
make my father
the sort of lunch that
kings dream of...
   yeah... but just sandwiches?
and only sandwiches?
  ****... forgot the cucumber...
      a thai cucumber pineapple salad...
oh no... you little ***** bank donation
******* and *******...
you get to rent...
       you get to rent a flat...
coughing up money to the most
deplorable people... your landlords...
should have thought about your
teenage tantrums...
   and thought about
  talking to your parents differently...
incidence...
i dated a Russian girl once...
and she told me...
that her grandmother was her mother,
and that her mother was her sister...
a ******* confusing relationship...
**** yeah that it ended!

well... evidently the retards coughing
up money into strangers' coffers
will deem me ******...
    then again...
only in the west there's the parental thesis
of being a child, and subsequently
an adult... only if: you are ashamed
of having parents to begin with;

hello, test-tube Dan,
frozen egg Hilary,
           IVF... Peaches?!

counter argument: well...
i could live in a shack in a forest,
or call my shadow a roof,
lingering on the paved streets...
then again...
my neighbors lied that
they bought a house,
and they're... what... 30 something?
saying they're renting it out...
and yet...
  they have house parties
under their parents' roof...
and smoke **** in their car...

lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment by reality;
i do not find lying
to be a moral encompass,
more an economic bypass...
      lying, simply doesn't make any
economic sense...
  "morally" (in question)
      advantageous in
the short term...
   but economically...
lying is exhausting...
            given that it's a lived
fiction... rather than
a non-lived fiction of a book...
i don't lie...
  because...
              what one cannot love,
one better be ashamed of...
****... does that even make sense?!
to be denied a love,
     one can at least bask in the shame,
that the truth of denial entails...
yeah... that sounds better.

I have never been able to see the hints
I'm sorry I'm not smarter
Sad stories seem better then happy lies
I'm sorry I turned darker
And I know these little poems are a tad ******
I'm sorry, I'm just want to make you happy

I'm sorry it never helped

My voice just seems to bring people down, I'm sorry
Maybe I should not be around, I'm sorry.
I cry out words but never make a sound, I'm sorry
I'll fake a smile at you and all those around, I'm sorry

I'm sorry nothing ever worked

All I ever tried to do
Was show that I'm no good for you.
Well im a liar, I'm sorry.
We should of tried, just possibly
It could have been the best of times.
Only truth, no more lies.

I'm sorry

Maybe sometime.
Dinner and red wine.
I know now's not good
But I want you, maybe we could.
But for now just know that
I'm sorry

Coffee, a book, a blanket, me and you,
would be all we need to see us through,
those long, hard weeks at work or school,
just a cup. a read, a cozy cuddle or two,
would be just what we'd enjoy, me and you:
So, let's grab a book a blanket, then pour a few,
snuggle up together, read and be lovey-dove, too!
__
Visual imagery:
http://beautyineverything.com/4951445218

_
Author's Note: For some reason this poem, though cute,
kinda hangs a tad too high in the "cheese aisle" for me
...at any rate, I hope you enjoy, if not, stick it on a Ritz....

t'was not so long ago
in simple human years,
but eons, in poetic ones, that...

visions of fruited plains,
dimpled mountains,
candied wall-nutty natives,
easy lifted from his
eye's casual glances,
reformed to scribbled essays,
while daily walking on the
concrete steppes of his city,
gems of glass shard sidewalk sparkles
and bluest mailboxes were
raptured word tableaus,
rupturing easy with
volcanic force,
his body's planet,
mantle breaking,
crust-conquering poems,
breakout pimples waves,
molten and easy flowing...

he knew not then
what well now he knows,
the exhausted trembling
of asking,
the slowing wearing pace of
heartbeats of constant query,
the wonder of
wondering incessant,

Are You My Poem?

awoken by the body clock
in the wee, streaming,
rem sleeping hours,
asking the no longer
faithful friend,
his bathroom mirror,
is the accuracy of this
stubbled mess,
the white crusted lips and eyes,
is that my, my nowadays,
answer to

Are You My Poem?

he waits,
he, a red taillight speckle
among many, wait watching,
on a Brooklyn minor bridge
over a minor inlet
one of many, on a longer isle,
as the bridge lifts its arms,
opens its middle belly,
waving bye to a
passing-through freighter,
perhaps
destined for
happy springtime Morocco,
perhaps,
the Malay's divided isles,
wandering wondering
one more time,
if that's his etching,
line drawing poem,
passing by, bye, bye,
so each breathe forcing,
escape-asking,

Are You My Poem?

sometime ago,
a grown man,
his voice changed,
like a teenager,
writing now in but the
simplest terms,
plain jane poems,
in the cadence
of spoken words

for all the fancy phrases,
exhausted,
the sewing box of
precious alphabets,
emptied, leaving only
the tyranny of
hello, have a nice day, how are you feeling,
that's nice, goodnight sleep tight...

there were fewer poems
therein contained,
ceasing to fear,
no need for constancy of asking,
but failing in crafting to craft
even then,
trying but no one answering to

Are You My Poem?

one or two true,
asked,
are you busted,
the nib nub rusted,
your silence, long pauses,
worry us, your poem lovers,
if spent,
how deep is thy rent,
let our concern heal,
patch n' fill,
the cuttings,
the empty grooves that pockmark,
hope wishing asking,
sir sire man,
are you still hopeful,
interrogating,
asking the world,

Are You My Poem?

weeping from the
believed warmth
of their caring,
they too, knowing,
that life has its ways
of choking your voice off,
compelled to advise,
still and then and now,
the constant in my equation,
extant yet,
extant yes,
a voice that still rises
at the end of the
periodic element interrogatory of

Are You My Poem?

the poem answers,
muddled, muddied,
everyday life eats you up,
instead of you feasting upon it,
the tempo, the style,
all now humbug static interference,
but every know and every then,
a long winded answer dances
it's way from the core,
answering well
the question less asked,

Are You My Poem?

spent,
the poet
lol's,
for his truest friends here,
answer the pondering,
in deed, indeed,
you, near and dear
poet brothers and sisters,
you are the answer,
to words looking now,
a tod-toad-tad silly,

**You Are My Poem!

Riding in the car
with sweaty palms
playing loud,
fast songs
Getting a bit jittery
and maybe a tad bit anxious.

Wondering when it will be
that I can get High
with you next to me.

-On my way to you,
-my drug dealer
-who only deals the finest touches
-and most esquisite caresses

My vision is getting a bit blurry
and my thoughts stray from the road
to thoughts of your face
and I get that message
that I get to see you soon
so I slow down
and take that exit off the hiway
turn around
and tell you to head my way.

You get in the car
and the smiles begin
the hand touching and knee grabbing
and its a wonder
that I can still drive
in this altered state of mind.

We speak some words
about this and that
nothing too funny
yet we laugh until our sides hurt.

Im in love with you
my drug dealer,
my ultimate healer
my mind eraser.

The chemicals start flowing
and I wonder if im spoiling the moment
with scientific physioligical thoughts
validating this thing called love.

The chemicals
that start at the brain
flow through the heart
and down to the genitals
then down through the legs
and back up to the heads
(yes, both of them)
and I can’t get over
how much we feel the same way
and how
even to this day
things have not seemed to change

Hoping I don’t ever build up
too much of a tolerance
to the chemicals you make me feel
my wonderful man,
with the drugs you deal
and all the pain you ****.

Your bedroom is always so dark, an empty void.
I could really use this line as a metaphor to describe my heart, but I won't.
I'm not fond of metaphors to tell you the truth, and you never understand them anyway.

Your bedroom is always so dark,  but not quite pitch black.
There's an artificial cerulean glow coming from your clock's display, which is a tad large for my taste.
And to be honest, it irritates me some, I like the red alarms quite more.

Your bedroom has a very plain bed, where we like to snuggle.
I curl up with you to intensify my persuasions - it's no secret - and I'm okay with it for now.
I'm usually the spoon  and you're the noodle, but we both agree that the pretzel is that much more amazing.

Your bedroom has a very plain bed, on which we amaze each other.
The single blanket we lay under, sometimes over, is covered in me, because of you.
I always laugh a little, and think that you sleep with me every night, even when I'm not in your room.

he adults new year rave that 6 year old patrick dunbar




in the year of 1945, patrick dun bar’s family were invited to a rave

but there was one small problem they couldn’t find babysitters

for patrick, so, what his parents did, is, go to the department store

and buy a tiger costume that would fit a 6 year old and this way

patrick can’t see the adult nonsense that was around, patrick dunbar

was ever so excited, as he called himself the new year tiger, and

every time an adult walked past him, he went growl like a

really fierce tiger cub, and his bro, rob dunbar also dressed up

as a tiger, but he looked at it as just another tiger costume

when new years eve came, patrick and rob were getting themselves

used to their tiger costumes 5 hours before they left for the

adults rave, well back then they called it, a new years eve party

and the parents said, don’t get too *****, cause their kids wearing

tiger costumes, dressed up as patrick said the new year tiger

was the only way in, and 5 hours later, they all hopped in the car

and their grandfather wore a tiger hat, to joint patrick and rob

and patrick screamed out the window, HAPPY NEW YEAR

and the father said, put ya cotton picking head back in the car

and patrick didn’t listen, and kept his head out of the window

yelling out happy new year, happy new year, happy new year

and in those days they couldn’t control the window from the

drivers seat like they do now, so he kept on driving with little

patrick dunbar yelling out of the window, HAPPY NEW YEAR

about 23 fucken times, and when they arrived at the party, their mum

told patrick and rob to hide inside, pretending your dwarfs, and

patrick said, i am not a dwarf, i am the new year tiger, ya see

in this life, i was a tad isolated, in my room, and there is no way

known to man, how i can figure out a lll this, but, as we walked in

i think the party people knew we were kids, cause dwarfs look different

but patrick and rob played all night, as much as it was fun, and despite

them knowing we were kids, we thought we would be treated differently

cause me, patrick was the new year tiger, and i used the biggest growl

to make all the adults spill their drinks, some drinks stained the carpet

and this really upset the host, and wanted the dun bars kicked out

and patrick dunbar said, i am not a dunbar, i am the new year tiger

and if you kick us out, i will bite ya with my teeth, but this party had 1940s

morals, and the dun bars were kicked out, and went for a walk down the

beach of green bay, and patrickj and robert were swimming in their new

year tiger costumes, and patrick rode one wave in, and said, the new year

tiger is coming, actually the dunbars sat on the beach till midnight, and there

were a great beach parade, of navy and army planes as well as the lifeguards

wearing clown uniforms, and then the lord mayor of wisconsin, cut the ribbon

to open a very colourful fireworks and patrick dunbar went up to the lord mayor

and said, i am the new year tiger, and i will eat ya up, and then the lord mayor closed the speech

there, and yelled out HAPPY NEW YEAR, AND patrick dunbar yelled out

a big HAPPY NEW YEAR too, as patrick dunbar was wisconsin’s new year tiger

GRRRROOOOOOOWWWWWWWL,

i am patrick dunbar, he was my previous life, before greame thorne

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Yes it's true I'm cheating on you
Blatantly with another site
I'm so enamored by her poetry
We're now hanging out  in broad daylight

I keep going back and forth
Between both you and it
Pouring out poetry deep from my heart
Now I'm not sure I can ever quit

I do feel a tad bit guilty
This sharing of my poetic love
But like you heard, with the written word
I can't seem to get enough

She accepts me for who I am
Even welcomed me with open arms
I was thinking the whole time in the back of my mind
What could possibly be the harm

Now I feel I'm in way to deep
To swim out of this cheaters stream
The current is swift and the banks are steep
Guess I'll just drown in sweet misery

I'm so glad to get this off of my chest
Perhaps it'll take away some of the guilt
Although I sometimes hang with that other harlot
I want you to know I love you still

Yes the rumors are true that I'm cheating on you
With another poetry site
A month ago who would have known
I'd have more than one mistress  in my life

Diamonds, pearls, gimme that gucci
Theres more important things why we trip pin bout some loui
Then i hear the kids screaming with no food to go to school with
When i hear them bells ringing i just think we so clueless
We degrade each other, we degrade ourselves
We never read the books, we just knock em´ off the shelves
Judging by they covers, don't believe in nothing else
Coz a person ain´t **** if they win´t high up on that wealth
Right, wrong
We straying from the purpose, we disrespect each other
And the people that have birthed us
We hatin on our loved ones
And loving who have hurt us
We forget about what means the most
And dwell on what we purchase
Forget all of that it´s not worth it
And stop thinking you gotta be perfect
We all different, we all shine like diamonds
Sometimes you gotta dig deep just so you can find them
Listen to my voice, put the blade down
I know you think that´s you only true escape now
Them scars on your arms ain´t worth the pain now
And them screams that were silent have regained they main sound
If they don´t love you for who you are that´s their issue
When you lying dead on the floor could they fix you?
When you on the news you really think that they´d miss you?
They pretend like they care, turn around and forget you
And all the racism truly makes me sick
We hating on each other cuz the skin we born with?
We take from each other, stab and **** one another
Stereotype a person cuz they white or a brother
I'm confused
We ****** up like the drugs we use
We go killin motherfuckes just for upgraded shoes
I´m a tad disappointed in this new generation
I done grew up in the jungle i´m just tryna find my way in
Really, i´m just tryna find a exit
I'm running to the end but its like a maze with no direction
Im passing every corner nd I'm feeling disconnected
Its like hate is a disease and I'm the only one not infected
So god, let em´ not disregard, that the beauty outside reflects from one good heart, and it don´t matter where you came from, it don't matter where you start
We gone make it to the finish line together not apart
Together not apart
It don't matter where you came from, it don't matter where you start we gone make it to the finish together not apart
Together not apart

Say the words you're afraid to say
You know I want to hear them
Say the promise that we will be in latter day
Say I am the life force that runs through your stem

Say the words you can never bring yourself to say
You know very well that I've been waiting
Say the words that will cause dismay
Say that I'm fueling a fire that's dying

Say the words you can't really say
Fearing the commitment I'd hold you to
Warn me of the rope that threatens to fray
Say that all my wishes will not come true

Say the words you've always wanted to say
Truthfully that there isn't a future
Please... Say the words you mean to say
Just need this knife to go a tad bit deeper

"I wish they'd stop going on about it, the things that are unseen but for brief glimpses and shadows, and fully heard. The beings in their closets and under their beds, their voices carried in a wind that isn't there. They stand, stiff, breathing shallow and deep in the lack of light, dripping wet from the storm that didn't happen in this world, muddying up the carpet, mounting with stench. They're not there, you idiots, they're over here, in my eyes, in my head, buried between my lungs and pushing the limits of my bones, my weaknesses. Stop your complaining. If only I could muffle you." ~ Jade Day


DO: Ah, yes. Ms. Day is also a favorite author of mine.

[Anaïs smiles at Do.]

NURSE YUCKI: Really? I actually think that is interesting that we have similar tastes in literature.

DO: I know right!

NURSE YUCKI: I mean she could hook you with just one word.

DO: That she can.

[Do turns his head in another direction; Anaïs looks down as she clears her throat.]

NURSE YUCKI: So how are you feeling Do? Are your emotions gradually beginning to retract back into a more manageable state?

DO: Yeah somewhat, but they are still fluctuating a bit. I think I will be fine.

NURSE YUCKI: Would you like me to monitor you just in case?

DO: No, thank you, Anaïs. I think I can handle my emotions for now, but I will let you know if something comes up.

NURSE YUCKI: Promise?

[Do smiles at Anaïs.]

DO: Promise.

[Do’s stomach began to growl loudly.]

NURSE YUCKI: Ooh. Someone is hungry I am assuming.

DO: Ha ha well your assumption wouldn’t be wrong Anaïs. I am a tad bit hungry actually.

NURSE YUCKI: Well, considering that it is now lunch time, I suggest that you go to the cafeteria and enjoy yourself a lovely, hot afternoon meal. The cafeteria is down the hall to your left and is the third room on your right. In the meantime I think I will take a little detour and purchase some premium foods to consume.

DO: You know that actually wouldn’t be a bad idea.

[Do and Anaïs both laugh in equal synchronization.]

NURSE YUCKI: I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Do.

DO: Yes, you will. Have a great day Anaïs and thanks again

NURSE YUCKI: You’re welcome.

[Anaïs smiles and winks at Do on her way out. Do smiles back. Do then leaves the black room and exits through the entrance. Above Do’s head were signs that helped to direct him to take the proper route, but there was no need for him to read it as Anaïs had already instructed him on how to get there. Do continues walking down the hall until he reaches the third room on his right. There was a big sign above the entrance that said “CAFETERIA”. Do then entered the cafeteria to handfuls of laughter and patients talking amongst themselves while eating the meal of their choice. There was a moderately long line of which Do joined as he waited along with the rest of the patients to receive his lunch. Do noticed that a girl with *****, blonde shoulder length hair was standing in front of him. She was wearing glasses with square black frames much like the glasses that Dr. Nightmare often wore. She had beady eyes of an exceptionally moderate size and her skin was pearly white with a smile that was naturally inviting. She then spotted Do and appropriately began speaking to him.]

SPORE: Hello there. How are you?

DO: I’m doing okay. Yourself?

SPORE: Yeah, I’m alright but I wish this line would move just a little bit faster. This is driving me bonkers. So what’s your name if you don’t mind me asking?

DO: My name is Do.

[Spore reaches out to shake Do’s hand.]

SPORE: Spore. You have a pretty cool name you know?

[Do lightly laughs.]

DO: Well, thank you.

SPORE: You are certainly welcome, Do.

[Spore smiles at Do.]

SPORE: So where are you from?

DO: Like what country am I from or like what city?

[Spore chuckles.]

SPORE: I meant in general silly ha ha.

DO: Well, I’m from North America. I was born in a small town called Springfield, Illinois but I was raised in Memphis, Tennessee.

SPORE: Interesting.

DO: How about you? Where are you from?

SPORE: I am from British Columbia, Canada although I was raised in a small city named Abbotsford.

DO: What was it like there?

SPORE: At times it was weird and some days were worse than others, but I somehow managed to pull through.

DO: So how did you end up in here?

SPORE: Long story short I nearly decapitated my former friend’s head off with a chainsaw then attempted to slit my wrists with it.

[Do looked shocked as he was laughing at Spore’s statement.]

DO: Oooh brutal are we?

SPORE: Hey, ******* be trippin’!

[Both Do and Spore began laughing in equal succession. The line had continued to move forward. It was finally Spore’s turn to select the portions of her meal.]

LUNCH LADY: Good afternoon and welcome to Black Wick Cafeteria. Today’s specials are pizza and fish and shrimp. Today’s sides are coleslaw, biscuits and baked beans with your choice of cocktail or tartar sauce. What would you like?

SPORE: Um… I guess I will take the fish and shrimp with a side of baked beans and cocktail sauce and tartar sauce.

LUNCH LADY: That will be six dollars.

SPORE: That’s fine. You want anything Do? Lunch is on me today.

DO: Yes, I think I’ll have the same thing you are having.

SPORE: Alright then. Excuse me miss but could you add a duplicate order for my buddy Do here.

[The lunch lady nodded and began preparing Do’s order.]

DO: Thank you so much, Spore. I appreciate this more than you know.

SPORE: No problem.

[Spore smiled at Do. As Spore and Do were departing from the lunch line they heard a string of insults follow them as they were searching for a table.]




TABLE #1: Continuez à marcher baiseur. Vous n'êtes pas le bienvenu ici!

TABLE #2: C'est le tableau est réservé pour la belle et que l'intellectuel. Vous êtes trop stupide pour être considéré comme l'un de nous!

TABLE #3: Ahem! Excusez-moi, mais je n'arrive pas à reconnaître le potentiel de développement de la beauté ou de la popularité en vous. S'il vous plaît revenir quand ce jour est arrivé. Merci.


SPORE: Pay them no mind, Do. Just keep walking.


[Spore softly grabs Do’s hand as they are walking.]

WIFI: Hey look guys! Spore’s got a boyfriend.

WIFI’S TABLE: Oooooohhhhhh!!!!!!!

[All of the patients at that were sitting with Wifi began to mock Spore with several fake smooches and hugs. Spore blushed.]

SPORE: You see this is exactly why we never worked out WiFi. You were always so self-centered, narcissistic and desperate. No matter what we said, did or where we went it was always about you.

[Wifi got up and stood in front of the table behind him as he spread his arms out. WiFi had long, wavy, red hair with hazel eyes, and pearly white skin. He wore a black leather jacket with denim blue jeans and leather black boots.]

WIFI: Do you even realize how stupid you sound right now? If it was truly all about me we would have never dated. Think about what you are saying before you speak.

[Spore blushed again.]

SPORE: Yeah well…. Even then still it was about you.

[Spore gently wiped the tears that were streaming from her face. Her nose had turned bright red in response.]

WIFI: Eh what does it matter now? We’re not together anymore so we are wasting our time talking to each other. I’m trying to eat lunch and chill with my peeps. Beat it.

SPORE: *******, Wifi! I am leaving on my own terms not yours!

[WiFi balled his fists as he got up and began running at a speed believed to be faster than Superman. He was about to hit Spore but Do stepped in his way and blocked his punch.]

DO: You will not hit her or you will suffer the consequences.

WIFI: And what if I do? What are you gonna do? Punch me in the face? Are you gonna kick me in the *****? Ha ha I am used to that. Learn some new tricks and then we’ll talk okay. Now move out of my way.

[Spore screamed very loudly as WiFi tried to take another swing at her. Do blocked WiFi’s punch yet again only this time taking his arm and lowering his head as he slid under it. He then stood in the same position as WiFi while still holding his arm and began ramming his right elbow deep into his his nose breaking it upon immediate contact. Do then took WiFi’s wrist and arm and twisted them until they snapped breaking both areas of his arm instantly. He then picked WiFi up and slammed his rib cage directly on his knee and let him drop to the hard, marble floor.]

SPORE: Do stop! That’s enough!

[Spore was crying again as she stood there in shock. Everyone was watching. WiFi was laying across the floor in a fetal position with a small puddle of blood leaking from his broken nose. His eyes were barely open.]

WIFI: Ugh… Ugghh...

SPORE: Come on, Do. We’ll eat lunch outside.

DO: I think that would be a good idea.

SPORE: You and me both.

[Do and Spore grabbed their lunch trays and walked outside. It was sunny and the trees were still without leaves as it was still winter. The breeze was very cold. A musically digital sound began playing in the background. It was Spore’s cell phone.]

SPORE: Oh, and I just got a text from my friends of whom I’d love for you to meet. They want us to come and sit with them.

DO: Alright, I’m down. Where are they sitting?

[A girl with bubblegum pink hair was waving at Spore with a smile on her face.]

SPORE: They are sitting right over there against the brick wall.

DO: Ok then let’s go.

[Do and Spore walk over to the table where Spore’s friends were sitting. They arrive at the table and set their trays down as they took a seat.]

SPORE: Hey guys I have someone that I would like you to meet. Gum and Sweat meet Do. Do meet Gum and Sweat.

GUM: Hello, Do. It is a pleasure to meet you.

SWEAT: Sup Do? Glad to have you.

[Do shook both Gum and Sweat’s hands.]

DO: Hey. It is very nice to meet the two of you. Thank you for introducing me, Spore.

SPORE: No problem.

[Spore smiled once again.]

DO: So how did the three of you meet?

SPORE: Well, first of all I arrived at Black Wick on November 2, 2013. I met Gum later that evening as we were assigned as roommates. It wasn’t until about a week later that I met Sweat. He was fencing when we met and he finished then took off his fencing mask to greet me.

SWEAT: Ha ha yeah, I remember that. Those were some pretty memorable days eh?

GUM: Indeed they were.

DO: Where are you from Gum?

GUM: Oh, I’m from Oklahoma but I was living in Las Vegas, Nevada before I got here. Let me tell you I got into lots of mischief during that time. The parties were crazy and the night clubs were always packed. I hooked up with numerous guys and girls. I even did coke and **** do I regret that. I am never doing that ever again, but drinking is acceptable.

DO: How about you Sweat? Where are you from?

SWEAT: Oh, I’m from Memphis, TN but I was living in Cordova before being dumped in this hellhole.

DO: Dude no way! I live in Cordova too.

SWEAT: Really bro? That’s dope.

DO: I know right! So Spore who was that guy who was harassing you in the cafeteria?

SPORE: Oh yeah I almost forgot about that. The guy’s name is Willard Fike but everyone calls him WiFi due to his extensive computer programming and networking skills. He even knows how to build and send viruses to computers. Me and WiFi used to date which was long before the two of us ever ended up in here. One day we got into a very heated argument.

[The scene flashes to a black and white filtered memory. Spore and WiFi are standing in the middle of a living room arguing really loudly.]

SPORE: So you think it is ok to mug someone late at night as they are walking home?! What if somebody had saw you?! Do you have any idea what happened?!

WIFI: Look I don’t give a **** alright! I don’t have a job! I needed money! What the **** did you expect me to do?! Huh???!!! Answer me!!!!!!!

SPORE: You could try checking the job ads in the paper. You could try job searching within the city. There is no valid enough excuse as to why you mugged that innocent pedestrian.

WIFI: Well I don’t like being broke you can ride with me or you can go and **** yourself. Pick one!

SPORE: If money is important enough to sacrifice your dignity then perhaps you are better off broke because you deserve a dime and you sure as hell won’t be receiving a cent from me.

[WiFi one-two punched Spore deeply in her stomach and then punched her squarely in the eye before delivering an uppercut. Spore was laying on the floor crying as WiFi began searching the room for cash.]

SPORE: WE ARE OVER! DO YOU HEAR ME????!!!!! OVER!!!!!!!

WIFI: I DON’T GIVE A ****!!!!!

[WiFi begins searching around the room for cash. He searches for about 5 minutes before settling on a sum of $500 of which he found in Spore’s mother’s purse. Spore picked up her cell phone and attempted to the call the kkkkkpolice when  WiFi suddenly placed  a pistol to her temple and pulled back the trigger.]

WIFI: I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Put the **** phone down now before I **** you.

[Spore did as she was told and dropped the phone. WiFi took the phone and threw it into the fish tank behind him.]

WIFI: Now you won’t ever be able to make calls to anyone.

SPORE: You know you are never going to get away with this.

WIFI: Technically, I already have. The question is who is going to stop me?

[WiFi left right after he asked that question slamming the door hard as he walked out.]

[The scene flashes back to the present.]

SPORE: I never was the same after that night.

DO: And he got away just like that?

SPORE: Well word got around fast and the cops caught up with him two days later following a string of police reports. I filed the day following the event so I guess you could say that I set it off.

SWEAT: Still, that’s sad though.

SPORE: I know and as Do and I were looking for a place to sit, a bunch of patients started hurling random insults at us in French and that was when I came across WiFi. Him and his buddies were mocking us and saying that we were a couple when that couldn’t be further than the truth.

DO: You say that almost as if you are ashamed of me, ha ha.

SPORE: I’m sorry, Do. You know that’s not what I meant.

DO: Yeah, I know.

[Spore gives Do a hug.]

SPORE: How do you feel now?

DO: Better.

SPORE: Anyway me and WiFi got into another argument while in the cafeteria and he tried to run up and attack me. Luckily Do was there to protect me. He basically ****** WiFi up. I seriously wanted to laugh at how much of a ***** Do made him look. The guy was lying across the floor in a fetal position whining. I couldn’t have asked for a better picture.

[The four them laughed together in equal succession. Another loud noise overlapped their laughter from behind the wall. It was the sound of two voices moaning. Both of the voices were female.

GUM: What was that?

SPORE: I have no idea.

SWEAT: Don’t know. Don’t care bro.

DO: I think I’ll go and have a look just to see what’s going on.

[The moaning continued and became increasingly louder as Do walked around the edge of the wall and behind it. He found two Caucasian girls completely half naked. Both girls were laying across the grass in the sixty-nine position eating each other out.]

DO: This is going to be fun.

[Do chuckled and smiled as his ******* grew.]

He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’

They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.

He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.

He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.

The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.

I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.

The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.

David Lewis Paget

Preface:
Even old poets can forget new tricks,
So when toe stubbed and ah ha benedicted,
Causes you to remember what you once knew,
It feels even better, like being crazy
Once in awhile,
Or wearing an untrimmed chest Jason smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Eons ago converted to a new religion,
The Church of Free Verse.

If life be variable,
Usually unrhymed
A pencil sketch of crisscrossed lines,
No fixed metrical pattern assigned,
Than even more so, my poetry.

Once I regretted that the children,
Crack addicted to rhyming,^
Used nickel bags and ******* lines
At the starting gate where all
Our associative poetry journey begins.

Perhaps, a tad arrogant, that diktat,
Nonetheless, unashamedly, nothing to recant.
Words have utility creative, souls innovative,
Free them guised as global explorers,
Make them up, then unleash them
Upon us, yourself, as detectives investigative.

Unchained myself like Houdini,
From water chambers and locks constraini.
What care I for poetic rules and regulations,^^
Got so many points, they tried to suspend
My government-issued poetic license.

Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.

Yes my darling young ones,
Your writ of screams, like Bob Dylan's occasional schemes,
Celebrations of agonized lives of the criminally-pained,
Songs and cants of victims, love-cancer stained,
Require a whining, singsong beat.

{Poems so rad-sad that it makes this Jew
Genuflect and crisscross himself,
That he was blessed with a few good happy years,
In his reincarnated life of
A few centuries long.}

Learn 'em to sing their cries,
Harmonize the internality of love,
Or, even the infernal loss and lack thereof,
For it is the lilt
That makes, transforms a cry into a
Poem.

Even I on death's last stairway step,
When was called by the name of
Nate Hale,
My dying poem lilted, lifted and metered
"I only regret,
that I have
but one life,
to lose,
for my country."

Now you're thinking he is lost it all,
But you would be incorrect for sure.

He found it.

The lilt of life that makes him rise
And greet each morn,
Even some sorry starless nights
With a First Poem of the Day.

I lilt you, one and all.
If you think this mis-wrote,
My auto correct mentally broke,
Meant to type I love you,
You'd be
Right but wrong,
I just lilt you.

And…it’s here. A future. Agile? I was not enough to be.

Black in it’s entirety. A new beginning and a new ending.

Clockwork. As though a plan hatched by some supreme being.

Dear dog, which came first? Was it the white or the black?

Either way, it effortlessly taints your profoundly glorious genes.

**** this! Atrocious. Drugs?!

Goodness me. How did we get to this?

Horrible, dehumanising, and it’s here to stay.

“Suppresses”. But really only in the mildest of ways.

As if to constantly remind you of the control you once had.

Now ceded in it’s entirety to a tad bit of fad.

DAG NAB IT!!
Different day, same ****
& here I am back at it
Such a love/hate kind of habit
Speeding up the pace, gotta go like the White Rabbit

Although, I'm not going to be late
I'm just TOO impatient for time & it's hard to wait
I'm sure some of you, at times, can relate
Like when you're ready a tad bit early for a date
Time seems to go so much slower, which I ******* hate!

Of courser I am well aware
This habit is the reason I've got extra time to spare
& that is when I do & redo & redo my hair
Which I do quite often, not doing it is actually what's rare
Just another fun little FYI fact I'd like to share
& yes I know, you probably don't really care

A list of 'to do's' are done with such a quickness
Cleaning is a breeze, it should always be like this
I guarantee you though, there will be something I miss
I get so sidetracked, that's what my problem is....

Days have no end & nights rapidly just begin
Enters is turned up, my blood is steadily pumping under my skin
Creativity is leaking & starting to overflow from within
WHOA SHOCKER! Another race with the sun & yet again I win!
I don't always have the greatest self discipline
****....this habit is one hell of a bittersweet sin!!

I remember my first time writing on here
I was nervous, scared and a tad naive
This is my stomping ground
My battling
My push to give my everything
The constant vibrant words being heard
Now a poet grave yard, deserted
I miss my poetry home
The loud boisterous words constantly being thrown
I came back
It's my dysfunctional love, all I can say to that
I feel Sentimental, never wanting to leave
There should be no reminiscing about poetfreak
Although, we stand here grieving

i am leather bound
to last night's conversation.

while thumb thick
in good intentions,
i am beginning to think                      
you never knew me
as much as you
think you did.

dear, tell me
what has hooked
your jaws into spouting out
these pig tailed assumptions
of me?

you see, i've never been
quite as crisp tide white
as they made me out to be.
always a little fade to my denim.
didn't you know
some stains
can't be washed off?

some fingerprints
can't be dusted
or steamed out in the dew
of a 4 am shower.
and sunday knows
i've tried.

and still try to make it
plainly clear that i left
my mother's baby
somewhere between the arms
of brooklyn.

left her, all koolaid stained
tongues tied to the push pop
fantasies i'd held until
i was about kush high
to a grasshopper.

abandoned her
pb and j sandwiched in an alley
with a trash bag
criss cross applesauce
knotted around her lovely
to keep her just
as warm and naive
as she never had been.

had you ever noticed
the gauche in her grin
wasn't nearly as golden
as it should've been?
and her paperback bone
seemed to fold
a tad too easily.

of coarse
spines aren't meant to
break like that
but they do.

divorce and dysfunction
has taught us that
it all falls down
someday so don't
weep for the jericho
in my bones
but at least acknowledge
that its there;
that there are bruises
too light to be convincing
but they still ache
when you stroke them right.

that some nights the pains
of resurrection memories
out shine those
of the crucifixion.

certain skins must be shed
when your convictions
leave you broken
and the stars you sin beneath
begin to gossip
about your shadow.

and your shadow
finds its way
onto the floor of living room
while it watches you
let yourself be made
into one of the victims
you write poetry for.

when you're trying to bottle
God and grandeur
into the barrel
of the gloc your mother
grabbed in anticipation
of spilling herself
in the wind
when the wednesday's
got too lonely.

listen
stop trying to card me
before accepting
my truths.
i've traveled too
far for ****** to not
assume i've been
in the dark before.

drop my shell
and see the inside
mash called me
has been spilled
and shattered
and reassembled
and shattered
and scattered
and reassembled
and splattered
and bent
more ways
than i can yoga
position myself in.

when you asked me
how could a 17 year old
know the pain of this world
i wanted to tell you
to roll up you sleeves
and unzip your pride.

yes i am 17
but i know everything happens
for a reason and i know
being broken makes
you grateful of the
pieces that weren't obliterated.

i know you can't be
flexible without stretching
and i know how it
feels to be stretched
between 4 states
two parents
and 1 divorce signee.

i know what a blanket does
for someone afraid
of the shadows
and i know you can't
have shadows without light.

i know that florida fern leaves
are consistently stormed on
and never curse clouds for it.

i know i am beautiful
and i know how many
days it took me to find out.

i know i am made of those days
and those days
were born of a maker.

i know my mine
met and got married
and made me and my sisters
and mistakes and i know
they paid for them
in cash and criticism.

i know my father is a good man
and i know good men
lie awake at 4 in the morning
making plans to fix things.

i know my mother loves to laugh
and i know laughter
is the easiest way for her
to cough up her worries.

i know she almost drowned
on dry land before
and i know she was one of
the best swimmers in my family.

i know i am still learning
but i've learned
we know a lot less                            
than we realize
and feel a lot more
than we recognize.

Too many expert voices lay a claim on your shape,
You are either too full, or
You have gone too far,
Too many moulds get thrusted at your face,
To some you resemble a pear,
But they feel your should look more double cherry,
And whichever fruit you succeed in turning into,
You still, are a tad too hairy
But then does anyone ever tell you,
That sometimes ice cream will be the only answer
And that is just fine?
That a bedtime prayer can be enough night-time routine,
Which needn't include expensive lotions and creams,
That you need fats as well as you need protein,
As also each little gift that Nature crafted lovingly
For this marvel of a creation that is your Being-
So that your skin is fed and living,
And your knees are lubricated and sprightly,
And your blood is rich and active,
And your soul-
No one will give you
"How I brightened my soul in 4 weeks" tutorials,
But you ought to set your happy soul-goals,
A tummy rub in a sunny lawn on a lazy winter afternoon/
A drenching bath in heavy July rains/
A spontaneous poem effortlessly jotted down on a napkin
Level-happy!
And when you're that happy you will know
That you aren't a cut-out on public display,
Not a fruit,
not a diet,
not a fad that peaks and wanes,
You are an everlasting uniqueness,
You are an undefined shape,
You are that collection of rare energies
That only comes custom-made.