[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

II. TO DEMETER (495 lines)

(ll. 1-3) I begin to sing of rich-haired Demeter, awful goddess
-- of her and her trim-ankled daughter whom Aidoneus rapt away,
given to him by all-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer.

(ll. 4-18) Apart from Demeter, lady of the golden sword and
glorious fruits, she was playing with the deep-bosomed daughters
of Oceanus and gathering flowers over a soft meadow, roses and
crocuses and beautiful violets, irises also and hyacinths and the
narcissus, which Earth made to grow at the will of Zeus and to
please the Host of Many, to be a snare for the bloom-like girl --
a marvellous, radiant flower.  It was a thing of awe whether for
deathless gods or mortal men to see: from its root grew a hundred
blooms and is smelled most sweetly, so that all wide heaven above
and the whole earth and the sea's salt swell laughed for joy.
And the girl was amazed and reached out with both hands to take
the lovely toy; but the wide-pathed earth yawned there in the
plain of Nysa, and the lord, Host of Many, with his immortal
horses sprang out upon her -- the Son of Cronos, He who has many
names (5).

(ll. 19-32) He caught her up reluctant on his golden car and bare
her away lamenting.  Then she cried out shrilly with her voice,
calling upon her father, the Son of Cronos, who is most high and
excellent.  But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal
men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit:
only tender-hearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of
Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave, and the lord Helios,
Hyperion's bright son, as she cried to her father, the Son of
Cronos.  But he was sitting aloof, apart from the gods, in his
temple where many pray, and receiving sweet offerings from mortal
men.  So he, that Son of Cronos, of many names, who is Ruler of
Many and Host of Many, was bearing her away by leave of Zeus on
his immortal chariot -- his own brother's child and all
unwilling.

(ll. 33-39) And so long as she, the goddess, yet beheld earth and
starry heaven and the strong-flowing sea where fishes shoal, and
the rays of the sun, and still hoped to see her dear mother and
the tribes of the eternal gods, so long hope calmed her great
heart for all her trouble....
((LACUNA))
....and the heights of the mountains and the depths of the sea
rang with her immortal voice: and her queenly mother heard her.

(ll. 40-53) Bitter pain seized her heart, and she rent the
covering upon her divine hair with her dear hands: her dark cloak
she cast down from both her shoulders and sped, like a wild-bird,
over the firm land and yielding sea, seeking her child.  But no
one would tell her the truth, neither god nor mortal men; and of
the birds of omen none came with true news for her.  Then for
nine days queenly Deo wandered over the earth with flaming
torches in her hands, so grieved that she never tasted ambrosia
and the sweet draught of nectar, nor sprinkled her body with
water.  But when the tenth enlightening dawn had come, Hecate,
with a torch in her hands, met her, and spoke to her and told her
news:

(ll. 54-58) 'Queenly Demeter, bringer of seasons and giver of
good gifts, what god of heaven or what mortal man has rapt away
Persephone and pierced with sorrow your dear heart?  For I heard
her voice, yet saw not with my eyes who it was.  But I tell you
truly and shortly all I know.'

(ll. 59-73) So, then, said Hecate.  And the daughter of rich-
haired Rhea answered her not, but sped swiftly with her, holding
flaming torches in her hands.  So they came to Helios, who is
watchman of both gods and men, and stood in front of his horses:
and the bright goddess enquired of him: 'Helios, do you at least
regard me, goddess as I am, if ever by word or deed of mine I
have cheered your heart and spirit.  Through the fruitless air I
heard the thrilling cry of my daughter whom I bare, sweet scion
of my body and lovely in form, as of one seized violently; though
with my eyes I saw nothing.  But you -- for with your beams you
look down from the bright upper air Over all the earth and sea --
tell me truly of my dear child, if you have seen her anywhere,
what god or mortal man has violently seized her against her will
and mine, and so made off.'

(ll. 74-87) So said she.  And the Son of Hyperion answered her:
'Queen Demeter, daughter of rich-haired Rhea, I will tell you the
truth; for I greatly reverence and pity you in your grief for
your trim-ankled daughter.  None other of the deathless gods is
to blame, but only cloud-gathering Zeus who gave her to Hades,
her father's brother, to be called his buxom wife.  And Hades
seized her and took her loudly crying in his chariot down to his
realm of mist and gloom.  Yet, goddess, cease your loud lament
and keep not vain anger unrelentingly: Aidoneus, the Ruler of
Many, is no unfitting husband among the deathless gods for your
child, being your own brother and born of the same stock: also,
for honour, he has that third share which he received when
division was made at the first, and is appointed lord of those
among whom he dwells.'

(ll. 88-89) So he spake, and called to his horses: and at his
chiding they quickly whirled the swift chariot along, like long-
winged birds.

(ll. 90-112) But grief yet more terrible and savage came into the
heart of Demeter, and thereafter she was so angered with the
dark-clouded Son of Cronos that she avoided the gathering of the
gods and high Olympus, and went to the towns and rich fields of
men, disfiguring her form a long while.  And no one of men or
deep-bosomed women knew her when they saw her, until she came to
the house of wise Celeus who then was lord of fragrant Eleusis.
Vexed in her dear heart, she sat near the wayside by the Maiden
Well, from which the women of the place were used to draw water,
in a shady place over which grew an olive shrub.  And she was
like an ancient woman who is cut off from childbearing and the
gifts of garland-loving Aphrodite, like the nurses of king's
children who deal justice, or like the house-keepers in their
echoing halls.  There the daughters of Celeus, son of Eleusis,
saw her, as they were coming for easy-drawn water, to carry it in
pitchers of bronze to their dear father's house: four were they
and like goddesses in the flower of their girlhood, Callidice and
Cleisidice and lovely Demo and Callithoe who was the eldest of
them all.  They knew her not, -- for the gods are not easily
discerned by mortals -- but standing near by her spoke winged
words:

(ll. 113-117) 'Old mother, whence and who are you of folk born
long ago?  Why are you gone away from the city and do not draw
near the houses?  For there in the shady halls are women of just
such age as you, and others younger; and they would welcome you
both by word and by deed.'

(ll. 118-144) Thus they said.  And she, that queen among
goddesses answered them saying: 'Hail, dear children, whosoever
you are of woman-kind.  I will tell you my story; for it is not
unseemly that I should tell you truly what you ask.  Doso is my
name, for my stately mother gave it me.  And now I am come from
Crete over the sea's wide back, -- not willingly; but pirates
brought be thence by force of strength against my liking.
Afterwards they put in with their swift craft to Thoricus, and
there the women landed on the shore in full throng and the men
likewise, and they began to make ready a meal by the stern-cables
of the ship.  But my heart craved not pleasant food, and I fled
secretly across the dark country and escaped by masters, that
they should not take me unpurchased across the sea, there to win
a price for me.  And so I wandered and am come here: and I know
not at all what land this is or what people are in it.  But may
all those who dwell on Olympus give you husbands and birth of
children as parents desire, so you take pity on me, maidens, and
show me this clearly that I may learn, dear children, to the
house of what man and woman I may go, to work for them cheerfully
at such tasks as belong to a woman of my age.  Well could I nurse
a new born child, holding him in my arms, or keep house, or
spread my masters' bed in a recess of the well-built chamber, or
teach the women their work.'

(ll. 145-146) So said the goddess.  And straightway the *****
maiden Callidice, goodliest in form of the daughters of Celeus,
answered her and said:

(ll. 147-168) 'Mother, what the gods send us, we mortals bear
perforce, although we suffer; for they are much stronger than we.

But now I will teach you clearly, telling you the names of men
who have great power and honour here and are chief among the
people, guarding our city's coif of towers by their wisdom and
true judgements: there is wise Triptolemus and Dioclus and
Polyxeinus and blameless Eumolpus and Dolichus and our own brave
father.  All these have wives who manage in the house, and no one
of them, so soon as she has seen you, would dishonour you and
turn you from the house, but they will welcome you; for indeed
you are godlike.  But if you will, stay here; and we will go to
our father's house and tell Metaneira, our deep-bosomed mother,
all this matter fully, that she may bid you rather come to our
home than search after the houses of others.  She has an only
son, late-born, who is being nursed in our well-built house, a
child of many prayers and welcome: if you could bring him up
until he reached the full measure of youth, any one of womankind
who should see you would straightway envy you, such gifts would
our mother give for his upbringing.'

(ll. 169-183) So she spake: and the goddess bowed her head in
assent.  And they filled their shining vessels with water and
carried them off rejoicing.  Quickly they came to their father's
great house and straightway told their mother according as they
had heard and seen.  Then she bade them go with all speed and
invite the stranger to come for a measureless hire.  As hinds or
heifers in spring time, when sated with pasture, bound about a
meadow, so they, holding up the folds of their lovely garments,
darted down the hollow path, and their hair like a crocus flower
streamed about their shoulders.  And they found the good goddess
near the wayside where they had left her before, and led her to
the house of their dear father.  And she walked behind,
distressed in her dear heart, with her head veiled and wearing a
dark cloak which waved about the slender feet of the goddess.

(ll. 184-211) Soon they came to the house of heaven-nurtured
Celeus and went through the portico to where their queenly mother
sat by a pillar of the close-fitted roof, holding her son, a
tender scion, in her *****.  And the girls ran to her.  But the
goddess walked to the threshold: and her head reached the roof
and she filled the doorway with a heavenly radiance.  Then awe
and reverence and pale fear took hold of Metaneira, and she rose
up from her couch before Demeter, and bade her be seated.  But
Demeter, bringer of seasons and giver of perfect gifts, would not
sit upon the bright couch, but stayed silent with lovely eyes
cast down until careful Iambe placed a jointed seat for her and
threw over it a silvery fleece.  Then she sat down and held her
veil in her hands before her face.  A long time she sat upon the
stool (6) without speaking because of her sorrow, and greeted no
one by word or by sign, but rested, never smiling, and tasting
neither food nor drink, because she pined with longing for her
deep-bosomed daughter, until careful Iambe -- who pleased her
moods in aftertime also -- moved the holy lady with many a quip
and jest to smile and laugh and cheer her heart.  Then Metaneira
filled a cup with sweet wine and offered it to her; but she
refused it, for she said it was not lawful for her to drink red
wine, but bade them mix meal and water with soft mint and give
her to drink.  And Metaneira mixed the draught and gave it to the
goddess as she bade.  So the great queen Deo received it to
observe the sacrament.... (7)

((LACUNA))

(ll. 212-223) And of them all, well-girded Metaneira first began
to speak: 'Hail, lady!  For I think you are not meanly but nobly
born; truly dignity and grace are conspicuous upon your eyes as
in the eyes of kings that deal justice.  Yet we mortals bear
perforce what the gods send us, though we be grieved; for a yoke
is set upon our necks.  But now, since you are come here, you
shall have what I can bestow: and nurse me this child whom the
gods gave me in my old age and beyond my hope, a son much prayed
for.  If you should bring him up until he reach the full measure
of youth, any one of womankind that sees you will straightway
envy you, so great reward would I give for his upbringing.'

(ll. 224-230) Then rich-haired Demeter answered her: 'And to you,
also, lady, all hail, and may the gods give you good!  Gladly
will I take the boy to my breast, as you bid me, and will nurse
him.  Never, I ween, through any heedlessness of his nurse shall
witchcraft hurt him nor yet the Undercutter (8): for I know a
charm far stronger than the Woodcutter, and I know an excellent
safeguard against woeful witchcraft.'

(ll. 231-247) When she had so spoken, she took the child in her
fragrant ***** with her divine hands: and his mother was glad in
her heart.  So the goddess nursed in the palace Demophoon, wise
Celeus' goodly son whom well-girded Metaneira bare.  And the
child grew like some immortal being, not fed with food nor
nourished at the breast: for by day rich-crowned Demeter would
anoint him with ambrosia as if he were the offspring of a god and
breathe sweetly upon him as she held him in her *****.  But at
night she would hide him like a brand in the heard of the fire,
unknown to his dear parents.  And it wrought great wonder in
these that he grew beyond his age; for he was like the gods face
to face.  And she would have made him deathless and unageing, had
not well-girded Metaneira in her heedlessness kept watch by night
from her sweet-smelling chamber and spied.  But she wailed and
smote her two hips, because she feared for her son and was
greatly distraught in her heart; so she lamented and uttered
winged words:

(ll. 248-249) 'Demophoon, my son, the strange woman buries you
deep in fire and works grief and bitter sorrow for me.'

(ll. 250-255) Thus she spoke, mourning.  And the bright goddess,
lovely-crowned Demeter, heard her, and was wroth with her.  So
with her divine hands she snatched from the fire the dear son
whom Metaneira had born unhoped-for in the palace, and cast him
from her to the ground; for she was terribly angry in her heart.
Forthwith she said to well-girded Metaneira:

(ll. 256-274) 'Witless are you mortals and dull to foresee your
lot, whether of good or evil, that comes upon you.  For now in
your heedlessness you have wrought folly past healing; for -- be
witness the oath of the gods, the relentless water of Styx -- I
would have made your dear son deathless and unaging all his days
and would have bestowed on him everlasting honour, but now he can
in no way escape death and the fates.  Yet shall unfailing honour
always rest upon him, because he lay upon my knees and slept in
my arms.  But, as the years move round and when he is in his
prime, the sons of the Eleusinians shall ever wage war and dread
strife with one another continually.  Lo!  I am that Demeter who
has share of honour and is the greatest help and cause of joy to
the undying gods and mortal men.  But now, let all the people
build be a great temple and an altar below it and beneath the
city and its sheer wall upon a rising hillock above Callichorus.
And I myself will teach my rites, that hereafter you may
reverently perform them and so win the favour of my

How unfitting it is that I should be,
Hoping you might return home to me.

I'm not one so special, in this time of need,
So I'll tell you now, my words, do heed.

I won't bring you bliss, can't give you a kiss,
Not slight happiness, not any of this.

So why do you, now, give me your love,
When mine for you, fits not like a glove.

It's mangled and dark, and so very sharp,
Not pretty like yours that rings like a harp.

The beauty in me is what not to be,
I show little children, work not to be me.

I may teach a lesson and I teach it strong,
But even the strong doesn't last all that long.

My spirit proves weak, and quite a bit meek,
My future is bleak, it's Satan's blood I leak.

It's not that I lack a love for our Lord,
But rather that I can't carry His sword.

So why is it when, I ask how you feel,
You prepare words so gently, like a delicious meal.

Can you not see that I can't carry you high,
Shall you stay with me, to Heaven say goodbye.

I won't make it there, or anywhere near,
My sins keep me out, yet I still fear.

The truth is not good like you've shown to me,
Such beauty you have, and will always be.

I'm sorry to say that our dreams are just dreams,
When we live life with such different themes.

I love you so much and I always will,
But that space in your heart, I'm too small to fill.

I can't hold you back, when it's time to go,
But I wish you the best, this you must know.

You're just like the night, when the moon shines so bright,
And there's not a cloud, to cover your light.

Shall The Lord call you now, don't worry about me,
How unfitting it is that I love you, eternally.

I am pretty sure I'm in love with you. I love the way your freckles fall perfectly in place like the ones the draw on American girl dolls. I love the way you smile, crinkling up your small little noes and squinting your eyes like the books you always read have damaged not only your adjustment to light, but the way you see earth so that now everything seems unfitting. Unfitting for a king like you. I love the way your hair looks like you just woke up. I love the way you smell. I love the way you walk like a character from the Incredibles, hopping around. I love the way you look when you read one of your novels. I love your eyes. Your eyes I could stare at forever. Reminding me of our first conversation, time I complemented your eyes . Your eyes. As if some one took the bluest lake out of your newest book and shrunk them. I love the way you talk. I love the way your voice sounds when you read aloud. It reminds me of being a kid, curled up in my pink cat pajamas, listening to my father read Good Night Moon. I love the way you dress. I love the way you laugh. I love you. But to you I'm just a friend. The person you get the homework from as you rush to study exactly 5.5 seconds before a test. I'm just the girl you smile at. But I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. I love the way you acknowledge me as just a friendly face. I love the way the way I love you is just a secret.

Growing ever so fearful
Afraid of who lives next door
Why do they talk funny?
Do not associate with their kind
They are the spawn of evil
Away with our jobs we deem unfitting
Why are they here
This is our home
But did we not steal it from natives
Who are we to judge
Why do we judge
Why do we preserve our way
When there is nothing to preserve
Lies!
Filth and vermin you say
I call friends and family
Nothing more
Nothing less

I don't fit.
If only it were that easy. If only I could go to a different store and find a better size. If only I could unzip this skin and find a better fit.
My body feels foreign as I move and stretch, watching my reflection in the mirror. This cannot be me. It can't be.
Because I do not have ******* today. I do not have a large, curvaceous body.
No. Today, I should have a flat chest. I should have muscular arms and stubble on my chin.
But I don't.
Instead I see who I once was. Who I was yesterday is not who I am today is not who I will be tomorrow. I want my current body.
I want the body that fits.

to write a poem about you
the fleeting, unknown presence of you
a seeming hippie in flight
dislocated to these locked lands of 'might'
i might, i may
you are a presence of try and some day
a enforcer of push
and hitter of that beautiful, blossoming kush
you will bleed from these layered grasses of country sorrow
off to a greater and better tomorrow
rooted in a new proclaimed essence of you
those lands will wash and embed your coded hands of can do

She runs the purple corridors of an inexplicable tenor;
forgetting the voice--in connotation of the congealed, mushy-make and pith.
'Victoria, you're dancing inside the bag of veins,
that creep the blood crooked to my brain.

'Your living in there, you know?
Forever, for ever
and ever for the time past ever.

'Stay in there. You were born in there.
You will live in there. You will-
live in there.

'Lovely, your lips do mock and expedite this breath.
A succinct touch even joshes my lungs.'

Alone she is;
together the sinews of my center-piece and she
be.

Only ever has it been her,
only ever will it be her,
simply never will no other
be.

Don’t just comment on others life
First try to walk on their shoes
Find out the hardness
When the shoes doesn’t fit and is lose

You have that fitting shoes
You are positive
Once try with a large size
And find out why I am negative

Don’t you think, I have tried
To make it fit by sewing
Your shoes are comfortable
So no need of altering

Let’s just exchange our shoes for sometime my dear
You experience with mine and I do the same with yours
When you find out the difference

Ask yourself whether the comment you gave was fair

A space so unfitting
A space tired, not so uplifting
“Rehab”
”Rehab”
”Rehabilitate my space”, you pled
And I did
I did just that once you, out of town, fled
Back in town, it was going to be a monumental surprise
One that you and I could share and sleep in that night
That night and all the nights to follow
When you witnessed your new space you could barely swallow
Chocking back tears, I had succeeded in my mission
Now this space, you share with your new person
Does she like the color blue?
What about the gold accents I detailed just for you?
It’s your space, and hers now
I hope the dark shadows of your new space haunt you, watch over you like an owl
In witness of you two interlaced
With someone who has now taken my place
To lavender I retreat
That shade of navy and I never to re-meet

It's strange
the way a cluster of neurons in your head reacting to some particular stimulus can make your heart feel like hamburger meat
As if there really is a hole in there, and everyone can see right through it.
What kind of strange fiction allowed debilitating pain to come from a mere firing sinapse?
How unfitting, that such an incomprehensibly small and silent event begets the destruction of worlds.
You'd think
that with the breaking of a heart should come some ceremony
Smashing of a gong, ringing bells, the flight of a thousand crows or even the sound of breaking glass.
But we're left with heavy dreams that tug at our consciousness and even heavier moments upon waking and remembering that you have a hole there, that everyone can see right through
that didn't even warrant shattering dinnerware.

The next time you wander through
the Forest,
give attention to
what makes it live.

From towering oak trunk to timid
wisps of grasses,
Wind
blows through.

Though rampant branches jut
in chaotic cacophony,
wind calms the fray:
harmonic, swaying, symphony.

To refer to Wind by her name
seems almost unfitting.
Product of the sun itself,
impossible to be un-felt,

Wind pervades.
She's a comforting breeze on a calm day,
who soothes whatever goes wrong,
forever on the mind when she's gone.

Perhaps Wind could be better called
by a name that captures all
her beautiful, ceaseless soul,
twisting through life.

My Love,
they should call the wind

Mariah

children should be seen and not heard Odysseus is not a complainer he keeps quiet he is taught to choke his voice swallow his hurt Mom and Dad are always arguing at one another raising their voices fighting he endures his parent’s criticism follows their orders he is trained to be obedient no negotiating his parents inhabit a surface world of strict protocol everyone laughs but it is a pretend way to dismiss what is actually occurring as long as they say i love you to each other then everything is accorded technically all right no matter how dysfunctional or painful the truth existence is a difficult challenge often overwhelming Mom and Dad push Odysseus in directions he does not want to go instead of surrendering to their wills he acts in response in fact a whole personality is being formed based on his reactions and having nothing to do with who he truly is how he actually feels he feels frightened by the world stressed by all the expectations put upon him in many ways he is way too sensitive crippled by his own sensitivity self-betrayed by his thin-skinned hypersensitivity he stays in his bedroom with the door closed he paints or plays with toy soldiers and watches TV he does not know where Penelope is maybe she is in her bedroom Penelope means everything they share secrets and conspiracies and a common enemy in Mom and Dad Penelope is the only one who recognizes his predicament sense of helplessness anxiety pain she is more nurturing than Mom Penelope and Odysseus have a special connection share a common or similar reference of perception Odysseus desperately needs to believe in his parents maybe Mom and Dad do not understand and assign unfitting advice maybe Mom and Dad do not support him in ways he needs but they are still his parents he values believes looks up to them they rooted that in him even if it is out of fear rather than respect he will always venerate Mom and Dad no matter what Odysseus wants to make his parents proud he loves and needs them Mom is an important person always on the go planning dinners dashing out the door gossiping on the phone buying and returning clothes getting them altered going to the hair salon meeting with the girls for lunch she is a busy lady and has a lot of friends Mom is more concerned about how things look than what is actually going on with her children parenting is a secondary concern to Mom’s hectic agenda of social popularity deep inside Odysseus believes Mom loves him he needs to believe that he paints a red heart on white sheet of paper and writes inside the heart in brown colored pencil MOM when he turns it upside down he reads WOW he reasons whether it is out of obligation or guilt or a mother’s tendency Mom loves him he does not understand but he is grateful secretly Odysseus is hurting bad his feelings are easily upset more and more he experiences a disturbed point of view he tries to ignore it  sometimes his thoughts run to morbid extremes he wonders why he cannot just accept and get along often he wants to be good and get better other times he wants to destroy himself things are chaotic and troubling at home he wishes he or his family would die his teachers complain he is a dreamer with behavioral problems he does not excel academically after eighth grade Mom and Dad are notified their son is not to return to Harper Mom cries to the school Principal in his office begging him to let her son stay the Principal refuses Dad lights a cigarette and exclaims to hell with Harper we’ll find Odys a better school Odysseus tells Mom he is going to be known someday not like celebrities on TV rather recognized for some great achievement Mom believes him and never stops believing in Odysseus

Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit  
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival

What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?

Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling

Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast

Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play

A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect

That 1 lengthy and detailed conversation we had as I fixed her a hot bubble bath, it was very necessary to figure out the pattern in which each of our souls orbited around one another's life. Life. It seems that in the seams of this biographical regime, we get lost in between 2 wings, steering without a true tale, leading with our beaks instead of our two feet. Finding elation through impatience. Determination to fly without defining our own matrix. At that particular time I just wanted to slowly sit your soft body down into that pool of lavender scented steamed water, but everything you had to say nearly drowned me. The invisible crown I continuously placed on your head suddenly vanished as my imagination panicked. I always thought that my mind was backed up by my heart which was backed up by your art. Oh how gentle you scribble. I have to erase line by line, direction by direction, affection by affection, disconnect on top off disconnection. Difficulties I'm having while looking at you lather but no longer seeing you in the picture. Watching you lave as you give me your take on how our relationship was shaped was a bit unfitting. In my mind "it's inevitable that she's open for bidding". I'm lounged against the sink in a bind. Bonded by your fondness, then detached by your honest responses. How blunt you are and how drunk I'm soon to be. Wasted vibrations, my mouth began to tremble. Somehow I find an idea to cause the both of us to tickle. Temporary bliss. Moreover all of my hard efforts that night turned out to be the worst shift. I went from pleased to please. Expectedly you never tried to appease by appealing to my needs. Draining water like my decaying heart. Drying off reminds me of my suffocated feelings. Lotion as I drink this 40% potion. Hoping of hydrated coping. Can you leave? So I can shower, attempting to rinse away the most beautifully devastating hour.

Longing for someone
an unfitting feeling
like the math teacher
with a New York accent
teaching in Wisconsin

Waiting
for the baton to go down
so I can stop pretending
and let the anger free
the last note of an opera

Tuning out
like putting earbuds in
everything echoes through
but falls short from me
an incomplete pass
or a fumble

Moving on
infinite and torturous
an unending bootcamp
ending only in tears
and a reinforced spine

Tonight, I'll be at it again.

I'll search the streets like
A detective searching for a
Lost child. Ironic, isn't it,
that detectives are looking for me?

But I'm undetectable, because
I look just like everyone else.
Except I'm not like everyone else;
I'm a monster, Satan in the flesh.

I'm a skilled hunter, just like
A lion. I'll sneak up on you,
And you won't know I'm there
Until I'm tearing into your skin.

The media is saying I get off on
This, well, maybe I do.
Every scream and cry for help
Is stored carefully in my brain.

The term "serial killer" is so
Unfitting. Although I do prefer
Pretty blondes with blue eyes, I'd
**** just about anyone.

Their eyes are my favorite;
That's what gets me every time.
The way they fill with horror
Just before the life drains from them,

It's exhilarating; it's ****.
I cannot deny that it
Gets me off, it's the biggest
Thrill I've ever felt.

And the media lies to the
People, saying I'll be caught
And you'll be safe. I am
Unstoppable, I'll never be found.

I'm your worst nightmare;
Lucifer is my middle name.
This is all a game to me,
And it will never end.

Tonight, I'll be at it again.

vision's hazy
don't know where to go
never have known
such faded distorted lines

im falling
into the pits
of my own
mind

i shriek
and i scream
i choke
and wheeze

the path is broken
hasn't it always been?
i am
truly lost

i am no longer me
i am only now
trapped
in another body

caged thoughts in
quite an
unfitting corpse
broken always.

my mind
is fading
i have become
a mindless drone

ensnared in
the emotion
of indifference

i am overcome with
the want to feel
something

it has always
been the same
endless cycle
continuous repetition

have i
become numb
to the capabilities
of true love?

my mind
breaks into
periods
of screaming ecstacy

i am breaking
i am screaming
as the sun approaches

i long for
a world
that i may be
free again
(b.d.s.)

enjoy
that last sunny day
felt the last of their warmth
at nightfall
the chill comes in
the trees prepare for winters sleep
heavy silence of frozen mornings
...the heaviest of silences
a peace unfitting
amidst a world of chaos
just smile
pretend
enjoy

The slow winding years sliced up here:
Your birthday: that memorable year
New year O'seven,
that festival of lights,
Sulis,
Brussels;
Years that rolled like mellow waves:
Receding, returning;
Slices of joy.
Photographed here.
But pain, is all curled up.
Jarring notes, unfitting angles
caged like birds
grieving in the corners of our souls
where we return, each time
the bass is strummed at the string of our hearts.
Half-drawn breath, part-held lungs
Moist pain I see in the corners of your eyes.
Let go, let go, let us let go.
This hour of receding darkness,
let them fly away
free with babblers that ring in the day;
Freed, freed of the burdens past,
let's walk in the wind
into crimson tides
to tipping waves,
dipping skies.

Four life-size lipsticks jive, they
groove in tune with costumed comrades:
the monstrous tapeworm, unfitting for even
a family of whales, head held high like
homemade dragons on Chinese New Year, or
the bald man decked out in navy felt, garb
saturated with plastic spoons he
needs to get laid.

But the lipsticks in their red, red heels, with
human eyeholes hidden behind fabric, which
shows the blend of castor & chemicals, what hue:
dark crimson or barracuda berry?

They wear but a fraction of the common ingredients
used for dressing up,
makeup as the encore.
It stains the lips,
the coffee rims around the country,
the chests of restricted lovers.
Let us celebrate the metaphor of makeup
on this festus day--where it’s excusable to act out
the fantasies of being not
ourselves.

things start to make sense as soon as you start feeling like background music instead of the main character in your own life and you'll start staring down at your shoes a lot and watching your phone die without making the effort to charge it again.
you'll feel lonely but never intend on making the effort to speak to anyone and you'll start looking for love in drunk encounters and every corner you can find it but it's not really love it's fake smiles and cold showers afterwards. you'll start to listen to songs that sound like all the apologies you want to tell them and watch sunrises that look like forgiveness.
you start spending a lot of time in busy coffee shops but at empty tables and in bed but never asleep.
and you'll start to realize that they haven't missed you in weeks and your hands started to shake more after they stopped holding them.
you'll begin closing yourself off again and silently apologizing to the next person that tries to love you.
you'll start drinking whenever you're around friends because if you don't they'll ask you why you're so quiet and silence is so much worse than slurred speech filling every gap and unfitting laughs every two minutes. then you realize you're just as needy as you were when you were three and someone had to rub your back to get you to fall asleep and all they had to do was tell you they love you for everything to make sense.

The universe is testing me
It did not inquire
When there was plenty
Of opportunity

It picked the right timing
That it could not be
Rather unmistakably
More unfitting

Had I been asked before
I would have been certain
About my answer
But now I am bewildered

How am I to dismiss
When each time
The suspension is tempting

How can it come to an end
When soon enough
Never seems to arrive late

A clash with the universe
As it forces me to reassess
The choices
I am about to make
When really
I should not be
Doubting

Even for just a second.

Their  spirits are tired,
Their spirits disfaithened
Can not so remember
Why they are, are so parched.
This soul that does wander
Hops bodies forever.
They hope to find one shell
Filled Full to quench their thirst.

A people so angry
Has become cynical.
Bodies don't remember
The feats of old lives.
Like old men are old souls,
So medicine drugged up,
Bitter in tiredness,
Stubbornly they unchange.

In anger I'm waiting
For one life more suiting,
Not inevitably.
Maybe I'm trapped here in
Here in this body thing.
I can not stand my luck.
A spirit unfitting
Cursed men and women both.

I can, atleast, dream of
Something my memory
Is sure to be clear of.
Future brawls in bodies,
Pasts I can't be sure of,
Warriors that I was,
Brains that I did mess up,
Were all my souls doing.

A hummingbird’s fragile heart can beat up to 1260 beats per minute.
That’s a whopping 21 beats per second,
Which is rather fitting,
Because my pumping ***** manically pounds against my chest at a constant rate.
It only comprehends one anxious speed: fast.
What is also fitting,
Is that hummingbirds are capable of flying in all different sporadic directions,
And I am never meant to be in one place.
We are not meant to have a standard sightseeing radius of one cul-de-sac,
But rather drift and soar to various dimensions and realities.
Without this freedom, we both simply cease to exist as an entity.
And so, when we find ourselves trapped-
Which is the one primitive and instinctual fear birds and humans alike have in common-
Desperation and panic cannot begin to describe
The depth of the dark cave of unfitting enclosure
In which our brightly vibes of body and mind find ourselves in.
We ****** and thrash ourselves in a suicidal manner against the bars,
We refuse food and drink in silent protest and rebellion,
And then beg and plead with our captors to be let free at last,
Wondering why, the hummingbird and I, deserve to suffer.
What did we do?
Claustrophobia is a serious issue. And it does not have to be in the form of a cage.
And it chokes.
Hummingbirds are delicate creatures.
If you squeeze too tightly, their eyes will bulge out of their skull,
And their heart will race to extreme measures,
Until they are crushed and are no more,
Leaving the captor’s hands wet and sopping
With blood and guts and feathers.
Please do not crush me.

that blond girl
with long long hair
is a color
of delightful luminosity
glaring
by a precise
poetic sensuality
of the tongue
tapping the palate
hitting the right note
concurrently
manifesting a tone
an equivalence of a smile
in all worlds

She –
made of lustrous transparent rose skin
is a goddess of temptation
the curling ice queen
on a museum floor
manifesting ****** to
not believing eyes
once dressed up
in tightly packed dark clothing
unfitting to the straight torso

jutting out the shine of
her far away alluring looks
the porter of ancient nordic landscapes is her eyes
which you’d choiceless fly through

She – the divine breeze made to softly aerate
angelic locks –
innocence of youthful dreams
joy may you call her laughter -unheard – freezing time
rebuilding traces of an unlived dream

She is here today

to harmonize the thought chords
attuned by the subtle passage
made of blurry sets of colors and lines
flowing at a readable rate  
along the dark November backgrounds
of an intoxicated Sunday morning

Red is still red in the neon
as if too early to be awake
clock hitting the afternoon
wall of fame signs rolling lonely
to haunt ghosts of yesterday nights
which have never come alive until they got brighter than the stars

Dark that shall make the silhouettes forget and reanimate
the never starting and neverending play of zombies
looking for a pure soul

always somewhere else
failing to find one

Flashes of illusion swept by the persistent horns

to be replaced in their place
not as divinity
but as an administrative layer of impurity
All replaceable at once
while everyday stays the same
while everyday they think is different
except for the old man

the old man doesn’t think
wearing a cap
sits there outside
at the most invisible corner of an old theater café

He sees everything he has three eyes
He hears everything he has three ears
He reads everything always the same newspaper
turning the pages in the same tempo of this chimerical dream

I am being observed I know
while writing beside him
and he says silently :
I don’t wanna read yours
but I can read you
if i want to
and he attempts to go
many many times

while I write I wish him stay
as if keeping an admirer beside my words
an anonymous faceless friend
and I speed up as I walk fast with my pen I fly
and he gravitates back to his chair again
restlessly

I want to finish this up quickly and walk away at once without even looking at him not even once
that’s the perfect scenario I think mixing up a reality to a dream
considering the urgent importance of this line makes me immerse and see nothing other than the self  but alas the traffic lights turn to green

and She – the profile of my beauty queen
holding a beaker to go
raises her head dancingly
arcs the neck
and in slow motion
throws a laughter to the air
whose weight should be a blissful wiege
for my loving looks –
made of a shape of a missing
of what I could have never been
– halving her pink coat in well fitting blue to her jeans

and she steps forward to fade away
leaving me chained to the glorious gravity
of this untouchable dream

on this invisible island of mirrors
which neither she nor anybody else has ever seen
but me

hopelessly sculpting now
a reflection of an illusion
made real
through the weight of these words
me is  a sad melody
of an autumn leaf
falling for her dream

Days as such when i seek out such a person
That of whose skin glitters elegant jewels
Whose smile dares the sun to shine brighter
A person whose bare aroma challenges the potency of heavens roses
Said person whose imperfections hammer the unfitting pieces into the places in the puzzle that constructs them

Validated
Among
Love
Eminent to
Notions of
Tedious
Inserts of
Neverending
Elation

Where art thou, my Valentine?

I imagine
your nightgown limps sadly against your trotting legs
The light becomes
choppy
Trapped between your gowns effortless sway
piouretting from
room to window
towards the moon
back to bed
where
snowflake kissed sheets grow
unbearably cold underneath the night sky's icy breath
Close the window
"Dont, pelase, don't..."
shivering,
The gown
a peek-a-boo
into skin that can't form goosebumps any more
peachy silk coating
flowers
stay still
plastered smiles across all of those
good God fearing faces
A fabric
Unfitting
for a mind so
chaotic and chemically smeared
In a funk,
a different time,
a different place

I've removed myself from the watches' ruthless reign
I'm a glazed donut
that look in your eye,
Where does it end?
a black pit,
a bottomless barrel
some
puny animal shot down in the middle of the woods
eyelids dry like pork rinds
Perfect loops decorate the top of your cut thighs

"Who's here to pet my hair?"
my hair,
as shallow as the shore's waves
unlike the deadly tsunami festering underneath it
Pet my arm.
Graze it with your soothing fingertips
Warm sparks fly madly
dancing atop
a cold log
deadwood that never made it past the beaches of your boundless regret
"I didn't realize it'd grow this quickly...
when I,
mentally shoved the flames of my disease inside of my mouth."
"I thought it'd...burn out."
"The pit of my stomach now filled with the flashing signs of panic and
puke"
All across the side of your bed
spines don't fall into any more
a dark room
"Who's here to make the noise to fill the empty caverns of my bustling brain?"
A dark room
Words fall into it
Stumbling across the bumps of your
nauseating hips
"Who's here to scream back?'
Laughter sounds so far away when I'm here in my timeless prison
Sun creeps out of the curtains
light falls like broken piano keys into you
mucous made mask
and puke

I couldn't find God today
and the Devil was swimming my cereal bowl

New Text Message; 3:03,
read you wanted to see me,
but as you ****** me from behind,
my face was the last thing on your mind.

I know this is what I signed up for,
simply *** and nothing more,
but lately I've been feeling,
my pulse race in anticipation of our next meeting.

Realized I had it in for you bad,
when you mentioned how many other girls you had,
and I smiled, played along, and lied,
pretending you weren't the only guy of mine.

You don't even know the right thing to call me,
when you breathe "Madison" and not "Maddie",
I hate my name,
it's unfitting and plain.

Yet I discovered when your lips form those very sounds that I despise,
if just for a moment, there's nothing I'd rather go by.

To you it's just another night with another girl,
to me it's about more than the way my toes curl.
When you leave, the only thing I have to remember you by,
are your moans echoing in my ears and bruises on my thighs.

You said "this is the best view in the world, I could ******* forever",
like I was the only one who could bring you pleasure,
but I'm aware if it came down to it,
you wouldn't know if my eyes are green or sort of blue-ish.

The sad thing is I'm hanging on to every moment,
I have with you waiting to one day find my spirit broken.

"I never saw his glimpse more than once at a time. That one look was always enough to make my heart leap into my throat, though. I knew he was not perfect, how could he be? But still, his grapevine hair, almost lighter than his skin, and those lips, ragged, but still the most delicate shade of pink, curled around his ever-burning cigarette, whose smoke reflected in his deep, clear, dark eyes... It all had an air of age unfitting to his cherubic smile and his childish voice. He only ever looked at me very briefly, even when we spoke. I don't know if we could have become friends, and there still sits in me something that doesn't want to find out."

On the sixth day,
God created Man.
On the seventh day,
God rested.
And for days and days onwards,
Man demanded
more, more, more.

We devoured every piece of fruit
from the Tree of Knowledge,
yet we still held out our grubby,
juice-stained hands,
asking Him
for more of the forbidden ammonia.

And still,
God provided.

His tired hands,
worn from work,
fashioned miracle after miracle
to feed our selfish desires
yet
it
was
never
enough.

To call ourselves
the superior species
would be too self-gratuitous,
too unfitting.

How can we call humankind
the top of the food chain
when humankind
has lost all of its humanity?