It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen.
I was murdered 100 years ago on Halloween.
A man accused me of vandalizing his house but I didn't do it.
I told him that I was innocent but sadly, I could not prove it.
He grabbed his double-barreled shotgun and I was shot.
He threw my corpse down his well and there it would rot.
When I was killed, I became a ghost.
Revenge was what I wanted the most.
And I got exactly what I wanted.
That man committed suicide after being haunted.
I haunted him for months and he couldn't take it anymore.
He shot himself in the head and his corpse fell to the floor.
I haunt that man's house on Halloween, I haunt it once a year.
If you come to this house on Halloween, you will experience fear.
That man murdered me and when he died, he went straight to Hell.
Stay away from this house on Halloween or I will haunt you as well.

I am a Muslim, not a terrorist.
Don‘t judge me because of my religion. Don‘t judge us all the same. My religion teaches me peace. My religion teaches me love. It tells me to show compassion, not what you think of us.
I have only one request. That I‘d kindly wish you to look beyond the hate and hurt, and see Muslims are just like you. Peaceful. Loving. Caring. We have families too.
Terrorizing and vandalizing isn‘t Islam heritage.
Muslim, Catholic, Atheist, yellow, black, white, men, women and children. We are all born to this world for a purpose. We are in a world full of discrimination, based on our religion, color, nationality and gender.
Yet, they propagate Islam with a bad image, wich is a huge damage.
They call me terrorist, they call me danger. I‘m feeling like a stranger.
Remember, there is only one world and it is all for us.
We Muslims are the holders of peace, we spread love. Why am I being represented by their false actions?
They say that they are Muslims and they say, they stand for Islam. If they are Muslims, their actions would show it.
Muslims stand in prayer. Shoulder to shoulder, to stop the devil winning.
A terrorist kills someone and Muslims are blamed, a Christian kills someone and he‘s just a ******.
Violence is not Islam.
Terrorists are not Muslims.
Alhamdullilah I am Muslim.
-Nura

They sat across the table from one another. One girl staring at her notebook. The other’s eyes fixed on her classmate. On the broadside of the table sat a dark haired woman, the only smiling face in the room. The shy girl’s crimson hair hung out from under her hooded sweatshirt as she sketched axes on the front of her notebook. The other girl’s golden locks hung in curls around her face. Her beauty was undeniable, as was the disdain in her eyes.
“So, can one of you two describe to me what happened today on that stairwell?” asked Mrs. White, the guidance counselor at Jacob Grimm High. Despite the gossip floating around the school about her, a smile was always plastered on her face. Most of the children found this unbearably creepy. “Nothing ma’am. We were just having a friendly conversation, when that pig came along and insisted, very forcefully, that we come here,” the blonde said, sarcastically, her eyes never letting go of their gaze on the other girl.
Mrs. White chuckled “That’s not how it happened, Goldie. C’mon, tell us your side of things.” Goldie rolled her eyes. “Well, Mrs. White, it’s like this: my bio class was just letting out, and I was heading down to calculus. She comes flying UP the DOWN stairs, like a maniac, slamming into my shoulder. I hit her, she hit me back. Now we’re here.”
“Is that true, Ms. Ridinghood?” asked Mrs. White, turning her head to the other girl.
“Not entirely,” she answered, finally joining the conversation. “Ms. Princess here was going up those stairs before I even got to them. To be honest, I was zoned out, just following the sheep. I’m not having the best day, so a friend gave me something to take the edge off this morning. I was following her up the down stairs, apparently and she turned around and started coming at me, shoving my shoulder as she walked past, then got offended – like I did something wrong – and hit me. So I punched her back. We wrestled for a minute before the rent-a-cop came and broke it up.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. White turned to Goldie, who was looking down the floor. “Goldie, why were you going back up the stairs?” ,
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“So you did go back up the stairs and come down a second time?”
“It was actually my third time,” Goldie admitted, embarrassed. “The first time I went too fast, the second time I went too slow. That time would have been just right. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . Go ahead, laugh it up.”
“No one’s laughing,” Mrs. White assured her. Although Red was a little, until Mrs. White turned to her. “Can you tell me why it is you needed to be ‘zoned out’ today?”
“None of your business, that’s why,” Red snapped.
“I have read your file, I know what day it is.”
“Then why did you have to bring it up?” Red was now agitated.
“For Goldie to hear. So you can better understand one another.”
“*******! What kind of understanding am I to get from this preppy ***** with a silver spoon up her ***? I’ve spit puddles deeper than her!” The two girls rose up, over the table. Mrs. White was able to get in between them.
“Now, both of you need to just calm down and talk this out like civil adults. Keep in mind, this is your only alternative to expulsion. “
Once everyone regained themselves, Red spoke again, this time directly to Goldie.
“Six years ago, today, my grandmother was murdered.” Goldie began to see Red with new eyes. “Remember The Wolf
“That guy who went around vandalizing houses?” ?”
“Yeah. He was hiding out in the woods. I was going to visit my grandma, who lived out that way. I saw him. He’d shaved so I hadn’t recognized him from the news. I told him I was going to my grandma’s place, dumb idea—I know. He suggested a different route, said it’d be shorter. By the time I got there, grams was gone. He was in her bed, dressed like her, waiting for me. His eyes…were so…big. If it wasn’t for Larry, a woodsman working nearby, I would be dead too.”
“I heard about that! That was you? Wow…I’m sorry. ” Goldie shook her head in amazement, then added, “Didn’t the woodsman chop off his head?”
“No. He shot him. Larry carries a gun when he’s working in that forest, because of all the dangerous things that happen there.”
“No doubt, that place is freaky. I got lost in it once, when I was six. I ended up at this cabin. I thought it was abandoned. Imagine my surprise when the family came home. I was sleeping in the kid’s bed, and I’d eaten their food too. I think I even broke something.”
“How’d that play out?”
“I did some time in juvy for property damage and theft.”
“Wow…that’s so messed up. At least you learned your lesson, right?”
“Oddly enough, no. When I turned eleven I started breaking into people’s houses. I mean, I didn’t take anything, just slept in their beds, or watched TV. I never got caught again.” Goldie sounded mildly disappointed.
“You know,” Red interjected “we are a couple of freaks, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Hey…where did Mrs. White go?” Goldie said, finally realizing that Mrs. White had made an escape somewhere in the midst of their discussion.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh well…did you hear she has seven midgets living with her?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Red said.
On that note, the bell rang, and the two girls left the room giggling like old friends.

Our men are heroes, of course.

They protect us, gun in hand,
against enemies plastered on posters
vandalizing once-beautiful stone storefronts.
More every day.
Stapled on top of one another
until words blend.

"But now,"
the overly made-up woman at the podium says,
"women can do our part."

They’ve gathered other pretty blondes
with symmetrical features measured
by a myriad of devices.

          Beautiful,

              demure

                   women

with

          beautiful,

              Aryan

                    genes
to breed with our handsome heroes.

Because women,
and the children we bear,
are the key to Germany’s future.  

I glance at the woman to my right,
eyes skiing down the ***** of her nose
to rest on smiling lips.
Is the blush on her cheeks genuine,
or set by rouge?

It suits her.

She catches me staring.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I throw my attention back to the woman
glorifying human broodmares.

Heat assaults my cheeks.

“Your rouge is lovely.”
Her whisper warms me.
“Can you believe this?
Us, with war heroes?”

She sighs.
I can practically see the dream
play through the air.

A husband coming home in uniform,
splaying a hand on her swollen belly
and kissing her forehead.

A fantasy.

These men…
they’ll come,
take what they want from us for granted
and claim they did us a favor
when they leave us alone
with child.

But my fingers would dance
never-ending pirouettes
across that porcelain skin.
Swirl intricate patterns
through golden hair,
all for that sigh
to carry a dream with me in it.

come one, come all.
gather 'round, gather 'round the table.
you'll find your invitations—
corporations' coupons—packed
between stories of Indigenous
People, shot by militarized cops in riot gear.
Water Protectors defending the river
while a black snake rears to poison the well.
tear gas, rubber bullets, and concussion grenades
replace ragged blankets draped in smallpox.
a tradition rooted in genocide
upheld in frigid North Dakota.
no need to ponder
the lasting legacy
of a leader who campaigned
on "hope" and "change." a hypocrite
continuing a tradition of colonial
aggression, lying by omission.
just another facet
of his presidential profession.
so drown the news of a fascist's
election in gravy and eggnog,
viscous substances to gorge
yourselves on. Nazis vandalizing
black churches with swastikas
must've escaped your notice.
vacuous, preaching
that Jesus is the reason
for the season, but i think
your savior would flip
your Thanksgiving Table over.
flimsy pretenses of gratitude
discarded hours later, chasing deals
before your stomach could even settle.
your brand new 4K TV
cost you over $4K, but couldn't give you
a clearer picture. you continue to disregard
the smoke signs and headlines,
pursuing the material.
consume!

These people...they're obsessive. Hoarders of memorabilia associating success with handshakes, photographs and play-dates. I'm surrounded by squiggly lines vandalizing art and silhouettes of super-heated sand granules encasing a substance so vile that it permanently damages the frontal lobe of the collective consciousness. Inspirations float helplessly about the sea of underachievers and people-pleasers. What is success? Is it simply to impress the people around you? To instill envy upon your enemy? I won't even begin to dissect the differences. I can't even begin to protect the witnesses. The costumes are insignificant. The same tired, scared, eyes stare blankly at themselves from behind every mask. The ladder needs some broken rungs. The bladder bleeds; soaked in ***.  People milling about, spilling their sins. Reaching out sure looks a lot like clawing, and what is the difference between pleading and begging? May it be the same difference between dancing and squirming? No matter what we do, we all feel unworthy.  So, I guess all that's left is: Learning.  Teaching, not preaching. Boy, this place sure is unnerving.  A shuffling mass of introverts sent into a downward spiraling life of discomfort, soon to be snuffed out with possessions.  The empathy for the undead is utterly apparent, and arguably, inherent. Looking for answers in dusty pages and plastic heroes.  Punks, Drunks, Nerds, *****.  Women with bright hair and crooked teeth. Men replacing the hair they've lost on their heads with that which sprouts from their chins.  I need a drink, I think.  But in actuality what I need is a warm bed and a couple centuries of sleep.

Here I am hunched over another
stomachache, another mistake,
and all I can do is watch the bruises form and darken.

The first time I met you
was a corner table in a coffee shop
with blackberry water and toes frozen solid.
Mint chocolate chip nights, vandalizing desks,
scrubbing grimy dance floors—
it was my kind of falling in love.
Less like falling, blushing, butterflies;
more like a face plant onto the sidewalk
(unexpected, clumsy, bleeding).

But maybe love isn’t french kissing and slow songs.
It’s forehead kisses, dreaming of Japan,
listening to post-rock.

I think you knew, though,
that our ice cream would melt and our sparklers would die out.
Now I’m the beggar on the street corner:
“’Scuse me sir, do you have any love to spare?”
Or change.
Pennies and dimes jingle in my cup holder,
but change is what cracked my plastic heart and ripped my paper skin.

I’m weaker now, but not poorly made;
There’s been no knock-out punch or final words.
Just bare-fist brawling, searing insults,
bruises,
bleeding.

there ought to be a law about love
but so many people would be sent to jail
for vandalizing heart, and you're quite

the troublemaker.

Today as I read about the vandalizing and the bomb threats I feel, no realize that may be as important as ever.

       I Am Jewish

I read about

An upgrade of the Jewish hate

To say nothing of the Jewish state:

Renewal and revival

That makes the Jew a rival

Present and eternal.


Pressed anew

To say “I am a Jew”

Interned in worlds of other faiths,

Each based

On love

But peopled by

A fractured many

Filled with fractured understanding,

Wear my Star of David,

Feel the coming holidays

With childhood love of coming days,

As always,

Living with those few-ish

Who know also that they’re Jewish,

Forced by some upbringing me,

Living, as I always have in lands where I, minority

Forget, neglect, omit so easily

My true identity:

I am become the Jew I’m born to be.


I Am Jewish 10.17.2016

To The Child Mystic II; Pure Nakedness;

Arlene Corwin

The sky split, cracked open through sheer force. A spectre’s mind is hailed away to a foreign shore, nestled amongst unsolidified generalities, binding it to the aftermath of time’s relevance. Hope came in a voided sun, imploding in the sky over Bethlehem, and through its transparency, a vision of the end was brought forth to this unjust land, where filth rules supremacy, and dominion is granted for a grandfather’s pittance. It displayed the market value of a soul through a diminished stance, collapsing on the shore as violent waves crash and beat the resonant senses held within.

…

Contemporaries held in fear, chucked and pushed down back alleys, ending up under the pier, vandalizing a vanquished peer, awkward glances insuring no one is near. Washed away with the evening tide, passed up to the coast after a lifeless ride. Broken down, drifting with the stream, token now, drifting with the dream.
Naturalized and neutered before a board of advisors, composed of highly unsanitary elders, pieces of flawn stuck to the chin, picked up while eating from another’s bin. Dictated and deemed to seem all right, recreations shown on daily late night, refracted and turned into a joke, remuneration held as big brother had spoke. Patience restored as order forms in line, hastened into place by fluorinated wine, individuals return to their lives, and negligently pass over recent lies.

Captivating is the boat sailing across the ocean,
Alluring are the winds blowing from the Sahara,
Amnesiac are the long winter nights in my bed,
Vandalizing are my thoughts and dreams which never came true,

I walk alone and journey across the world,
I fight the thundery and cold storms of the desert,
I cuddle in my bed during the Winters to keep myself from getting cold,
And I cry as none of my hopes may ever come true,

As I walk alone the only thing that accompanies me is my shadow,
The curvy paths of the desert and the runny sand swallow me into their crust,
The blanket that I wear to protect myself acts as a shield,
And my tears that I shed they mend and teach me what its like to be heart broken.

A dystopian paradise, you're both in one
Turning sweet into sour
Reproduced in reverse a delayed reaction
Wandering through the twelfth hour
Looking down from your high tower
Leading me through hell
I keep turning back for more
These desolate declarations I can't ever ignore
Providing constancy, with means to make me stay
I am the vile fragrance of desperation in the cold light of day
And I can't rinse it away fast enough, it's already in
Twisting through the surface
Scorching my skin
Vandalizing my integrity, dividing my mind
These venal words have changed the colour in my eyes
A shade of decept turning my perception dim
Watching myself from the outside as I try to get back in
****** to reiterate yesteryear
Occupied by myth
A ******* hidden in my own body
Glorified
Looking promising but full of lies

My tummy hurts again,
From what I didn’t know,
Would hurt intestines weak from fear,
Of another vandalizing idiot.
Pure and fresh,
Rot to make flesh,
That will last the grinding days,
Long enough to sing,
As complete as You would wish,
And binding together to be more whole,
Than I have ever been.
I don’t like to be told,
That all this was airy lies, and empty bowls,
The plates piled high with man-made leeches,
Killing me and you, one by one, then all at once,
In avalanche catastrophe,
Does the truth come at long last?
After decades of mindless tastes,
And steps towards this disaster,
Do we now come to the truth?
Oh, God, help me to know,
And be well.

why do I write when I’m sad?
how do I express emotions when they aren’t bad?
I’ve got my mind turned off and my ghost is asleep
I replaced him with my soul and traded love for spontaneity
a disembodied existence
incorporeity

value connection and protection
but never hold your words
they escape the weak grip of your promises like hummingbirds
premises of sobriety and vandalizing the heart of your lover
games and rules we never follow
declare yourself the oracle of Apollo

villains of the world and ink in your skin
tell ourselves we practice deadly sin
reflection in the mirror and that wicked look you carry
they know you’re not here to Hail Mary

abuse with no release
I feel sorry for them and you’re not a masterpiece
prove it with marks on my neck
show you the bruise on my thigh
I’ve finally escaped your high

i used to write so many things related to you. your whole name, your favorite song, the things you always say, the place where i first saw you.

i write them in different places-- on paper, on the back side of my notes, on the wall, on my wrist.

my hand moves involuntarily and i end up writing everything repeatedly. i write even in between classes. it's even frequent when i get home.

they are always written in the same manner the first time i wrote your name. with care, as if your name was the most sacred thing i'd ever encountered.

but now, i don't even do it anymore.

i stopped the rhyming about you. i forgot your middle name. the song that plays in the car seems so familiar, yet it isn't.

everytime i walk down the corridor where we always used to meet,

your voice doesn't seem to stand out anymore.

my papers are neat now. the last pages of my notes are empty. i didn't receive suspension from vandalizing the school's walls this year. my wrist is covered by my watch. i listen to my professors now. i sleep comfortably.

i lost my pen.

then one day, i encounter your name again.

this time, i write it without feeling anything.

i guess your name isn't as sacred now as it was in the past.

i guess your name would only be a foreign word i knew i encountered but i don't remember.

yeah. i forgave and now, i forgot.

The delicacy of the situation,
At its epitome,
Could not but vexate me.

The vague and cloudy memories,
Set aside all the tragedy,
You came back like a lightning bolt struck.

Vandalizing everything to a degree,
Discrete were we,
And our lives in peace.

But then,
You came along,
Dragging misery.

My eyes were shut before,
Now I see the true you,
I thank God I had fled away.

Perhaps it is fate that brought you here,
But now I will not accept you anyways,
Because now I believe I'm destined for greatness.

Spray paint rolling and spilling liquid
Vandalizing a mothers hope
Or showing what's inside his cry
A picture for his empty mind
Take a look what will you find
Letters of graffiti spelling
Help...
Drugs spilling down each letter
Getting addicted to the style

Drug dealers in trench coats
Opening wide to see a different galaxy
A different world many wish to journey
Vain an endless road
****** riding along the pathway

Comics books become heros'
Saving the little kids from magazines
Not the paper one
But the one that slides into pistols
And carrying one can make you feel like everyone's a bad guy

TV becomes a distraction from the gun shots outside our window
And inside everybody is shaking in their own skin
Wondering if today brings another drive by

A little boy looking out the window for his father
His father left nothing behind
But the boy believes he forgot something
Or he is lost and trying to find his way back
And he is praying for superman to save him
Or for superman to save the little boy

This boy doesn't know how to cope with the heart ache
So he shows it with vandalism
A word that says help
That gets dusted with sprinkles of crack
He becomes addicted to the style
Showing the world that their are different galaxy's
Places he doesn't like but he's addicted to the style
His mother's hope vandalized
He is sorry but he is in a different world
Come into his mind
And find the sentence
That's covered in crack
"Help... I'm addicted to the style"

It was Halloween night but I had no candy.
But I did have an air rifle and it came in handy.
Because I had no candy, some punks started vandalizing my house.
Just because I shot them with my air rifle, people called me a louse.
I pumped the air rifle ten times and shot one of them in the *****.
The **** juvenile couldn't walk back to his house, he had to crawl.
I put pellets up their ***** so that a valuable lesson would be taught.
Before they vandalize another man's house, they will have 2nd thoughts.
But the cops came to my house and I was the one who was placed under arrest.
Apparently it was illegal when I shot them in their *****, ***** and a girl's left breast.
Sadly, shooting the girl was an accident, I shot her as she was walking past.
After I got out of jail, her dad paid me a visit and put my arms and legs in casts.
There was a valuable lesson that those juvenile delinquents learned.
I shoot people who are vandals, that's why none of them have returned.

My love vandalizing life slowly.
I don't want to hurt you.
But I can.
My lips are shredding the air.
I don't want to kiss you.
But I will.
My eyes are drinking your soul.
I don't want to love you.
BUT I AM ...
My room is cold and lonely.
Without you..
My lust is digging that loveless town.
In search of you..
My Life is drifting that pain away ..
From me...from you..
My love is hell and heaven..
I know... no colors...
Destructive ...
Tantalizing ...
Pushy..
Dark
But simple ..
Lonely..
Love ..
And
Me

Dignity fades-
Changes are yet to assemble,
Because you are still the same.

Discretion in its way,
Still stands to prevail,
Completely off track and totally astray.

My words seem to create no sense,
Imprudence can be seen in it,
Although they're foolish but, not too dense.

Vandalizing all what I thought,
I continue writing in a flow,
Nothing can intrude my thoughts.

I was born on December 19th at about 11:43 pm.
I've never been able to tell if I'm being insulted or complimented.
I can get away with blaming my indecisiveness on being me.
I'm 5'5. I weigh who knows how much.
I'm scared of my mom.
I'm a real sucker for people with dimples and comfy leggings with giant pockets.
I can't drive.
I like iced coffee and writing poetry more than the oxygen I need to survive.
I have strange fascinations with things like ratted, old Converse and the shape of my self-made scars.
They remind me that everything is temporary, but the pain stays.
I assume this is why I'm obsessed with drawing my scars as different things: stars, trees, a new poem.
I watch the sunset from a hammock every night.
Sometimes, I ask myself why so much of my time is invested in things that are only temporary and hope they come back.
I'm afraid of heights but not falling and I often wonder if I would survive stepping off a cliff's edge.
I also wonder what my clothes whisper about me now that I've left the closet.
I spent so long hiding amongst the skeletons that hung there that I'm not sure how to appear alive anymore.
I get called a number of things, both good and bad, but my name is Taron.
I'm clumsy.
I don't laugh easily.
I enjoy Korean music and strawberry yogurt.
My hobbies include avoiding love, vandalizing people's thoughts with my anxiety, and coming up with masks, I mean metaphors.
I have 1,154 followers on Twitter.
I can't think of anything to say to them that actually matters.
I knew that, right now, I am in both heaven and hell.
I know that Google shows 2.8 million results how to tie a nose for hanging yourself.
I know that I haven't become anything yet but i have an entire box of unfinished poems.
This is only a draft copy of myself.
I am not done writing just yet.