The Insecurities are flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind—
But the weeds keep growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
—Thoughts of a young child never knowing what to believe.

I lie awake in bed at night staring at the ceiling.
If only the notion could suffice in finding the words—
For the void I'm feeling in my life,
But it isn't simple.

Pure corruption of my mind,
Perfect pictures,
Flawless figures,
The images I can't erase.
Uncomfortable in my own skin—
What do I do to feel safe?

Do I drown myself in ink—to cover up the imperfections?
Instead of talking—walk and let my skin scream the self-expression?

Or do I return to the blank stare in the mirror?
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

The insecurities keep flourishing.
A gorgeous garden was my mind,
But the weeds kept growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
Thoughts of a young child,
--Never knowing what to believe.

One night as I lie awake—I hear my subconscious scream out to me.
The most attractive people do the ugliest of things,
The true beauty you want is what’s imprisoned within.
Why stop your happiness to return to a place—
—A place where you feel so alone?
Why do the tears flow?
You're killing yourself—
And you fail to realize
Your own self-doubt is the knife!
Pessimism,
The negative thoughts building inside—
They’re just as bad as the razorblade that kisses your skin as you sit in silence...
Why are you hurting yourself?
Temporary pain is only a distraction,
You were blessed and shaped by the hands of God.
What more could you possibly ask for?

Appearance is not everything.—
Stop the self-consciousness and live your life.
—acknowledge that you —are your worst —enemy...

I open my eyes.
The cries have ceased,
I return to the blank stare in the mirror.
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

But it’s different this time,
My reflection speaks.
Saying no—
Who are you not to?
Your imperfections are beautiful.
Beautiful enough for the heart that is meant to love you,
Believe in yourself.
No more self doubt,
No more lost soul.

—No more insecurities flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind.
No more weeds keep growing in,
Media is not my kryptonite,
No more weakening of my self esteem,
Thoughts of a young child finally unshackled —and free.

Can you feel it
Shh, allow the galaxy to pamper your body, blanket the essence of your mind, bit-by-bit
Travel on a higher awareness to understand the galaxy’s gentle gift
Close your eyes and allow your mind to softly drift

Soft Moonlight Dust
Illuminating the night skies, given warmth of its inner trust
Centered in the sky, a star abates for its enlighten ******
Kindred minds to enrapture, as souls physically adjust

So gentle, as a touch to the skin
An inner space to conquer, there an exploring craving begins
Awareness of self stirring into the constellation
Bodies attuned beyond the stretch of imagination
Savoring on the flavor of the alignment sweeten taste
Desires igniting an inferno, the heat of its flames refusing to wait

Overheated friction surrendering without debates
Runaway yearning weakening in the presence of fate
The ecstasy of the moonlight’s dust felt, abiding to the crack of dawn
Emotions of the elixir slowly withdrawn

A Cheshire moonrise
Always a sacred communion given in surprise
Masked feelings hidden behind the stars in our eyes
Sprinkles of pixie dust as the moon becomes full
Paired upon, as lace meets wool
Interwoven and tenderly spun on a galactic spool

Stars In Exile
Twinkling for eyes to glimpse beyond the earth’s smile
Canopus to Antares, oh how you make me shine
Closing my eyes, coveting your point as I’m making you mine

Settled and glittering as small diamonds binding in the sky
A wondrous elopement to experience in the blink of an eye
Soft whispers to the ones that shoot right before they fall
Such a beautiful and breathlessly cadence to wish under them all

The Gift Of The Sun’s Stroke
Umm, shooting stars kept me awoke
Relentless bodies bathing under the moon
Caresses, touches, entwined souls echoing the note of its weakening tunes

Sweeter and sweeter, deeper and deeper
Bodies fueled, hot as a heater, bodies climbing steeper and steeper
Heat consumes the interior of the temple
Sweat of life, as movements come together and then disassemble
Elated, sedated, dipping in a cool blue lagoon
Kisses under the sun on a beautiful afternoon
Temperatures rising not a moment too soon

June slamming into summer’s heat
A merriment of a sun stroke basking in the glorious feast
The galaxy and its spicy passion
A gift to the world to enjoy in any unbridled fashion

Umm, the presence and scent of a man
Magnetic attraction where his feet stands
His natural body charismatic aroma
Element of charms, seeping to awaken a woman out a sensual coma
Is it his eyes, the soul behind his life’s mysteries
Flirtation in his smile, tells me he has an undercover ****** history
It is his nose that smells out my charms
An enticing deep baritone voice, his spoken words, which turns me on

Is it the erratic heartbeat he has for a woman, his passionate relent
Stealing my breath, as he tenderly seals my lips in an impassioned moment of content
The strength in his biceps
His triceps
Strong, yet such comforting arms
An epitome of steel, circled around a woman in winter life’s storms
In the cold of night, his body providing your heated warmth

His chest, a hard pillow to tell your doubts, your uncertainties, your fears
Pulling you closer onto it, his reassuring words eradicating your tears
His intellectual mind to think as a man
A stimulating, slam bam and thank you ma’am, or your personal grand slam
His weakening love, taking your body beyond the stars
Woman from Venus, my handsome Man for Mars

His groin, and his family jewels from which it springs forth
Erected compass of his wand now pointing North
A woman’s reservation to tease, please, stroke, or allow it to choke
His loud murmurs shadowing your moans, echoing in the wind
****, I love the presence of men, and his undulated carnal sins
From the first taste of honey dipped Butter ***, me

As his giving oral fixation is traveling free
Freeing the elixir of juices that deems to flee
His hairy legs as he stands to lift my weight
In the shower, no wait, as I anticipate
Hooking my twerking bait
His physique in general…Oh, God thank you
Without the scent of a man, we women would not know what to do

Your presence to a woman is our earthly food
Our je ne sais quoi for our every ****** mood
Rather you are standing, lying still, or upside down
The blissful 69 number conquered as we’re fooling around
My Dream Weaver
My distance heartbeat receiver

His dripping sweat
Droplets to my skin have been met
The presence and scent of a man holds me throughout the night as our eyes finally rest

Narcissist I


Money questions hidden in cultures
Instead of debates, we have the vultures
They will overspend whatever their budget
Destroy years hard work, their odour pungent

Often called users, epiphytes of highest order
Those that cannot earn sufficient to quarter
Or manage their own, so they use others
Spending, unfettered, is their druthers

Cannot accept responsibility for damage
Continue to feast on their host, they ravage
Hollowing out from inside, funds they suction
Weakening the structure for eventual destruction

And weakened, debates then start about savings
Too late, funds gone, too late for the cravings
Absent conversation, leaves a bad situation
Long ago, train of debate left the station

What we have now is death and decay
All caused by silence, as the vultures flay
It will not be long until they seek a new host
Just when their former home needs them most

So leave they will, to claw the next poor victim
Removing their talons of love and devotion
Moving on, leaving behind just carcasses
Warm used bodies, mark of a narcissist

Eat me before I eat you
Staring with **** eyes
I'll be yer mantis
(Who's the *****)
Swallow me whole
Devour me alive
Loving it more
Than all the whips of Caesar
Regurgitated hate like
Mary Shelley's Frankenstein
Or pigs feeding on blood and bones
At the trough

Boring my way out thru
Yer ****** ulcer guts
You shouldn't drink like a fish
If you aren't at sea
Weakening your resolve
With surly drunk parasitic me
This is how we show
Our extensive toxic love sensibility

One shot.
It only took one shot,
then he faded away.
Bones weakening,
his heart stopping.
Life ending.
Mid-breath,
he came to rest.
The world around him disappeared.

Another shot,
from another gun,
From another blood.
He didn’t mean to shoot,
it wasn’t his fault.
He was fast act,
but too fast to think,
It all happened in a blink.

the torso of stars of the constellation of scorpio is dying, it's weakening; the venomous scorpion tail still shines brightly, and the pliers are bright enough to see even with immediate light pollution: but no street lamp shines brighter than the stars, even the the distance disparity, and indeed if the last constellation of the zodiac becomes dim, i'll begin to worry.

i was given three christmas presents this year,
the third i can't immediately remember
but the first two i can:
two houses side by side,
one had twelve black bin bags and one orange
recycling bag for collection -
the other had a skip in its driveway
with a sign in the skip:
PLEASE TAKE YOUR DOG ****
FROM MY SKIP AND NEVER DUMP
IT HERE AGAIN!
ah... the third present, it's january
and i'm walking without gloves,
in converse, with a short sleeve shirt
and a hoodie and nothing else:
newspaper "dialectics" section writers
say northern england floods of recently
are not due to global warming...
i wonder how much this writer gets paid
to say the floods were caused by orangutan farts,
or the dairy factories of ukrainian methane punch
politics; i really do wonder...
i guess newtonian physics' principles
died with einstein's theories
stuck in the deep end of einstein's parabolas
of solid objects dipped into: speed of light
indeed, it gains momentum because it travels
via parabolas rather than straight lines,
hence the parabolic acceleration: up-down
up-down trigonometry linear functions of
either sine or cosine... the third trigonometric
allowance i cannot explain but it doesn't really
matter when it comes to what i'm trying to say:
relativity of immersion as a sinking into:
time relative to space means it equates at some point,
either death as a point of departure
or life as a point of constant engagement -
and as for those who say the theory is too difficult
and your interpretation of a theory in a different
medium is stupid... well... do the mathematics,
my mathematical + and = are equivalent to adjectives
and verbs (e.g.).
no, what really bothers me with this problem
of the global warming debate is the synchronised
activation of denial with doubt missing,
if it can't be doubted (cause & effect), and if
nothing is to be done about it... the only solution
is to deny it: block a punch... get a tsunami back.
it's bothersome on two levels...
english as the language of globalisation (
not exactly the old lingua franca), but rather
the encircling language, the language of constraints,
lingua amplexa / lingua stasus quo, hardly a language
of trade, a language of monotone -chromatic politics...
is very prone to bombastic expressions:
it has not philosophical narrative in the sense
of a book of philosophy - it merely ushers in
a maxim to stop any philosophical narration or dialogue.
on another level though, it's immersion in darwinism,
educational darwinism of post-colonialism is horrid,
if all that scientific positivism was the zenith of science
between the 18th and 19th centuries, the nadir
came with darwinism... because with science being
tricked to encapsulated popular imagination
the greater proportion of the populace had the easiest
of accesses to a scientific theory (aristotle kept in
the **** in the dark all this time), an with a popularised
imagining of darwinism hell broke free in the 20th
century... indeed darwinism killed off scientific positivism,
and by doing so... all noble and human ideals died
with it... came the mechanisation of society,
the death of the rural life, a detachment from nature
as man took to live above nature rather than parallel with it;
and the new zenith that's the zeitgeist of today?
humanistic negativism, humanistic negativism...
the death of the novel, the death of an interest in
philosophy in the english speaking world...
take as you like...
but when you're a sensitive drinker as i am,
and you watch the 2014 film *i origins and don't cry...
well... then i guess anaesthetics won't work
when your heart can't feel the calm good apathy
with your many stage frights concerning your
next ingenious plot-line over a little hurt or a little
scare... not courageous enough to hurt the one
that hurt you, but simply passing the hurt onto
a stranger.

p.s. YOU RENTED THE ******* SKIP!
       AND DOG **** IS NOT REALLY ASBESTOS!

If you overesteem great men,
people become powerless.
If you overvalue possessions,
people begin to steal.

The Master leads
by emptying people's minds
and filling their cores,
by weakening their ambition
and toughening their resolve.
He helps people lose everything
they know, everything they desire,
and creates confusion
in those who think that they know.

Practice not-doing,
and everything will fall into place.

_
"Lao Tzu is believed to have been a Chinese philosopher (a person who seeks to answer questions about humans and their place in the universe) and the accepted author of the  Tao te ching,  the main text of Taoist thought. He is considered the father of Chinese Taoism (a philosophy that advocates living a simple life).

Read more: Lao Tzu Biography - life, name, death, school, book, old, information, born, time http://www.notablebiographies.com/Ki-Lo/Lao-Tzu.html

Don’t disappear
From my sight,
From my mind.
I feel your pulse weakening.
You’re fading away.

You cross these rivers of thought with me,
But do you know where I intend to go?
Do you give care for things like this?
Do you give grace now?
I feel you fading away.

Take the long walk home.
Tell me all the things you know,
All the things, your eyes have seen
All the things your tongue tasted
I want to know all that makes your heart storm
All that makes you dawn like the sun on a bright day.
You’re fading away.

I cannot find in me to make you stay,
Words won’t stick,
hands won’t fight,
legs won’t run,
I am here.
Don’t disappear from my sight,
from my mind.
I feel your pulse weakening
I feel the life in you escaping,
With it all our past and what-ifs.
You’re fading away,
but don’t disappear.

Iron which has been exposed to the rain, is likely to become rusty.
Weakening, brcoming fragile along the way, changing colours.
Because it couldn't resist the cruel, cold, pungent, sharp rain,
which has been brought by onimous, dark, clouds.
Those have come to claim the heavens, in malice, for themselves as they spread their offspring, letting it fall to the earth, fertilising it.
Once standing proud, the iron faced the weather carelessly, brave,
in such sense that it might have looked intimidating, impressive and
of course noble to some degree.
But for now it has aged, has become frail, feeble and slender.
Distorting its structure until suddenly it is not capable of holding
itself together, falling back down to the earth from which it came.
With enough care and treatment, such a fate would be avoidable,
But it is overlooked, chosen to be replaced instead of getting enough attention and so the metal decays in its oxidation, through time.
Until all of it has become a soft, crumbling powder.
Ruined by the simple raindrops, coming from a stormy day.

~ Umi

A head, gnashing and screaming
Forgiving my unknown hospitality
Pretty is weakening
I'm a fatality deemed
Obnoxious is my scene
The mocking and mimicking comes easy for me
No secret, I envy the earth's energy
Depressed, sitting in my fancy dress
Shoving and tugging with desirable credibility
I ravish my personality
Amused?
As I show my tender meat bleeding
Kissing, authentic generosity
A bit suggestive
Confidence in deranged descriptions making others nervous
Excuse me, I must leave my head is blistering,
Popping,
Gushing and oozing profanities
Dented durability, consume me
I love the fact I'm lacking
Becoming one with the barbaric queen

Demon of destruction has set out to destroy me...
From morning to night it feeds out to control me...
But the Light of Christ has enabled to comfort me...
Mandated from Darkness it sets out to capture me...

Fortified by the Armor of the Almighty...
I fight the battle with Divine Splendor...
From the deepest part of your soul your Umi tries to control and overpower Yami.
From the deepest part of your soul your Umi* fights control Yami* (Umi:Darkness Yami:Light)
Objective is try to not let Umi win over Yami.
We shall fall in battle weary, armor broken, divine splendor shattered...
Ready to give in when the Highest...
Saves us from doom from complete darkness...

The Radiant Morning Star shall emulate light into your soul essence...
Furthermore, restore the power of your Divine Armor...
Conquering the pestilence that roams in the dark...
Destruction demon weakening prayer empowerment rising...
Then we drawl in the Heavenly sword...
Which shall slay the demon decapitating his head...
Hallelujah the judgement from heaven has been made...
Stand united Brotherhood of Light...for this is an ongoing battle between your Life and your Soul...
1 being alive to do as much good as possible pleasing The Almighty daily and at all times. 2 Allow God to be in control and your outlook on Life and what it brings the good the bad the ugly...Christians must stand war ready for our spiritual temple to wedge war against principalities, dark powers, witches, witchcraft, spells, plagues of doom, prophecy from the other realms, dreams, illusions, perdition and lastly soul contracts.  Jesus Christ the intermediator and The Father and the Holy Spirit...
Lucifer doesn't sleep doesn't eat doesn't give up from the day you take your first breath till the moment you take your last...

Let God help you can truly feel free of worldly chains... disobedience to The Almighty and Denial of the Work of The Spirit Of Fire...
Eight blue flamed tongues...
The immortal and unimaginable power he holds...
The Holy Spirit the doppelganger of The Father...or The Almighty One...

Allow spiritual sleep come be awake and allow the force of God the Omnipotent, Omnipresent the One Ethereal Benign Being...

Love is his ultimate power the Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End. Existence recreating itself within itself...a world of random possibility. But with direct order from its atom microorganism the human being. We choose right from wrong we are given "Free Will" and in the end God shall judge all...

~Stand Prepared for Judgement Day~...for HIM known as God shall judge according to his divine will and perfect impeccable truth within truth a experience so drastically real you will know exactly where your headed....the Heavenly Realm situated in the ultimate realm of the Multiverse. Or Hell the Eternal Sanctum and punishment of Wicked Corrupted Souls, souls that denied The Holy Spirit Of God. Within the Heavenly Realm this majestic immortal being  exists the entity known as God...
From there inside the Holy Throne to the right of The Almighty...sits the Only Begotten Son (Ultimate Atonement for Humanity: The Lamb, Jesus Christ) then his Querubins,Seraphims and Messagers. Followed by Holy Beasts and 24 Holy Kings...

The power of Lucifer Prince of Darkness...God Demon. Ruling over Leviathan, The Black Legendary Dragon, a hierarchy of Demons from Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Wrath etc.

Are you with us...Christians Warriors Of Light...or against us...

Decision is crucial here we are battling for your eternity your salvation...

Come now calls the Lord come home...

To a Wicked Generation Lost in it's inevitable end and final resolve.

Don't be Godless remember Love is what God is made of...come ye weary lost souls come...Amen
©Franko the Christian Poet

In many different tongues, each one love's manifestations,
Some even to me unknown until the very moment,expressed,
I keep talking to you, my divine lover,out of my passion,intense
For you brimming within. Distraught a bit, feeling left in the lurch
On pouring rain and thunder storm; but you know how firm I am!
I stood rooted here, lost all sense of time, queer, ever  felt you near.
Then a sharp pain hit weakening my heart ,but couldn't deter me,
I am a cat of nine love lives, a species so stubborn, thrives in trust.
Dead of night it is , I  keep vigil, perking up ears, eyeing  skywards,
How do I know from, where would my only love, to me speak?

elephants stomp with stone-laden feet
back and forth, back and forth,
creating cracks in my already-battered skull,
weakening the very foundations of my sanity.
their trumpeting echoes through cold corridors
flooding my thought capacity to the brim.

a tightrope walker stretches me, thin -
i feel the shifting pressure of her nimble feet
treading the territories of my weathered frame,
back and forth, back and forth,
my skin reddens beneath the incessant crossing
as the sinew within me starts to atrophy.

in my chest cavity there is a ring of fire,
manipulating my lungs and feeble heart to mere ash.
two golden eyes seen beyond the flames,
ready to leap through them - without the
inconvenience of fear weighing down his agile paws,
both capable and likely to tear my veins to shreds.

a grisly strongman has my bones in his grip.
he smiles malevolently, gloating his strength over me,
squeezing the life from my cartilage - awaiting the snap.
i am cognizant of the sound, but i won't flinch.
next, the imminent collapse of my vertebrae -
i feel them crumble to dust. he laughs.

but it is in the pit of my stomach the ringleader sits -
commanding me into subsidence with every crack of his whip.
i want to meet his eyes but he only averts my gaze.
his twisted circus nearly through, the audience begins to dissipate.
i stare through the blurred smoke, desperate for his visage -
when i see on one of his faded lapels, the embroidery spells out your name.

-m.f.

"A Gambling Game"

Mark the Number
Time rolls In
Another Toll

Chance they Say
No         Beat the odds
Clatter
Spin
Caving in, Weakening

All your chips In
A chance of fate
No            luckwins

Another Round
Last cards In
Streak     Bro Ken
Nothing  Spo Ken
Spin.        DiceCease
  All still
     Until
         Die


Copyright©2015 Kelly Chase
All Rights Reserved

In Greek Mythology, Terpsichore “delight in dancing” was one of the nine Muses and goddess of dance and chorus. She is usually shown dancing and sometimes holding a lyre, accompanying the ballerinas’ choirs with her music

Close your eyes, relax the spaces of your mind
Delight in Dancing I give to you, practiced from the beginning of time
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of dance and chores as I hold my lyre
Passion, lust, desire, graceful movements for the mind to inspire
Enticing the man’s **** flames of fire
No rhythm to engage, only your body, the essence of this muse, no cloth or Greek attire

The body enticement found in a wanton dance
The sum of ninety-three, the Thelema spiritual philosophy for a man to understand
Ancient dances to make the skies shed rain
Dancing in glee to escape life’s stinging pain
The muse within me guides your mind to move like the smooth flow of sand
A beautiful crusade to be shared between woman and man
Lucid, rumbustious, daring, as feet moves to the beat
As you hark unto the dance, as my lyre sets the energy of your soul free

Medicine, ceremonial, rituals, and entertainment dances to amuse
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of sensual dances, no man could refuse
Under the silken covers time we reclaim
Two bodies seeking the carnal feast of its weakening fame
A private dance made for two lovers, my lyre discreet to be
Instilled passion under the moonlit, giving and receiving, the commencement of you and me

From the taste of my honey dripped lips
The dance of grace, elegance, seduction, the heart it eclipses
Clench me tighter and feel the alluring sway of my hips
The balance of my soft hands roaming over you, your body basking in the abyss of a wet slip
Linking my arms around your neck as we attune to this emotional dance
The lyre, my chorus backdrop, as the enticing moves heightens of this sultry romance

Allow the rhythm once inside as the elixir of love floats from you
Dip me slowly, worshipping my soul, losing your mind in the addictive moves
Body to body, feast of love found in the magnetic inviting grooves
Spinning me around, taking my mind pass the stars
Come into me as you taste Venus, dancing found under the planet Mars

I’m dizzy from the twirling thrill
Pull me closer, sinking deeper and deeper of your own free will
The rapture with the chorus of my tuneful lyre surrounding us, as time stands still
Feel the essence of my erratic heartbeat as it’s matching yours
Blissful finale of dancing bodies, sedated, perspiration seeps from pores
Breathless and content, as allowed me to take your mind for a sequestered tour  
Heart to heart
My lyre, when dancing with a love one, is a masterpiece work of art

I’ve danced in times of old with my lyre, the chorus played in sync on Mt. Olympics, to the Roman towers  
A woman’s greatest asset as she cajoles in a passionate dance, entrenched by the slow dancing power
Love comes in droves while whirling in the soft mist of a rain shower

Bedazzled under the once seductive poetic words of Horace
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of dance heard with my lyre, and chorus

I am afraid of speaking.
I am afraid of the texture of my voice, and the effect it will have on you.
I don't want to be pressed into the caricature of an angry woman; voice raised in what they call a hysterical display of emotion.
Calm down. Be rational.

Stop being
So
Dramatic.

Well let me tell you something:
I am an angry woman.

Because all I can see is my best friend’s blonde head, coming within an inch of becoming the crushed drywall beneath his fist.
All I can see is the false piety painted on his pastor’s face, asking, “well… did he hit you?”

I see her eyes closed in the darkness, fingers gripped in the sheets he tore off of her body to wake her. She has to hold on to something.
He says, “Show me you're enjoying it.”


Calm down. Be rational.

Like he wasn't gaining access INTO her BODY by FORCE. Like, of course it's her job to lay down and take it. Like it. Lick his lips for the taste of honey, because honey, he told you to.

but it's poison. It enters her bloodstream, weakening her will to resist it.

She looks at her phone, at a text she did not compose herself, or send,
“Hey hot stuff. When you see this, let's have ***.
“If I pretend I didn't write this I'm just playing hard to get.”

Do you get it?

Yeah. I am an angry woman.

Stay calm, dear sister. Be rational.
Rationalize the gaslighting, because the big picture doesn't look beautiful when you hang it above the sofa; and her home was staged to look like a family so that when you look in the window, you don't see that she was a hostage.
You don't see that her son was asleep in the bed when he grabbed her face between his hands and crushed it,
And called it “gently redirecting her gaze.”

From the window, you can't see his body blocking the exit.
You can't see her baby, with his little fingers curled around her *******, begging for comfort.

I will not calm down. And in case you are so damaged by devotion to comfort that you can't see it, it is right to be angry.

It is righteous.

I am angry, and more rational than I have ever been in my entire life- rationally, righteously begging for justice to flow down like rivers.

I am an angry woman.

Never have I been the best at hiding how I feel.  There is no peaceful game.  My face reveals the truth.  Never to be doubted.  Nothing left to wonder.  Still, I reign it in.  I stifle my reality in an attempt to keep you close.  So tender-hearted beneath that thickening shell.  The shell I penetrated somehow.  Once you found me in your heart, you pushed with all your might.  Trying to get me out.  I cannot be budged. Yet, I am not free to love you.  You refuse to let me be yours in theory or practice.  You love me, but not by choice.  Fear of the possibility of pain keeps you at bay.  Yet saving yourself from pain has deemed my own inconsequential.  For running from me pulls out my heart.  

Pushing me away
What's best, or just what's easy
Burns holes in my soul

Not one to take the easy way out.  Suffering to love you.  There is no expectation of love requited.  There is nothing but a dream, part memory part wishful thinking.  Hot needles still poke at me, slowly breaking me down.  Weakening my very being with the sharp jabs of stinging words or careless action, or worse...absolute inaction.  I have learned to stop expecting the "Morning Sunshine" or "'Night Darlin'" that used to brighten each day.  Those thoughtless things, the tiny nothing things that let me know I was on your mind.  So far from nothing those nothings were.  Days and nights seem incomplete in their absence.  Weaning to make your days bearable makes mine unendurable, empty, and melancholy has come to underlie all things.  

Joy of love melts ice
Heat smothered by a tear cloud
Threadbare soul survives

Challenges faced sideways leave blind spots. Choices made by indecision.  Letting mistakes be made, watching as they choose wrong. I see the truth and know what I know.  Everything is aligned for my own misfortune.  For as a bystander, I lay no claims.  Anything I do will hasten the inevitable.  So I let the weaning drip down to nothing.  Reluctantly I watch as you disappear with my heart in hand.  I stood firm as you ran away in place.  You turned to me, you needed me, you loved me.  As the clouds dissipate and the sun creeps over the horizon, With the blue sky I turn to mist. Slowly fading to the past.  A ghost of could've been, used to be, and never was

**Surrender takes time
                        Reluctantly relinquished
                                               I will fight no more

My lover introduced me to a girl named Ana today.
She is an emancipated horror who I am scared to know.

My lover told me he introduced all his exes to Ana, Ana will help our relationship grow
I ask if he thinks I'm fat
All he says is to get to know ana and Things will be better.

I shake hands with Ana and her voice Is intoxicating but I refuse to become addicted
She promises to let me be, only see me when I truly need.
Little did I know her fingers were crossed.

My loved coaxes me to meet with Ana more often
Run with her before school and sit with her at lunch
I hope she joins me for dinner tonight.

My lover praises me and tells me I'm becoming beautiful
But I wonder
Is he praising me or Ana
She's the beautiful one
And I am still fat

My lover tells me Ana made the *** better
As I screamed his name over and over again
In attempts to forget mine
And he loves that I no longer want the lights on when we do the deed
Praying the dark will hide the layers of chub clinging beneath my skin

My lover expects Ana to be with us at all times
I get angry at her and push her away breaking all her rules
And feeling guilty
I hope she'll take me back I learned my lesson
I crawl back to Ana

My lover introduces me to Mia
Says she'll be there for me when Ana fails me
Mia has scars on her knuckles and thin hair
But she promises what Ana denied me
And I gladly wrap my arms around her

My lover tells me ana and Mia are the only friends I'll ever need
I have to agree
My others have left me
My true friends tell me
It was because I was skinnier than them
But now I'm the fattest friend again

My lover is proud of Ana Mia and I
Tells me they've made me perfect
I can finally stop meeting them
I agree
And later that night the three of us rendezvous in the bathroom
To test the scale
And my gag reflex

My lover is angry at me
I've betrayed him with my meetings
He tells me if I don't leave them he'll leave me
Is tired of waking up to find me with my head passed out on the toilet seat

My lover is no longer mine
Left me for a curvy girl
Well that's fine with me
My only true loves are Ana and Mia
And I know they'll never leave me.

My new lovers make me pretty
And tell me I'll soon be perfect like them
I feel beautiful every time I lose the weight
But they make me feel useless when I don't follow their commands

My lovers tell me not to talk to a boy
Explain I'm not thin enough yet
Tell me to **** in my stomach when he looks at me
But I sense no judgement in his eyes
I tell them this is what they've prepared me for
And they scream that I'm not ready and he'll take them away from me
I'm scared to lose them
But I still meet him when I've managed to keep them at bay with leaf

My lovers are suffocating me
Shoving their fingers down my throat and slamming my wrist to the table when I pick up a fork
I'm scared they'll never let me be
Their eyes are hallow
And I can't find their compassion

My lovers are no longer beautiful
I see them as they are
Emancipated lifeless things
Praying for me to join them
They hold out their skeletal hands
Begging me to take them
Their lips are blue and voice raspy
And I want nothing more to run away but I'm stuck in place

I've left my lovers
They're still screaming
Clinging to my back with surprising weight
Hair falling out onto me
Whispering sweet nothings
Then screaming when I don't so as they say

My lover
Is a boy who sees me without fear
Does not scare away when he sees the girls clinging to me
Or the way my ribs jut out when I don't eat for a day
And I trust him every time he tells me
I'm beautiful
Even though the girls are whispering in ashen voices
***** I make you beautiful
Please come back and I'll make you drop dead gorgeous.
But I don't want to be gorgeous if it means being six feet under.

My old lovers are shrinking
Voices drying up every time I sip cream filled coffee
Arms weakening every time I lift the bite of cake to my lips.
They are dying with every meal I eat
Their voices getting quieter the longer I go without listening.
I only hope one day they do die
So that way I don't.

One lover introduced me to a horrendous disease. I'm not going to call them Ana and Mia anymore Because naming them is just a sad way of trying to control them
As if by personifying them We make them less dangerous Like a game or child's story. But this is a disease that killed thousands and almost killed me. One in five girls with an eating disorder die. I was one of the lucky few Don't be the one. Get help.If I can defeat this You can obliterate it. It won't be easy But it'll be more than worth it. Throw away the scale Burn the tape measurer You are more than a number You are beautiful. Don't let anyone tell you different. not a lover Or society Or yourself. Love yourself And others will follow suit. And in case you need to hear it I love you. Beat this I'll be here, Never be afraid to ask for strength. I don't have much But I'll give you all of it. If only to see you wake up in your bed instead of on the floor of the bathroom Stuck to the tile by sweat. To weak to sit up To tired to breath no matter who you are or what you've done No matter your lowest or highest weight Or how many ribs I can see No matter if I even know your name I love you. And if you ever need it I'll be here Just a message away And I promise I will give you all the strength I have just to help you get through a meal. Even if what you need is someone to sit and hold your hand and encourage you to take every bite or someone to tell you that you are beautiful when you can't bring yourself to fully believe it.
So please help yourself and Don't listen to others say "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" because so many things do.
Fresh donuts with coffee on days you don't want to face the light of morning
Pizza with friends while playing ****** video games and watching even ******* rom coms
Thanksgiving turkey
Christmas ham
Hot cocoa with a lover who sees stars in your eyes
But most of all
Life.
Life tastes better than any number.

These walls can not fortify
Like they once could;
They can not protect me
From the outsiders
And they can not protect
The outsiders from myself.
Spears have been thrown
And rocks chucked,
but nothing has been able
to topple this fortress
like what has happened on this day.

The borders of these bricks
Are beginning to crumble.
I hope that, beyond these mumbles,
I have words that will make me fixed.

Stuck.
You're stuck.
So that must mean I am too.
I don't want to be stuck.
My love for you grows
More and more each day.
But I can never stay stuck.

Stuck.
I was stuck.
Long before I met you.
I didn't want to be stuck then,
And I don't now.
Trapped within a
Disgustingly thick, slimy stuck
I worked my way deep in to find
Nothing but more unruly muck.

Stuck.
I'm only halfway stuck.
But you're all the way stuck.
I'm not going back in.
I'll suffocate again,
Lose myself and become
The demon that attaches to
My weakening soul like
The grotesque parasite it is.
You can stay stuck all you want
But you'll never find me down there
While you wallow around in your
Muddled conceptions of yourself.

Stuck.
Yeah, right.
But I'll be here
At the edge of the muck
Waiting to help you out
When you get unstuck.

/
zdrowie, na budowie (health, on a construction site, a modern polish proverb) - because? well the army allows it, any woman can be bossy in the army... but on a construction? perhaps the very rare example of a woman working side by side with bricklayers (and that does happen), but construction work is immune to all ideology focusing on the pop. narratives of feminism... women will not infiltrate the construction industry, they can infiltrate the army, but not the construction industry, unless of course, they're dinner ladies, or secretaries, but even then, the construction site canteen is dying, reduced to a kettle and a microwave... all i'm seeing, when my father goes to work is an army... or as the joke goes about the managerial staff, with tight jeans and pink car rims? well... you can take a boy out of essex, but you can't take essex out of a boy.

i can only assume that writing is spawned
from a weakening of a
   cognitive narrative -
             foremostly i have to "apologise"
for making such a compound term,
   but i remember an echo of what once was,
a firm grasp of narration,
                                  in thinking terms,
as such, thought per se, used to be a leisure,
or rather: a pleasure,
               but since then... scrabble...

                                         static dissonance...
a poignant blur: a bit like the impressionist
movement... hardly the fizzy water...
   naturally from impressionism,
to expressionism, and then: a smack into
dada and subsequently a return to geometry
via cubism...

                but there really is a correlation
between writing, and a weakening of
           a cognitive narrative -
                   i know: -ive -ive
                             but one's categorised
as an adjective, the other is a noun -
           even though they share the same
form of a suffix...
                             yes, i know this is merely
"poetry",
                   there is no sludge of fictive
architecture that might encompass a narrator,
props and character studies,
      no embodiment of cohesion that
makes it to the bestseller's list of:
                    same ****, different cover...

yes, it's scattered, yes it's primitive in
composition, but what it isn't, is
   akin to the protagonist of the film
          nothing's funny, or freak's day
   (nic śmiesznego)                (dzień świra),
i.e.: hard to put a thought to paper...
     the escape artist of this conundrum
comes out either: a happy manual labourer
content with rest at the end of his chores...
   of a sir-mouth-a-lot, talking, talking, talking,
much like any other example required
to show a: ditto-head;

see, my grandmother doesn't like poetry,
so i gave her a book my zbigniew herbert
(the whole mr. cogito sequence of poems
and all) and all i said was:
            doesn't poetry feel, breezy? airy?
on what occassion has a poet constrained
himself to the zoology of a paragraph?
                  airy, isn't it, doesn't strain the eyes
so much...

      well... if i didn't have the ****** luxury
of pixel paper, i too would be offended by
this waste of paper, but since this isn't paper...
a baboon just escaped its confinement and
it rummaging in the zoo's cafe, looking for
a caffeine fix; later he'll be found
      in the pharmacy, looking for some
cream to ease the bulging hemorrhoids

  (nice fact: algorithms are...
    apart from search engines...
               spell...               chequers...
  tongue says one thing, eyes see another).                  
no, if i wanted cohesion, i'd have invented glue,
huh? ah... adhesive... but there really isn't
a worthwhile mention of adhesion,
      unless of course:

                  you put a bumper sticker on
your tongue and say: speaking english is
the only form of patriotism i know:
  allegiance to the tongue, but not the crown;
why? i have my crown on a ten pound
note...                but it's not that i want
her dead, it would grand to see this english
monetary overhaul, seeing ol' charlie on
the notes...

                               you know, fun.
yet i do remember times when i could grasp
a strong cognitive narrative,
              and there was no point in writing,
anything...
                      esp. not something like this,
jeez...
   now, in painting a mess can be excused,
or rather: conceptualized, but in writing?
   ooh... caesar salad...
    you can't even conceptualize a reader's
short-attention span, or at least:
           how long does this straight line go?
                                                  no darting eyes?


where?
                                                  ­                    here!

for all the mumbo-jumbo of heidegger's
strict writing, he at least taught me spatial coordination.
as well as how nerves shatter, and then mend.
yes, there is no narrative cage,
  yes there is no caged animal,
instead of a:
             --
           |   |     there's an:       \  /
             --                                /    \
                                                           ­  an opening.

i can understand critique, but only if the critique
allows dialectics,
                       Kant imploded on this
realisation when he dedicated a section
of his work to a thesis and an antithesis...
why? because he doubted the already
embarked on synthesis...
                           every manner of critique is welcome,
as long as the critique can entertain
                                    a dialectical safety
mechanism... overwise: sure, be on your way.

of course it's going to be messy,
     why can painter get away with mess,
while writing has to be adhesive in nature,
           spare me the concentration that later involves
taking a book to bed, and falling asleep with it;
as i admire those people who fall asleep
easily during transit (bus, plane, train, whatever),
i have the same admiration for people
         who fall asleep reading a book...
and because of william burroughs...
                  far from taking hallucinogenics,
there's the sour bourbon (just some lemon juice
added) and there's the: ******* blank page
staring me in the face -
             or in gujarat english:
                         s'te'rrrrr'ing (gotta trill that R
like a rattle snake):
                     alternatively eton english:
starring                             bogus the penguin;
hit cue:                  as with the old movies -
came the credits first,
                      now?      just ask for a supermarket
cashier to read you the list...
  as if no one these days is bound to be
forgotten.

  to stare, or to be cast: that is not a question;
whoopsee.

  the subtle "orthography" in english -
        and **** me what a custard worth spaghetti
that it does to the memory bank:
                         i see we sailed the sea.
now, if that doesn't erode your memory,
notably when you take to writing
away from speaking and a manual job?
  i don't know, what will.

of man and the universe:
        like a cat endowed (armed) with only
a meow, exploring human speech,
varying it by many degrees,
            with grunts and purrs of labour,
while sometimes shrieking noises
             or, crafting a mimic of a hunchback
upright, ready to express grievances.

bore: the domino effect of narration,
or rather: when the art of narration becomes
predictable,
                   whoever strikes at a guess,
because the narrative is lost to the fact that
cinema exhausted it,
           in that modern narration is almost
always predictable;
    whoever thought that gambling on
a story was not unheard of, can hear this.

- when motherhood, or parenting in general
is equated with a "profession",
or rather the hyper-industrialisation,
reaching into the bowels (*****, borrows,
bowls?) - of a family unit...
     two things are happening:
on one side the shrapnel argument,
on the other side: the hyper-industrialisation
of the family unit:
             there really isn't much to
navigate with, no compass, no map,
merely chance, luck, happenstance...
     because when did motherhood become
a job?
              parenting became a job?

2nd. phase iconoclasm.

     (in a mock impression):
oh gee, when did barnie become barney,
he he (as in a mock of laughter):
      joe'bb, joe'b... job, yob,
                      lobby, jolly, jobe...
          ****, paraglider, spike...
      
         you can tell i'm **** as crosswords;
i hear too much,
          and my oyster is rummaging in
number puzzles, that translate into
   a strict rubric of adhering to spellin;
you can pacify the rest on me,
but this corner of interest has to stay:
firm.

- i could have respected darwinism,
  if only it remained in its, original biology
nieche,
        but since then, darwinism has become
a quasi-marxism,
   not that i'm slowing you down or anything,
but darwinism translated into
  a historical narrative is like a brick wall...
a cul de sac of any future events,
****... back to petting a monkey...
             if there is such a thing as common
sense...

               how did darwinism escape
    the zoo and enter into a study of history?
     and as such: become the testing ground
for all things to come?
        believe me when i say:
darwin only matters in the anglophone
sphere of talk, think, do...
                darwin is crass in terms of
currency of affairs designated to the times
of occupying a shell of limbs...
                    
not to mention that communism was first
tested on Mongolia...
                  yep, Mongolia was the host
of communism...
                          they tested it there for, i guess,
the same arguments that post-colonial
children who have inherited a past
     might be deemed easy target...
       or rather: because from Mongolia came
a certain khan...
                                 (surd H)
       as is the case with several familial ties
in pakitan, sharing that surname...
                  kan (otherwise crackle
and trying to await audience with phlegm
to spit with).

if it were not a Latin man answering for
the Greek for the short-hand version of
the old testament,
        it wouldn't be a study of the tetragrammaton,
first H is for laughter (vowel magnet),
the second H is for the allowance of surds
   (e.g. khan):
                          the greek tetragrammaton
consists of the following letters,
   based on an a "god", or rather the hidden
iota:
                                   ΨΘΞΦ
well... if we're all going to be literate monkeys...
might as well complicate things further,
based on the meritocracy of:
      you do your ****, i do mine,
                   i don't dig up your grave,
you don't dig up mine...
                  we meet in the middle,
   and stalk a fascination with 3 dimensional
space, akin to it being compressed
  into a: jesus mary and joseph,
              or a trímūrtí the hindus believe in).

- yet this constant reiteration,
this constant banging against the wall...
             in the anglophone world a seemingly
dead end, fudge-packaging of events,
mingling with a journalistic insomnia...
        journalism is in a state of
insomnia...
                    i can actually go through
the day not even bothering to remember
what day of the week it is,
        but i can tell you what day of
the week it is, watching the volume of
traffic...
                like some idaho monk smoking
a spliff...
                   it's not that it's wrong,
but akin to marx, darwin's ideology has
infiltrated areas that should have been left
to their own demands...

  for all i know, anglophone "orthography"
is so subtle, that all it takes is a spelling
mistake to reveal it...
        
                  which is why i don't
                               bother with metaphysics;
and what a grace bestowed upon me
by england, to be born a monster of
these lands, based simply, on minor clues
of usage.

I leant upon a coppice gate
     When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
     The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
     Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
     Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
     The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
     The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
     Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
     Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
     The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
     Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
     In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
     Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
     Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
     Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
     His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
     And I was unaware.

A hollow stone,
Strong and sturdy.
Slowly weakening;
Corrupted by weather.

Try to dab,
Feel the cracks
Whisper one word,
Enjoy it crumble.

Eyes open,
Switch: off
Grinning and laughing,
Repeatedly cursed.

Ever since I was a little girl, I saw things no one saw.
I always looked at the world with awe.
I saw the beauty in people who weren't loved,
In every ******, outcast, and victim.
I was isolated from the world,
For I was merely a girl.
While girls liked dolls and wanted to be Daphane from ****** doo,
I wanted to be Velma and do what all the boys wanted to do.
I robe my bike around my yard,
Even though I would fall on the rocks and hit the pavement really hard.
I had little friends,
I was weird to no end.
I tried to be normal,
I tried to catch up to the people.
However, they didn't see me,
I would just be left all lonely.
I hated elementary,
They only reminded me of being lonely.
I wanted to leave,
I wanted to be free.
I remember that wish as I hung out at the swings,
How I wished that I had wings.
I wanted escape the oppression of my school and home,
I wanted a real friends and I hoped.
Boys were always first.
At home, it was not different, they were the worst.
My older sister said that I had everything that I wanted,
That I was a spoiled brat and unwanted.
My older brother would push me and grab me by the arm,
Saying that I was in the way, causing even more harm.
My mom sided with them,
She only didn't want to get in trouble from HIM.
My dad,
The core of troubles, the only one I can't stand.
Always putting boys first,
Teaching us girls that our job was to cater to them and worst.
We had no say,
We had to do everything he wants in order to stay.
I found no beauty in the family,
It was rotten to the core, it was greedy.
I was hoping that they would see the things that I see,
Stop the nightmares from my closet from coming after me.
I wished they stopped arguing,
I wished they were a real family.
I had no escape,
I didn't even have my own dreams to escape.
I was haunted by nightmares and arguments,
I wanted them all to end.
I would watch a monster from my closet **** everyone near me,
Coming after me.
No one listened,
I was mistaken.
I grew older and eventually stopped pretending,
I shut myself in my walls and shielding.
In the 3rd grade, I stopped wearing pink,
I stopped listening.
I hid behind a frown,
I stopped chasing after the ones who weren't around.
I became an adult when I was young,
I didn't even have a childhood to be proud of.
I couldn't stop seeing beauty,
But I refused to be a victim to their cruelty.
I was an empty shell of a innocent girl,
A young soul who saw the beauty in the world.
I had kept this charade for a couple of years,
Then my wall started to get cracks and tears.
I remember people who saw me,
I remember the ones who became my friends and, later, family.
They finally came,
They finally saw me for who I am and didn't want me to change.
My walls took heavy fire,
It was weakening more than I had desired.
I was scared,
What if they didn't really care?
We went on to high school,
Still friends from middle school.
Then he came into my life,
Putting an end to my shell to hide.
My love came and pulled me out of my shell,
Promising freedom from this hell.
I couldn't believe it,
I didn't think that I was getting what I wished.
My angel with black and red wings,
He's finally come to save me.
They came to save me,
My friends and my real family.

The streets were bare and the moon was out.
Stars shined in the blackness of night, and the little girl held a candle.
A dull candle, with no fire giving it burning life.  
Her hands trembling in the cold, every breath she inhaled a wave of ice.
Her lungs straining to keep up the rhythm.
In, out. In, out.
Her hands shaking, her body trembling with fear of the great darkness.
Memories of the warmth she once felt tore her heart.
A bright fire once flickered on the wick of the candle, but the flame vanished in the wind.
The howling wind that came that night ripped the life from the candle.
And left the little girl to shiver in the cold, all alone.
Her eyes pleaded to all that walked by for a flame.
The warmth they felt stirred jealousy in her heart as she thought of the fireless candle.
A candle was all she had.
And without warmth, soon enough she would freeze.
Her eyes already drifting shut, her grip on the candle weakening, her heartbeat growing slower.
And people would shuffle past her and gasp, but continue on.
Nobody would help the poor little child that was dying in the cold.
For all she had was a candle.
And what's a candle without a flame?