What if he doesn't make me laugh like you did
What if he doesn't captivate a room
What if he doesn't golf with my dad on Sundays

My god, what did you do
What did you do

the sound of a family breaking
it's that of thunder
and waves crashing
hiding everything
gets to be too difficult
and soon you call it quits
8 unplanned births,
2 marriages
and a suicide later
something's gotta give
they say a child wants nothing more
than to feel accepted by their parents
if dad isn't around, that only leaves her
head in the clouds
refusing to look down
weak-willed and beautiful
good intentions with even better connections
like the plague
one, two, three, four
crying and whimpering by the door
he'll stop
once she's back
or when the dope
drops him
to the floor
needles, spoons, cotton, dealers
play a bigger role
more to give than
children wanting attention
it isn't anything new
not anymore
memorized phone numbers
sickness and disease
excuses and lies
long nights and strange men
money and ***
sweating and shivering
multiple cell phones
mustn't ever die
who am I
to judge another
coming from a broken background
with a tattered mother
never had a stable house
let alone a place to call home
older siblings
calling you out
as an "inspiration?"
the only thing inspiring
is their next fix
tears
few and far
between these days
sympathy and empathy
they become foreign words
over-attachment turns to detachment
ultimatums given too often
hugging with shaky arms
tears welling to pleading eyes
she squeezes once more
with a kiss to the forehead
and they spill over
with a throat of fire
maybe that's where the name comes from
afterall, needing is second nature to them

to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of  a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.

my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside

the wastelands are beautiful

as you gawk
at the red
sun

a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein

in a mind shaft.

with a bad back
and no front.

but a lasting gasp....

to live is to dream
to die is to awaken
my life was nothing
more, then surely mistaken
the monsters and demons
that stay inside of my head
don't won't to leave
because they have a
nice comfortable bed
they sing and dance
as they chant their spells
cursing me with sorrows,
regrets, leaving me in hell
my thoughts towards the world
is now just filled with ****
leaving me to drink and drown
on pain and ***
I dream of dreams but
end up with nightmares
now I go to sleep
saying nothing but prayers
I miss my old self, the
person who I once was,
the ***** old homeless who
slept in a broken down bus
the evil is so strong, it's
to late to runaway
like my monsters and demons
I might as well stay.

Premises:
1. Identity (or virtue if one wants to be an old-fashioned stoic) takes primacy in questions of morality and judgment. Concept is highlighted by Boethius in The Consolation of Philosophy, ca 534. "She (Lady Philosophy) contends that happiness comes from within, and that one's virtue is all that one truly has, because it is not imperiled by the vicissitudes of fortune."

2. If this supposition is true, then it stands to reason that, as the struggle for identity has been one of the overriding conflicts in my life, all decisions made must be deferred to my own concept of right and wrong.

3. Why? Because to compromise one's beliefs is to compromise one's self. In doing so, one betrays that which defines them.

Problems which arise as a result of this perspective:
1. Openness to new experience and ideas is somewhat curtailed.
2. Tendency to stagnate.
3. Conflict with other pillars which make up my belief system, namely radical acceptance of loved ones.

In other words, I hold my identity to be the one inviolate thing that no one can take away from me. However, I've had to fight tooth and nail to figure that out, therefore I'm extremely reactive to perceived threats to my belief system. Source of Cognitive Dissonance > trying to reconcile absolute judgments on good vs. bad with acceptance.

wish I was myself again
  cause like I always said u never get the day back
            U waste it when ur down so wateves.....
          z'm young everyday is suppose to be great or good at least
                      Once I'm older I work is more stress now its like I need to focous on my own health .....

At least we're still alive.

I wrote eulogies for all the people I will ever loose, but when the time will come I don't want to remember how to speak.

At least we feel love.

I mix the feeling up with other one's. One's that will never be worth the effort.

At least we are healthy.

And our bodies remember to breathe when we forget.

At least we can fight.

I will feel terribly ashamed and sorry if I will ever stop that for one second in time.

We owe that to them.