It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.

When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.

The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.

The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.

Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.

I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?

Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.

Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room

Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries

Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?

Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality

All observation is from a particular point, but
acknowledged subjectivity's better than naught.
Thus follows some comments on their qualitative nature.
Use them as you deem. In this piece everything is as it seems.

Caffeine is unappreciated enough,
Give credit to that stimulant for the things it does.
Coffee has little time to play, for there are errands
to attend to before the light fades.

The amphetamine will spin you until you're spun,
The cathinone will also try you with its luck.
The stimulant is a trickster [touch within]
and a magician never reveals their secret,
Even when seeking it befalls endlessness.

Me and E(cstasy) used to dance all night,
Closer to all your dreams was as far
from the light, we soaked ourselves
in emotionality and I soared high:
Perfection in the dark
rekindled my heart; 'cause
on pills you love everyone.

******* is always hungry but will never feed you
for it is naught but the scent of pure ego;
because on coke everyone loves you.

There is nothing to learn from an opioid or benzodiazepine
beyond the hedonistic stupor in-between awake and sleeping.
Similarly, cigarettes never taught me anything about myself
much like quick, ***** ***, that's nicotine and painkillers, in essence.

Alcohol is reliable for those sociable
but can hurt the body and scorn the emotional.
Drink toyed with me, then she abandoned me;
Despite that messiness I still reminisce occasionally.

Gamma-HydroxyButyric acid [GHB] requires utmost caution,
One must observe the proper conduct when
wading through such subtle intoxication.

Don't use ket too much, don't use angel dust.
If you want a supreme arylcyclohexylamine
seek out methoxetamine, use it responsibly.
Dissociation, end of line; no[thing is o]ne.

Always be considerate before transcending reality,
Reverence for psychedelics keeps them self-regulatory.
Of all the compounds they would humble and reveal to you;
Existential, being when tripping; every[is]one.

Cannabis I dared to use recreationally
for it often reminded us when one should act sensibly.
That deep conversing with trusted friends
is better than any substance I have ever had the nerve to test.

Prelude  PART I


"Today when the threat is looming, as close apocalyptic years approach, it will be by cohabiting itself and the ruining valley of debris, which will make this world corrupted the next issue of the numeral scale of the new count, a rising hyperspace , concerning the parts of the kingdom of God ... "

Then on the Lord's day, John saw the glory of the risen Christ, and she understood from the point of view of God, he saw that the fate of the Church and threatened in the first persecutions took the appearance of a dark beginning.
And the time John wrote the Evangelist, including books were Jews called Revelation, that is, "Revelations". With fantastic images of monsters, angels and cataclysms, evidence of the Jewish people are stressed and are invited to await the judgment of God who intervenes from heaven with all his power.  So my beloved world is harsh and does not represent an apocalypse, but it is the true reality is when I will bear its overwhelming slaughter.

" Today when I walked with my winged feet near my friend Victor, I confided down the road crushed by afflictive legs; how difficult the taste of laughter when the decadent surrounds you, the human, the vile, the loose ...
Even though the celestial charisma invoke his memory and help nourish the weakness of Robert in hyperspace, with clean clothes, I can see his beloved mother consumed as automaton can take care of him. She is also her father, because it carries rooted in its members and manners, infinitely sharp look; in their arms they will gather wherever his soul is under his patronage that lives there ..."
I am  who  say that Roberto is a dog, who bears all the faces of dogs humble and serene. Perhaps tired of hearing young people, it is flush adults who do not accept, and who do not share as young faces were watching them, getting them to receive them what they should disclose them.
This is how we are numbed and distraction is fleeting, and he looking aside in his astrayed, he would be saying ...:
"Among the cradle and the grave I have a feeble scaffolding, and then complains, though his other I demolishes; unsconcient defends his executioner ... that the threat of death is its widespread depravity, which dominates it and want to go on like mortifiying.

      I want to talk about life ..., he said in his short years of life, which is more of it; possibly coming to complex, what our Somatic territory responds in normal or involuntarily. Comparative anatomy, and its innermost portion, the link body and mind, as a pure white as Samadhis and nature.
Homeostatic factors regulating our vitality, making its experimental modification, increasing to evolution, or maturation as a criterion of personal psychology go with the passage of time into in the depths of our mind.
Thus in a known threshold of Vedic architecture, its sensitivity is excited by regulating the effectiveness of the response to be made ... and everything related to the world of Ludwig Garroch; brother Robert in his strange Emigrate.
Yesterday when my arms away from hers, my fingers pounding away and recording what the heart more than a song, was a symphony sonata with a single end, long and sustained movement; It was the adage inner melancholy with an eye romanticism, which dominates the
passions of the visible world, which inhabits Antonieta, causing me, unbalanced living.


                                       CHAPTER I


In the beginning years of his childhood, little Ludwig sitting at home, in the gallery. Ask her aunt who was ironing ... Madelain, how I would always be a child of five ...?, And being as such, a privileged to receive toys for many years. Attentive aunt, maybe go to hear with little complacency as his hands only want unroll clothes.
After two years at the age of seven, when her aunt arranging his coat to go to Mass, she teaches a carol that had been taught in childhood. When many wondered whether there is a Santa Claus ...?, And among his friends they looked to unravel the mystery. One year later, when he enjoyed his unicycle, who just dominated him, called him a cousin telling her it was her birthday. He did not hesitate to go to find out what was behind the call, so he found the means by which we celebrate, we live and cooperate towards happiness and delight to have us at each other.
Not long after a friend told him .. "You do not have ten years are too big And Ludwig thought he was well endowed and well stopped, so not your friend was wrong in the above. It is my label and my stance has put the world on me.
Every passing day came the stamp of manly character, a woman or girl who made change her hairstyle, and he did dress more attractive every day.
Later, in his teens, his gaze was well received and their voices radiated security screening. Where He must continue the line of men. Even when I was living as smoothly, looks out strong destination with which calls us to live with skin clean or *****, because it is inside the feeling and the pain does not come out, it is enclosed by the overflowing affection. Here is the portion of good or evil haunting things casual and destroys the healthy, it fertile.

                                        
              ­                           CHAPTER II


Then was a year with a sports compensate pleasant summer sated outdoors, almost fugitive ... will not wonder that life smiled on him serfdom, and very willing opened his prudence.
Every time I decided to go to his favorite places, he went with his burly comrades in the best mood to conquer optimistically. Thus, no wonder he wanted when he was alone and put your reasoning judiciously, because nothing is distant, nothing is impossible.

After unite desires and forces, to clean your bike, piece by piece, in full sun know much security would not allow the mother of vices ruin their fun, that scarce alive to possess the desire to move and go on compliance instinct. Casts on itself, the vigor of the inner, its desolate world full of free enthusiasms who obey no doubt the vital complex activity.
Ludwig and entering the maelstrom of men love hate Godson, you can glimpse the friction with the air, with people ... I wore. That their voices heard their soul contracts, and thus puts light feet towards an acceleration which does not afflict his troubled stomach, nor regret his decision and put fearful, but, bring himself retained encouragement of his mind to remember the maternal cooing, comfort and timely relief to protect forever the suffering, the suffering of torment without end, not he shut the inspiration of the good man that no harm will result, and not for nothing the valence of living and not quarrel prancing. No existing could shed some light on what role, and that little thought is not complicated, and thus shown kneeling and unable to distressing oppressors and agents tangled conduct to chaos, those characters of ambition and discrimination.
Ludwig, who lives in the Ecologist City, where large forest ... budded, is home jungle floral site, whose relations are flowers, trees ..., next to Strange birds migrate flower in her intra nature reproduced, and pods evacuated by butterflies.
His close friend, is the watery and salty sea, which is beloved because he falls in love, puts on alert and curses him by his surroundings and invoking him. Anyway, it dwells wherever it is, and is accepted as a basic element of the universe.

                                    
                                         CHAPTER III

The act of tender love would be fulfilled later ..., what his voice fell silent and had his eyes and heart fortify, which will be linked from far inside.
At night, with Roderick going to a festive night, they climbed the rungs center alone, with heat in his shirt skin later. And in a deliberate action, someone asks you a sign that taking care tired and distinguishing see that John was his friend, school mate. He did not hesitate, he approached, greeted him and his sister and a cousin when she noticed well, he saw that he wore perfect for your night.
Debra wore elegant, dark clothes and sang with her dark brown wavy hair; his white brunette and harmonious ****** complexion line, gave her constant reflection. Fate was present, as it would not go around the world to be looked at by someone, he would watch his choice. Little was said, he only realized he was not passing and North America came eleven years ago.


They roasted the hours and the party ended, Ludwig remained with her new friend and his old friend John. They went downstairs, thinking about committing his new friendship, as I had noticed a slight interest in it. This happened and the meeting lasted for several hours.
The next day, he went to see her lawns roads where she lived, always with its mystique and kneeling the beast that wanted to impose upon him, that gives it excessive materialism unloved peace.
She arrives at her house, which was to John, though not very comfortable, but sure to please and attentive to host it.
And that night said much that was the tender feeling and liking her, but as his policy was rigid and concerning celibacy, only mattered to him, the unknown world of madness in his brawling to survive.
Time passed and deepened love, Ludwig went to say goodbye to his beloved, especially that he had faith, but that day would betray him. And so I wanted to put his heart and iron sleep peacefully, but Debra no secret  to tell ...:

"Ludwig, do not abandon our own, we must have faith, and I understand what it is. Ludwig rested and then brought her hands to her, hugged her and kissed all over her face, covering her eyebrows, nose, forehead, mouth; his lips positions in the middle of it, wanted to feel her warmth and tell her he loved her and would miss a lot of pain. But there was no show weakness, he must be strong and not to complicate the farewell from North America. Mourn scared him, because he had forged the feeling, because his aching grief was deep and it was at an undetermined point, with great desire to hold her and kiss over his face.
So ever, it was unbearable, she would like to die in his memory and had to remember in the collective thinking of his family circle. Which it fits the feel shivers ideas with sensations, such as the best in its inherent upstart point.

It was hard, as if more than man Ludwig out the feminine side of himself. But irremediable was the end, eager poisonous reaper approached. Ludwig hugged her, kissed her and stroked her right breast ... saying: "Do not forget me ..." and so left. Then he wrote her, that madness had transformed her away, but the distance was prevented against carcinoma being all postponed.
To know he could not boil your blood heavy thinking, they were contracted muscles. When he relaxed, he saw back through the hatch of his head, the soul that was in an ****** tragic holocaust, where Eros tenaciously and rebellion dictated its laws. Ludwig slept, and consciousness became natural color, as if it were safer, eternally fresh and manufactured this dream a poem ...:  

" That one corresponding to the celebration,
I wish to reunite with enthusiasm and strength ...
touching eyes closed
the sad sky, the dry ground, dried flowers
and people backward habits.

As meaning if it takes itself ...,
is the meaning
although they are scattered
in flows oppressions ...
the animosity of delight just widow and desultory,
losses and more losses at the time of aging ...
and profits to appease others.

For more like,
there seems to be a big drop ...
the same credibility ...?
and setting as a feeling
remain imagination stationary.

As hard it corresponds to the body,
It is destroyed inside ...
and hardened thoughts
tears falling to the esophagus,
without recognizing either way.

Who the pace of living is customizable,
and no opportunity is lost ...
but growing and creative
rears its profile,
as an unforgiven mirage. "


    Have been and unrestless forms of peremptory perceive, and when it starts to wander in my solitude, transporting my sorrow with grief, wherever I go I will take silent and vivifying separation completes the probable brain, which lives and endures in avidity stamped man with his need to want the Lord's command that made me forge this creation .--- he told himself, as a witness epilogue of his poem, albeit as the cry to its essence it was about. Originally from the Ecologist City, where reigned the wise and calm, where he healed their diseases, which has dodged the putrefaction of their wounds, where you inhale the aroms most want and cordoned off its without a grave lack of soft and flowering odour.
To believe missing, do not be afraid and trust that will grab everything, that not a drop of air was not lost on her fingers, which will not fail to display their imaginative stuff Alma Mater.
With all their eating, you want to cure your bad like venereum, and would go into the hands of a counselor or a warlock who extirpated the curse. Heal her feet and hands to despair, to heal the memory of his thought that I seasoned and voluptuous breaks the veins of his caleter, which seems not of it like a dwarf be provided with a dagger will break their venal, and this to commit such surgery, he laughs loudly with garnets eyes, full of the worst evil.

And this way Ludwig Garroch, vague without fear of rags, without fear of hunger or the messiness, only idles so that someday I can walk on the water surface, leaving their hydrocentric footprints where plankton reverence their sense of pain, his infarcted heart , her long fingernails of violence.


TO  BE CONTINUED….

my mom called, i cried by the dhall, on facetime
been thinking about how lucky we are to be alive
even if to deal with mornings and swollen eyes
even if dad's always on the night shift, even with
this big rift caused by the distance and the lack of time
just because we made out once doesn't mean you're mine
i got glimpses of a pink top, my blanket of a jacket
i bet it would look classier if you were wearing it
but you're distant and cold and partying is getting old
i'm forever out of polaroid film and cheap distractions
so i took an amtrak home, straight from south station
the flight back to boston was short but still exhausting
and when i walk home alone, the silence is unsettling
seems we're both better than i thought at method acting

i open my eyes and the light hits my face
i toss and turn in my bedsheets, stretching my arms
i inhale breaths of life
and exhale
i am grateful

i am grateful for a roof over my head
a warm bed to sleep on
clean water to drink
and food i can eat

i am grateful for blue skies and sunshine
staring up into the horizons
feeling the warmth consume my body
from the inside out

i am grateful for friends who care about me
saying i was lonely, feeling hurt, and down
giving me a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on

i am grateful for tough days
for without them, how could we be grateful?
learning to appreciate what we have
despite feeling empty and broken

i am grateful for silent moments and days where i sing at the top of my lungs
learning to embrace the still and quiet
taking the time to reflect
that even silent moments have something to teach us
and expressing my joy
dancing like nobody is watching

but most of all, i am grateful for my Savior, Jesus
who bore everything for me on that cross
pursuing me despite my messiness, failures, and sins
fully knowing me and loving me
i am eternally grateful
forever grateful
of each breath He gives me
teaching me to live this life for Him
and not myself
to give glory, honor, and praise to the One who paid my debt

My life pressed like those perfect folded sheets. Married in steam and good intentions of having life together.

Of course, that always starts with making your bed in the morning and filling the days with things you ought to do.

I'd spent my whole life trying to be this person....

I can't but help miss the stain on my coffee table and my linen sheets sprawled across my floor waiting for my return.

The chaos in my life felt like a harmony of bethovan's seventh symphony. A beautiful orchestrarted master piece I could only make the sense of.

I was an absolutist. Completely content with the messiness of it all. Entirely captivated by the beauty and desire with urge to succumb to it all.

The unequivocal grounding of not giving a **** at all if at least felt good.

I can't help but wonder if the person I'm unbecoming is the person I should be saving.

I want to be a place you call 'home'

Do you know what's the meaning of 'home' itself?
Home is a place you always keep coming back, no matter how far you could go
Home is a place you always gonna miss, no matter how messy it could get
with its imperfections
with its messiness

And I don't want to be a five-starred hotel-or a mall, for you
with its perfections
with its glamorous
with its beauty
But you can always leave them, anytime you want
Because it's just a place you passed by,
just a place you enjoy, you look at,
for short periods of time,
then you leave it behind

I want to be a home, for you
with my own imperfections,
with my own messiness,
Because I want you to keep coming back to me, no matter how far you could go
And you'll always gonna miss me,
because I'm your home.

I try to cut, through the skin, as if it's my last effort to free my own soul from it's own pain,
The skeletal bones and tissue intertwined, wanting to break free, from such limited physicality's
Rather to feel real pain, then this goopy stuff they call emotions,
I'm entangled in a war of not my choosing,
A world, I was not made for,
And I walk aware of this,
Every, single day i'm breathing hard and the cold air ***** all the warmth from my own blood,
And I feel nothing, but darkness, ******* out my soul,
The life I once wanted,
A fairytale forgotten while I'm living this horrid nightmare,
Full of language and knowledge I could care less about,
When all I wanna do is run in fields, and soak up the ocean with my heart,
And never return to a desk if it's the last thing I do,
Freedom from driving and technology,
A phone always beeping,
Just me, myself and I,
And a God that I could see with all the stuff out of the way

I favour the deep, impenetrable truth of the jungle
Over the smooth ride over sleek black rubber;
The *****, disturbing, demented disorder;
The distortions of the lights we bathe on,
Over outward alignments and the staleness of systems.

I favour the cheap, rugged, bittersweet taste
Of a late night's substandard drink,
In the midst of true lights and shadows
And the uncertainty they cast upon us,
Over the orderly and satisfactory--
The dead pleasures and securities that
Exist nowhere but in feeble projections.

I favour the basic, primeval, animal grunt--
The dirt, the dizziness of true treading
Across the muddy shallows--,
Over the clattering of an overflowed,
Certain mind.

I favour doubt, earnest doubt,
Unpalatable doubt, inescapable doubt--
A smile in a pitch-black room,
A journey on a lukewarm air balloon,
A half-finished sentence in a half-serious gloom--,
Over hasty conclusions and tainted allusions.

I favour the endearing messiness of reality;
The chaos of light and dreams;
The mystery, so out of reach,
Of you and me and the space in-between;
The stained, torn, shattered, burnt,
Twisted texture we find ourselves upon,
Over the smooth, marble-white,
Sterile surface where false certainties
Slide, grinning, before they find themselves
On an impending collision with the infectious hesitation of the ground.

I favour the acknowledging look
Straight into the eye;
A ladder with one step;
A race with no competitors;
A contentment without resentment;
A bread on your table that's good enough,
That doesn't tease you and promise you more,
And more,
And more,
So that you forget what you should really care for,
What lies deep under your skin,
What stirs up the dormant contents of your guts--
You climb to the hilltop
Which finally allows you to have
A peek at the next one.

I favour uncertainty and risk,
And walking too close to the edge;
I favour barely enough,
And cutting it too close;
I favour throwing all excess over the board,
And lowering standards;
I favour the taste of imminent failure
And the adrenaline of a heart-wakening sprint;
I favour meagre means
And big dreams, free of currencies;
For they all remind me what the world
Really looks like,
Who I really am,
And what the winter-night winds
Really feel like.

I favour the ways of nature, often erratic,
*****, ugly and convoluted,
Often dumbfounding,
Unintentionally intelligent and mysterious,
Over the ways of fear-ridden constructions,
For there is no such thing
As a straight line.

i look at our time together like the keys of a piano,
somehow pounding on a mess of a's and d's and f's creates something beautiful.
somewhere between all the laughter and late night phone calls
our messiness of a journey became a piece that was worthy of being played by Bach or Mozart.
we found the balance of those a's and those d's and those f's,
something that will be remembered by those after us for centuries.

I miss you sincerely every day. Every moment that passes that isn't spent just exchanging one word with you is spent reminiscing about the past. I guess you can say I'm lost. That's what happens when you live in the past right? Well, that's what I'm doing. Hopelessly remembering the first time you pulled me in by my red sweatshirt strings and I paused. Just staring at you so I could remember the one moment that would change me. Forever. That pause before I decided if I was ready for the mess I'd be getting myself into.

It just felt so **** good. I don't know if it was because it was spring or if it was because I had suffered from a break up 3 months prior, but I came alive again. I was living, laughing, always eager for the next time I'd see you and smile from ear to ear cornily. You'd laugh and I'd think it was the sexiest thing you could do. So we always laughed.

I'd tiptoe from your car to my door, trying not to wake my mom. And you'd.tiptoe from my door to your car to do the same. We were happy. Yes, the summer of 2012 was perfect. I grew to know I loved you, because you were my friend. A friend that listened to my problems, gave me advice, laughed at my jokes, and held me. You always held me, and all I wanted was to hold you down.

Here I go living in the past again. But those times changed me. The ache I felt was numerous: fall 2012; winter 2012; winter 2013; spring 2013; summer /2013, fall 2013; winter 2013. That's a lot huh? Well part was the jealousy of sharing, the other was your absence.

But this pain is my karma. When I say you changed me, I mean you still are changing me. It's like I run to pain as if I don't think I deserve happiness because it's always too good to be true. I've hurt people, and I've been hurt, and I thought all pain has a pay off. You taught me that. You always said we'd be good. Well we were, then I lost you.

As my first semester of college comes to a close, I'm lower than I started. As if I was running on this sugar high that college would purge you from my system. It didn't. It was like I was constantly trying to fill this void that was always there but the alcohol would always make more evident. Same with the ****. **** would cause me to over think to almost tears. Lead to me questioning what kind of person I am and what kind I want to be.

I've learned that you can't build happiness based on someone else's unhappiness. I also need to break the habit of covering my pain with new faces because it just leads to more confusion and messiness. My rebound turned to my romance. And what I felt can't easily be replaced. I feel low, to the point I look at myself and see a *****,used and left behind. Damaged goods. Repeatedly.

It's so hard to not exist in someone's world where they exist so much in yours no matter how long the absence. Yes, in that moment that you pulled me in by my red sweatshirt strings you changed me. Forever.

jia jia of supple plastic face
gracefully arranged hair
hands that gesture, eyes that roll
a lifelike porcelain doll
docile ****** expressions
perfect height to weight ratio
fluent in English and Mandarin
soothing, well-modulated tone
what can I do for you, my Lord?

the creator's goal
to refine programming
until jai jai can laugh and cry
learn to interact naturally
he calls her his
robot goddess
a wet-dream confection
with none of the messiness
of a full-fleshed playgirl

though she is artificial
and cannot feel
I pity my non-sentient sister
controlled by design
submission absolute
maybe she can fill
the hole left by women
who abandon conformity
to seek being real

To love me is to put up with a messiness I inherited from my mother.
The displays of self loathing and self sabotage i work on daily.
The clothes I leave on the floor.
The coffee cups in the sink.
The bed unmade and the too many shoes.

To love me is to deal with an annoying amount of independence I inherited from my father.
The acts of self serving that I work on daily.
The know it all moments when I’m working on something or fixing something.
The confidence in my work ethic, my persona & who I am.
The laughter I have over everything.

To love me is to know the loyalty and respect I’ve inherited from my stepmom.
The empathy I still long for and work to find daily.
The care over details.
The nurture I give when you’re sad or sick.
The standing up for you but also putting you in your place.

To love me is to cope with the stoic coldness and wandering spirit I’ve inherited from my grandma.
The parts of me you’ll never fully know that I work to show you daily.
The look of dismay I sometimes don’t know is on my face.
The inability to stay in one place for too long without going insane.
The moments I want to run away and never look back.

To love me is to cope.
Cope with knowing sometimes I’m mean.
Sometimes I’m sad.
And sometimes I love fiercely and passionately.
To love me is to love all of me.
Everything I’ve inherited and everything I’ve learned and unlearned over time.
To love me is to be loved in return.

passports, abstracts, and cigarettes
i swear it was all just for the aesthetics
thin walls, smoke screens, and window tints
we crawled through one just for the hell of it

it's nineteen and nose rings, i got asked for an id
we're twenty-one in jersey, you like my con artistry
i borrowed a street sign and failed to book an uber ride
everything is so much messier than i would've liked

i tired of people pleasing, and you never reply
we don't really need to talk about it
i try my best to not really think about it
said that i'm conceited, hedonistic, manipulative

but some nights i just want to drink until i start to lie
see, if coping was a job and paid an hourly wage
i'd be working overtime, id have a career drive
and i'd be a millionaire after six shots, or maybe five

Social media
Controls your life;
It tells you how your hair should smell
And your skin should glow
Have long hair
No.. short
Pluck those eyebrows off
Oh wait now grow them back
If you don't have the right nose and lips
Well, you're ******
Everybody should starve themselves
Who can be the thinnest
Only then you'll be beautiful
Oh, never mind
Now we like curvy girls
But you better get the proportions right or
You'll just be fat
And fat
That's unacceptable
As well as having any different colour of skin or a uniquely functioning mind
Enough to be lower than others
Out casted
Made fun of
Rejected
Wear what everybody else is wearing
We don't care for the price
But stand out
And do you
And be yourself
Just be happy.

But how
I ask how can we be happy when we're put into such impossible standards
When we're labeled
When what we have to offer is never good enough
When we feel judged everyday
And by whom?
Who's created this social media controlled society if not us
Every single one of us
You and me

So
All I'm really here to say is
You are beautiful.
Each of us is made differently in such an exquisite way
And that's what really matters
The uniqueness of each person's nature, appearance and story
The messiness and diversity of life is what makes it so alluring and magnificent ✨
Let's embrace our differences and learn to love the beautiful imperfect

It makes me look weak,            
                        My tears leaks…      
                My eyes are sore          
        My heart is a bore          
  and My body repeats a painful encore.              

                  I dust away the sad memories,                                        
but it comes along like it’s my adversaries.                  

I hate sadness
It shakes my reality, a piercing faithfulness
                towards my soulful unhappiness.

I don’t need help,
    but in truth I am lying to myself.

You’ll never know, what comes and goes
    yet I am stuck between my toes.

I hunger for that light
    but all that comes is my arresting night.

Perhaps I am doom with my own gloominess.
Starvation and Weariness
                  is a consolation of my messiness
~ a choice with laziness,
         to ponder and wonder
                    to the world’s unending sadness.



*© Pax  September, 2013

To me, words sing. They carry me up to the heavens and drag me down to the depths.

Sentences soar. They lie there, dripping with juicy meaning as they whisper softly.

Descriptions dance. Well paced prose or the precise hitting of phonetic notes are a symphony to my ears.

Pearls are found amongst the thickest of slime. Masterpieces of diction, form and character one can uncover, buried underneath the deepest mires of messiness.

These glorious works, both lengthy and pointed, are attractive for one main reason: the thoughts and flavour they contain.
These concepts swirl and crystalise like intricate snowflakes and make me think, 'If only life was always like this'.

Webbed connections spin and mesh, reflections and shattered mirrors are found everywhere. The hallmarks of beauty and the breath of the Divine mix with dark and twisted truths. Great words and those more humble writings weave a magnificent tapestry indeed.

Call it women’s intuition—
but she knows the power of silence,
how to bend you to her will,
whether she’s calm or not.
Eventually, you’ll crack,
if given enough time.
Trying to figure out what’s wrong,
following her from room to room,
asking question after question—
whether you’re crazy now
or crazy later,
it’s soon to happen.
Oddly enough,
the various cigarette and liquor companies
profit from her silence—
the way, even at your best,
it still finds a way to get your attention.
Even if you manage to block her out,
bringing it up at another time is just an argument.
It’s best to take a minute and get yourself together.
no matter what you do.
You can’t trust the way she stares,
you can’t trust the way she laughs.
It’s all a trap.
You won’t realize it until it’s too late.
Through her messiness,
through her beauty,
through her chaos,
She just wants to see how you’ll react,
if you’ll reach for her,
even when she’s right in front of you

VIII

Glassy smooth
a mirror-sea
reflects a turbulent
cloudscape blending
white into grey

today far distant
the sea joins the sky
the sky absorbs the sea
into the one
the other disappears

and little movement
at the water’s edge . . .
the tide-uncovered land
lies exposed to harden
in the still air

IX

Despite the profusion
the messiness of it all
and with disorder everywhere
there is a precise vocabulary
for the nature and experience
of the coastal strip
the area caught between
land and sea.

Rocks littered
Sand pitted and patterned
Sea sounding breaking pulling-back
Sky an overarching complement to it all

and the necessary story of coming
and the ‘just being here’
and this path to the sea shore
strewn so with anticipation
with forward-facing dreams almost
urgent imaginings as we let go
of the constraints of the squared space
the vertical architecture of daily life

X

See how those we love are transformed
when the sea is their only boundary

a figure stands before a sand bar
in a crescent of water left by the tide
an affecting geometry of solitude

another gathers her body in a crouch
to come close to a speckled play of tiny shells
fragments thrown together by the morning’s tide

The beach is such unconfining space
where movement demands no direction


XI

this attentive looking
at what lies at the feet
or not
choosing to pass by
the curiously-formed
or not

but there is a measuredness
of step an accompanying intent
with that always-confidence
there may be something

so single out what can be held
in the fingers what can lie
entire in the neutral space
of your collection’s row

then later

with the pencil’s mark
the brush’s touch
in line and shade
and the tricks of chiaroscuro
an image will be secured
in mind and muscles’ memory

you will have drawn this form
into knowledge

Enid parts the curtains and peeps out at the sky and the coal wharf over the road where coal men are loading up the coal trucks and lorries she can hear her father's loud voice from another room she blinks at the sound the sky looks blue and a sun is coming over the railway bridge so maybe ok to go out and see if Benny is around and what he's doing today but her father's bark of a voice makes her shudder her mother's screech rides on the air over her father's bark in a kind of operatic duet she closes the curtains and sits on her bed waiting for the row to subside and hopes it will not overrun into her room and bring her into the firing line as it did sometimes she caresses her body in a way no one else does or will her ears on the alert for sounds coming nearer  she gets up and goes to the bedroom door and listens the voices are still in duet but softer now but more bitter then a thump thump sound a scream and cry and Enid moves back from the door and her eyes wide open she stares at the door as if at any moment it will explode inwards and her father come in on her in a spiteful rage she moves to the wall by the window and stands there waiting sensing her stomach rumbling with hunger needing feeding but she daren’t yet go out to the kitchen and the bruises on her arm and body have only just begun to fade from last time she creeps along to her bed and climbs in between the sheets and fakes to sleep maybe then he'll not disturb a roar of words explodes from the passage and a screaming voice counterpoints then silence and door slams and then whimpering then silence then a radio comes on  music replaces whimpering and roaring voices she sits up on the side of the bed and listens intently her stomach rumbles her breathing she notices is heavy her pulse is racing along she can sense it as she holds her wrist between fingers she gets up and walks slowly to her bedroom door and opens it cautiously and peers out along the passageway the radio is playing music her mother is singing along to it in a slightly croaky voice Enid walks down the passage and into the kitchen where a light bulb shows a messiness of plates and cups and saucers and a frying pan on the grimy stove she looks in the larder and takes out a box of cereal and taking a bowl from the shelf she fills the bowl up with cereal and pours in some milk she looks for a spoon and for the sugar tin you've got up then? her mother says standing at the kitchen door a cigarette between lips a bruise on her cheek Enid stares and nods about time at least you were out of his way God he was in a foul mood this morning her mother says moving into the kitchen the smoke from the cigarette following her into the kitchen and making Enid's eyes watery get your breakfast and best be out in case he's home lunch time and still in a mood her mother says Enid puts a spoonful of sugar over the cereal and goes into the sitting room her hand shaking she trying to keep the bowl steady and sits at the dining table listening to the music on the radio behind her she looks out the window through the net curtains at the railway bridge and out onto Rockingham Street and the beginning of Bath Terrace her mother enters the room a cup of tea on a saucer in her hand the smoke about her head and sits opposite Enid deep in thought rubbing the bruise on her cheek Enid wants to ask what was wrong with her father and why was he in such a mood but she doesn't she just eats in silence looking now and then at her mother's face and the bruise spreading there and the music seems too happy for the occasion and she wishes it wasn't on but she listens all the same don't annoy him when he gets home her mother says try and keep out of his way Enid looks at the cereal bowl the pattern of flowers around the outer rim what's up with Dad? she asks her spoon half way to her mouth short of money says I waste it says I don't know how to save her mother says looking out the window her eyes watery red the cigarette shaking between fingers Enid wants to go to hug her mother but doesn't in case her mother has bruises where Enid can't see says I spoil you too much her mother went on looking at her her eyes hollow and deep Enid says nothing but spoons the cereal into her mouth and stares at the tablecloth with its blue pattern her mother's words now drone on and Enid tries to shut them out and think of later and seeing Benny and talking to him he knows what she has to put up with he knows and he'll take her some place and she can forget for a while what has happened at home maybe they'll go to the park and ride the swings and slide or go on a bomb site and Benny collect stones for his catapult can I go out with Benny? she asks her mother breaking into her mother's monologue of woe yes I expect so her mother says tiredly but don't let your father see you with him you know your father doesn't like him or you being with him Enid nods and finishes her cereal and takes her bowl to the kitchen and washes the bowl and spoon under the cold water tap until clean and puts them on the draining board to dry catching sight of her father's shadow out of the corner of her eye.

Trying to survive
the long road home
but if you want to live
you ought find a new way home.

Talk to yourself like you would
someone you love. High places,
Low stations; can't place the hour
as I walk through these suburbs.

I don't like new notebooks.

I mean, I like new, beautiful, clean, pristine notebooks,
but I don't like using them.

I don't want to ruin it.

I open up to the first page and it's so blank, so white, so pure,
there's not an imperfection in sight.

I don't want to use it because I don't want to mess it up. I want it to stay perfect, and beautiful.
I don't want that inevitable ****** drawing or poem to **** it up.
I don't want my uncleanliness, my messiness to spread to something so perfect.

I do end up using it. If I didn't, I'd just have a bunch of empty notebooks lying around which honestly I'd prefer.
But I take forever to do it, to break the seal.

I have to have the perfect thing to ruin perfection because if it's not perfect, it's not worth it to ruin it.

It goes two ways though:

The first entry is perfect, beautiful, inspiring, deep,
and then I never use that book again.
Because now it's perfection is magnified.
I couldn't possibly follow it up with something better or just as good,
and it's quite possible that the more I try to come up with something good to match, the initial piece deteriorates and it becomes disappointing, thus resulting in the notebook not being used.

The second way this goes is the first entry is trash.
It's disgraceful and I want to tear it out
but suddenly the book becomes less daunting, less intimidating because now, it's imperfect.
Every entry to follow doesn't have to live up to some grand standard.
But I'm reminded everytime I use that book that I failed, that I created garbage.
It makes everything that comes after, not as good as what I want to do, it lacks passion.
If I tear out the initial entry, the cycle starts over.

No matter which way you spin it, we just don't get along. I end up with a bunch of half used, disappointing books sitting around haunting me as I walk by.
A notebook is reflective of who you are,
it displays the deepest parts of you.

What if your unhappy with what you see on the page?

What if what you see isn't you?

What if, this blank, empty page of nothingness is better than what you are?

Why would you want to ruin something so pure and perfect with your mess?

Because nothing you ever write, draw, sketch, compose or create on it will ever be as good as it's once held purity.

-t.s.

The
Cuddle
Of
A Thousands
Cries
Pacify
My Soul
My Childish
Ways
In The
Mist
Cold
Deep
Snow
Alone
Tears
Of Numbness
Perfume
My Eyes
Into
Despair
The Messiness
Of My
Shameful
Diaper
On My
Vary
Delicate
Body
Filled
With
Shame
In The
Desolated
Crib
Of Mine
Like
A Child
In Shankles
My Tears
In Jail
Wrapped
Around
In
Sorrows
My Pacifier
My...
Stuffed
Animal
Taken
Away
In My
Childish
Eyes
~Numbness Of Despair~

I am a girl,
And I hate details.
I hate the little things in life that seem to cause so much trouble, I hate decorative pillows, accented candles, and making sure I eat some pinterest recipe meal my friend sent to me on thursday.
I don't like the minor things in life, such as cleaning, or cooking, and making sure I get to bed on time, or if my hair ever looks right.
I walk around with no makeup usually, sometimes wear the same shirt twice in a row, if my hair is semi greasy, then let it be under a hat,
I'm a girl, I won't wear the right clothes when it's 50 degrees, or I forget to take my medication so I wake up all clogged up from my allergies. I don't always eat right, and drink coffee way too much, and I don't dream of my dream wedding dress I like to think of other things that make sense to me.
I don't get upset with C's. If I passed at least I passed. I don't always make it to class, and though I wish I could be a neat freak, I can't, cause that's not me.
I am a girl who can't stand the little things in life, like perfect date nights, or pleasantly planned events, or fretting over if my earrings go with my outfit.
I like the messiness of life, unexpected relationships, random calls, winging assignments, and trying not to make everything make so much sense, It doesn't matter, not a hundred years from now, I live through the rhythms of my own heartbeat. Yes it's troublesome, and I am always late, and I quit jobs, and make irrational decisions, cause I don't like the details, I like to flow with destiny and fate and see what happens nonetheless
and I really don't like rules...

4/25/2016

there has been a kind of love that has been untouchable and unspoken. a love that's sent my heart reeling to depths of me that reveal my messiness for what it is. for me to hide it would be foolish, for me to think you do not know would be foolish too.
i weaved through the heartache of being a careless muse for so long - but do i have to?
because allowing myself to be just that, {if only just that, and nothing else} allowed me to be in a place full of people that are so happy to see your words thrive and given new life
{dancing surrounded by the people who love you - your best friends, your brother, and a stranger who let me be at eye level with you above the rest for just a moment}
I believe there will be a day where there is not a single bit of darkness and uneasiness attached to your words and i won't leave a show with tears in my eyes and my head held high.
that's the kind of place i want to be someday.

so here is my january confession. the words i've maintained in fear
i love you for who you are behind the curtains in your freezing room with a blanket and a couple cigarettes, not solely who you are on a stage
i love your kindness, your willingness, your determination to not settle for the "backup plan" or mediocrity, and your hands that i've only been familiarized with a couple times
i love you in the "maybes", the maybe of still waiting for your trust and forgiveness, the maybe of should i stay or run away from this, the maybe of you finding a new muse, the maybe of you showing up at my doorstep to embrace a weeping, unlovable me who couldn't go home without you, the maybe that this is the end and in my stubbornness i refuse to let it be just that {and maybe i have to}
i love you even in your decision to be as far away from me as your feet can take you, even if that distance is only three right turns away
and for nearly two years of my life - through all the mistakes and let downs and "can't forgive you's" and reciting of new lies of old guys - i have had the unsettling feeling that i will always feel this way
and as you too were once the boy thinking of me from that dc window, know that there is a girl who is unwavering to the promise that i will always be yours if ever you want me to be
even if it's a harsh long line of waiting and not measuring up
even if it means giving up music for a little while and lying low in the little spotlight of this town, i'd risk it
and i know you have two hundred good reasons to run but i am still finding a thousand reasons to not just leave it
you are not special to me because of how you cared then, but how you have treated me with so much respect and kindness in the aftermath
and that is invaluable to me for someone who has felt as defeated as I have for so long
and i'm okay with you not believing or not responding and crumpling this up like this is just a new effort to haunt you because of how worn down my apologies have been
and words can be so, so empty (how many letters have you collected now?)
and this probably looks like the equivalent of a cliché from an 80's movie with a boombox
but i'd love you well and relentlessly and bravely {all the ways that i didn't before} in the hope you can forgive my shortcomings and trust that (if anything)
because the constant professing of "I love you's" are not in the romantic (though I do like you very, very, very much and i think maybe you care a little too) i love you as a person
and one year later that will not be changed

"we are learning to ...
fish in the river of sorrow"*
Faith Sherien

this has been a year of
hard lessons.....
of trying,
again and again,
to perfect the the cast
to catch, cleanly,
the fish of loss.

to split it open,
and seize it's innards...
the stench, the messiness,
the ichor, the guts.

to scale the skin,
rough, cutting scales,
little tear shaped discs.

to eat of the flesh....
chewing, chewing, chewing
on the hope of afterlife.

and picking the bones clean
of delicate, delectable memories....

hard lessons,
too many this year,
yet all a part,
of a fishermans journey....
down, the river of sorrow.

We are all fallible because we are all human.
There isn't a soul on this earth exempt from
hanging a skeleton of ignorance somewhere
in life's hidden closet.

A big, brawny bag of bones dumped atop our
fragile heart spaces, in order to quiet those nagging,
screaming egos.

Sharp elbows and boney shoulders
forcing us to truly taste the soured-sweetness of humility,
and humbly drink it down.

Peace is found in our common flaws - our shared ability
to be so **** cruel, cheap, manipulative, scared, loud and wrong.
What hurts you hurts me,
we are all connected through that which
we've decided separates us.

We are not perfect. We've all really messed up.
Sometime, somewhere we've caused pain to ourselves
by inflicting pain onto others,
and vice-versa.

It's within the murky kaleidoscope of messiness that
we find proof of our connectedness, our mutli-colored similarities,
our twin tattooed scars of wisdom reminding us of our divinity,
in the wake of this endless slumber.

We must embrace our skeletons, transform them,
set them free....
For they are our greatest teachers
holding up a mirror to our souls and reflecting
all of humanity back at us,
revealing the brightest darkness we've ever seen.