Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Luna Lynn Apr 2014
I wake up and eat some eggs, a yogurt, and a few slices of melon
in an attempt to change my life
after all it is that or death
I won't hold my breath

It's a beautiful day to head to the mall
with a friend
I really know where this is going

Hmm
I like that shirt
Oops, this store doesn't offer plus size
On to the next..
I really like these jeans..
Forty five dollars for sizes sixteen and up
What a mess!

Since I refuse to let Lane Bryant **** my wallet in the ***
I decide to head to Barnes and Noble instead
I accidentally bumped into a lady and her baby stroller as I walked past and she mumbled
"Fat *****" under her breath
Yes that's what she said
I didn't even turn my head
Because that's what the lady said
and that's what society says
and instead of trying to explain it's just
easier to walk away
it's the self hatred after I dread

So I buy a whole pizza and eat the entire ******* thing
and it is beyond delicious
though the guilt I feel afterwards wasn't worth it
and vomitting that **** up was viscous

Even when I was a little girl I dreamed of being thin
I dreamed of being a model
I dreamed of having a flat tummy
Just to fit in
I didn't like the belly I had
or the fat in my cheeks
I was the only kid in gym that could never climb the rope
and that began a string of anxiety attacks
that would last for weeks

The doctor calls it insulin resistance
which leaves me with the inability to lose weight
but I shouldn't have to explain to anyone my condition
I just shouldn't have to explain
not to mention the ovarian disease that cripples me to my knees
which so happens to be genetic
and mimics the blood of a diabetic
leaving me incurable
a medical mystery
not to mention infertility
so for me
children are just a dream

Although I tell myself
that I am beautiful
and that I am intelligent
and that I am funny
and that I am a hard worker
and that I am successful
and that I am caring
and that I am loving
and that I am daring
and that I am the best **** friend a person could ever have
To a stranger I'm just a "fat *****"
and you know what?
That makes me really ******* sad
Don't feel sorry for me, I am only speaking the truth.
(C) Maxwell 2014
time is not real unless you are an adult
monday ***** so bad sometimes i sleep under
tuesday's promise of money and dog food to
fix my lack of communication skills
© 2013 Austin Stephenson
melli7 Dec 2015
I The Monthly Scapegoat
I feel like **** and
everyone else is **** too I
better be getting it soon or
else I'll have nothing to blame this
shittiness on

What are you looking at?
Go AWAY!


II Pain & ****
ow
that hurts
this better not be from that
steak I had last night


III Paranoia
it's not here
yet
but I know it's coming why
isn't it here yet this waiting is making
me crazy checking for stains every five
minutes afraid to wake up with an unpleasant
surprise


IV Arrival
surprise

followed by: the most
inconvenient
five days out of every month


V Farewell**
good riddance to
bad ******* that
will unfortunately need to
be expelled next month I feel like a
human trashcan
Brian O'blivion Oct 2013
into this pink grist
run mercury brooks
from the tower of liana
and ruptured mist
pools an ovarian sky
barefoot through milky way city
above strawberry ice cream lane
stratus clouds scale the ruins
and
the maraschino cherries ******* rain
Kara MacLean Dec 2010
cervical cancer
ovarian cyst
open your mouth
here's my fist
stomach ulcer
an inflammation disease
got pneumonia
from just a sneeze
inflamed pelvis
stomach cancer
shut the **** up
you don't know the answer
heart attack
blood clots
watch me as
my insides rot
my brain thinks
I've had every disease
but its funny
i've never had any of these
By: Kara MacLean
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
~~~
She's Dead (Don't Think Twice, It's All Right)

A poem, forty years in the making,
Part II of a trilogy

~~~

she's dead

my nemesis,
a truly personalized comic book
arch-villain,
all mine to own and bear,
a cost that I comically
and freely chose,
purchased with only,
just the,
larger part of my life

because of a blood letting,
me letting
a lax laziness of fear,
a kind of blood poison,
an emotional self-imposed over-ruling,
"just cry and bear it,
for the sake of
appearance, children,
whatever,"
that was the insane,
disorganized principle,
who made itself
the king of me

an ugly sweater gift to myself
and
ashamedly,
wore its invisible effects
so quiet like,
this self-imposition,
of long standing,
a faithful traveling companion,
quietly unravelling, deconstructing,
this bearer-wearer

I married the wrong woman,

now she's dead

killed by the ovarian cancer
that I nursed her through in the early years
of its misshaped, too late discovery,
with bedside manners impeccable,
even secret whispers,
for who would believe me,
even begging God to give her
twenty years of
my own time

for he was so uselessly beaten down,
and unbearable miserable,
was-would-be gladly rid
of the final semester,
exiting more gracefully
than via other
contemplated and cowardly
methods of terminations

pronounced cured,
she decided a second cure,
like extra points for
a bonus question answered,
was just what the doc ordered

so she cured herself of
me

with a divorcing, stabbing,
emotional killing motion,
so angry, a petulant childlike biting,
relentlessly, revenging,
for all the years that followed,
inflicting, afflicting
me with mine very own
mental cancerous moments

where
I hated
myself
for hating her,
a petulant child who never grew up,
much,
as much as
my censored heart
would permit,
this truth,
to admit

it debased me,
being a raging hater,
yet a hater,
of both
her and myself,
I was,
her best, most successful
victim
of her final
curse

"you're not over her"
all the fools used to say and
then, and even now,
asking pointedly,
why else this time,
one mo' time,
is this small matter
deserving of an ecrive
all its own?

I guess there are glimmers of
secrets in
a life lived in poetry,
(poetry, her unknowing Greek God's gift to me)
in everything,
even in a
confessional,
a special reserve vintage,
for admitting my imperfections

now she's dead,
losing a race to
her curse,
losing a race,
to the most cruelly, patient,
enemy that a human can face,
unwilling self-destruction,
setting one's own
holy temple on fire,
with great irony,
sourced from within,
this tinder
from the very body
she worshipped,
that went finale
crazy ablaze

where ya going with this,
you ask yourself?

a mixed up goodie bag,
of emotional conflicted torment,
brings me here,
to pen and paper

her leaving me
turned out
as the best thing ever,
drawing down my reservoirs of courage,
mined from the deepest arteries
of a damaged heart,
of a recovered addict

a thousand different tunes come to me,
all nurses aides,
to assist me to
stitch myself,
this memory wound
closed

the one that make the most sense,
an old Dylan lamentation,
correct only in exactly every phrase,
yet forced to admit,
I am indeed,
despite it,
for now,
yet,
thinking twice...
~~~

"It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell

But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don’t think twice, it’s all right"
Jan . 17,  2015 ~

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
by Bob Dylan


It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don’t matter, anyhow
An’ it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I’ll be gone
You’re the reason I’m trav’lin’ on
Don’t think twice, it’s all right

It ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An’ it ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe
I’m on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin’ you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin’ anyway
So don’t think twice, it’s all right

It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell
But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

Copyright © 1963 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music
Nothing Personal May 2012
I knew I was dying when you called.
I knew I had barely weeks left
when you said you wanted to meet.
Then came the big news
You were supposedly pregnant
and I was the father.
When on earth did that happen?
I thought a millennium had past
since we last dated.
Back then,
Men still used to hunt in woods
and live in caves
savagely eating each other
when time came.

If I told you all this,
your Catholic sentiments will be hurt.
I barely agreed to meet.

The sun did not miss the chance to disappear
Horizontal, bull like clouds bellowed past the golf course
and winds blew like a ****-storm of hail and blood
It all hurled on my face as I rushed to work.

I remembered how some and perhaps all children were born innocent
But they did not choose stay that way.
Some were caught cheating
some were mortally punished.

The omen was bad.
I met my boss at the boss-stop.
That murky bit of time when you know you
are working late to avoid meeting your boss
and yet ,
you would meet him and
he would stare right at you
a terminal stare.

I decided I will drink coffee
The sun came up
and a girl with beautiful hair
asked me out.
I told her
"Time is limited"
If you want grandkids,
tonight is the night"
She said she had ovarian cancer.
We went out.

I know I had cheated on you.
Maybe a couple of times in the past.
But not on rainy Thursdays.
Not when the amore wasn't with life
but with death.
But see ,
I did that too.

God graced me when the rains didn't stop.
And you did not call back.
All the oncologists were on leave
all headed to warm Florida beaches
They have seen enough deaths this year already.

I knew October was coming.
My dreaded October.
I decided to keep dating this girl.
And the skies decided to stay murky.

On a October morning,
when the sun shone
miraculously
you dropped unannounced to my house
and asked me to marry you.
I resigned to my doom.

A war broke in a Middle Eastern country
And somewhere else in North Africa.
China was shook up by a 8.9 earthquake.
Giant tsunami waves rolled up towards
the Eastern face of Europe.
Australia passed a racial law.

I died on 17th October.
They said without much pain.
Few came by to the funeral.
People decided to cremate me
and blow the ashes away.
There were few people who attended.

You gave birth to a lovely child.
My girlfriend found she was misdiagnosed.
They found oil.
Miraculously.
Stephen Spender got the Noble Peace Prize.
I did not see the sun shine that day, of course.
Lora Lee Jun 2017
Inside this
depth of the perpetual,
I hold onto the light,
learning that
it is not an illusion
but a constant
            fire within
hard as metal
simultaneously lava soft
no longer boneless,
lumped jelly
              in a flaccid bowl
Instead I am bowled over
with new power,
plugged into
my own electric universe
in rushes of ******* voltage
that was always waiting for me
to see it
to allow it inside
the tissues of my body
to flow up and through
intestines, muscle, heart and bone
threads from
                 a glowing orb
that slake
and snake through me
like a river's glory
leaving the spirit on edge for more
and I am ever grateful
to take that light
                  spin it into a gift
                       unwrap it slowly
                            drape it
                              over me like
                                 a flowing,
unstitched garment        
pour its liquid-tipped velvet
onto my follicles, sensitive
tender luminosity
touching all the right places
its silvery essence
flooding me in
drips and slips
healing all the lost
and lonely places,
desolation's imprint
hollows of brimmed-over    
                        despair
I have become
a quivering, stellar bud
bursting forth, each day
                       burning into new
rebirth in quenching torrents
ripe as ovarian silk
soaked in
cellular juice
inner seeds ready to be flung
unto the earth
into the wilderness
into expansion
ready to
bloom
          and bloom
          and bloom
   again
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
that's it! i've had, enough!
english existentialism is crude, too crude
for my liking -
  it's a comic book script -
and a ****** mess -
  it obliterated history, it obliterated
yesterday, and sure as ****:
it will obliterate tomorrow -
my turn: to obliterate today.
the english, i find: really don't like reading -
unlike the russians -
i read it once: the russians read,
as if their life depended on it...
while europe was expressing its fine
details and sorrow:
the english were in a sleepy state
of blakean lullaby...
   yes: but at least the icelandic people:
are not ****** pompous about
their natural borders beginning
with S and ending in E;
   i mean, it's no wonder sometimes -
given the current climate of digested
literature,
       i'm sure there are no mature readers
in england, or at least: i've never met
one! adults reading harry potter without
any sort of shame,
      the lunatics will lead the blind,
and young with old souls will dupe
the young with... young souls...
just like the old play games with the young:
the most unusual perk of being old:
fake it... and then turn into
a eclair surprise of sucker-punching
  a youth, while performing a zui quan
punch...
   absolutely no existentialism,
everything's so ******* egalitarian...
when it's not,
   ants in your pants
        your shoes are on fire...
double-faced liars...
     i mean... the only existential points
of interest in english existentialism are?
somewhere along the line of
evolutionary "chronology" -
   and the big bang...
i still love the interplay of these four
words:
          bang (a) ******* hole...
cat's out of the bag, can't him back in,
ask schrödinger to bring a few boxes
from the store house...
  in the meantime, we'll also build
a cardboard box castle we'll call home,
then put everything on social media
and then you can have what i already
suggested:
  people living in the already present
glass houses, reached a new zenith:
       glass people, living in glass houses.
the english have no existentialism,
  they got the bore-ism,
    much cartoon fakery and all that
techno whizz kid jazz...
    no wait... there's one good example of
"existentialism" -
but it's treated like a footnote...
  even though it's in a collection of works
that also includes camus & marcus aurelius...
william hazlitt's: on the pleasure of hating;
and to be honest? that's about it.
i'm just bored of: this is not objective
enough... what, so detach myself from
subjectivity and argue like a psychopath?
that's what you're implying!
i can say with calm 2 + 2 = 4...
but if i have to say some complex
arithmetic... i will either brood over it,
pensive... but at the same time:
i know i am prone to some sort of frustration!
but at least both can be deemed healthy
reactions...
     now ask for the psychopathic maxim,
yes? what is it?
   apathy breeds no pathology...
see, psychopaths are oblivious to emotions,
they have cool arguments,
  if you mentioned a "necessary"
distinction between subjectivity being
"negative" and objectivity being "positive",
they'd reply: i can't tell the difference:
oh, you mean the thrill of argument / act?
i can't give that away.
the germans had existentialism,
   the norwegians have it, the swedes had it
with ingmar bergman,
the poles had it with krzysztof kieślowski,
the russians had it, heavens!
even the french had it!
esp. given that we're still trapped in
the caveman existentialism extending from
darwinism...
   i'm not a caveman... i go to a cafe and drink
coffee, i'm tired of hearing this biological
history ******* without civilisation...
there's a reasonable cut-off point,
   there are reasons why you cut off pieces
and live in the present...
esp., oh boy... a video like this,
entitled: why women pass up good guys for
players...
honey, that "question" just flew past my head,
can't think why, nor will i,
  i've seen a few prostitutes to wonder
about a "why";
          mind you... upon that fabled plateau
of the ovarian desert: party's up...
guy's - make sure you've seen an
actual ******* first: it'll ease the blow
with regards to what you'll be settling with;
now, that doesn't get plainer english
as that.
Brian O'blivion Aug 2013
everybody
whispers in shoeshine voices
(through polished brass lips) when the ovarian light hits
her
glittering in designer degrees of loss
and  cherry *******
unfolding an inner eye while opening her wings
to the ages
Emily Joyce May 2015
She looks up into the ever darkening night sky and laughs bitterly
two choices, two horrible options
One diagnosis makes you want to die
and the other it’s inevitable
endometriosis
or
ovarian cancer

She laughs again
staring at the night sky
she's afraid
she can feel it slowly bubbling up
like a *** set to a boil on the stove
except no ones watching over her
no ones making sure she doesn't boil over

She looks up into the ever darkening sky
tears slipping down her face
praying to a God she doesn’t believe in
*let the medication work
Vicki Acquah Oct 2015
God had a green card
But cannot get back in the gate.
The Bricks are thick
But not so tall, I think
God may need to scale the wall.

Are we safe in structures gated
Must we stay in this prison
Where women are hated.
Our bones are hidden in tunnels.

Where has my mother gone
My sisters have disappeared, been
Abducted into a cult; Suspicious
Disinterest displays their guilt.

There has been nothing to report.
Maybe she has run away
To find a new God, Someone has
Touched her, she was not safe there
In her own bed, in her own home.

Some Blackman- Chanted hate lyrics
At her; Encouraged by their overseers.
Asian cultist cursed her in the womb.
In India they ostracized and brutalized
Her melanin, Queen of England, a
******, watches through syphilitic
Eyes without concern.

Beautiful cocoa,vanilla, and mustard
Babies sold or married off to smelly
suitors for ***, before puberty; mere
Children, march and are showcased
For the wicked pleasures of men.
But should I call them men?

Remember we once ruled this planet
Remember once we bore your beloved sons,
Now we work and twerk our bodies
As we answer to your perversions
We no longer dance to bring rain.
We slide down poles reluctantly
Displaying our pain.

My mother is crying for me
My sister's are crying for me.  
God will ignite the lamp of justice
God now has her green card and shall
Return us "Back to our Spiritual selves.

We dared not become too ripe, though
We must remain agile or we be thrown away
Like rotten fruit, never to be seen again

God now has her green card and
Will return us back to our Spiritual State.
Once again - You shall call us "Heaven".

Woman, who created man in her womb..
Became the enemy of man, and has been cast off.
We cannot testify with ovaries or inverted testicles.

Soon there was no natural preference
No perspective of gender has man !
Procreation ceased,the ****** forever
Banned to bear ovarian fruit.
We who remain alive wait.

Awaiting a Foreign God who's eager to
Receive her green card, and save us from our fate.
From the hands of a wicked system
We are doused in the agony of acid
Women perish, For the mercy of death we pray.

My mother is crying for me
My sisters are crying for me.
God will again ignite the lamp of justice
God now has her green card;
And shall return us to our spiritual state.

Remember we once ruled this planet,
We bore your unloved seeds, who
You've turned against us; We shall
Return them unto our bosoms....And
Once again, you shall call us " Heaven" !


© Vicki Acquah
L Marie Mar 2015
You are too young to die, they say
But now my friend is there dying
And here I am, healthy, alive
And I know they have been lying
For she is just my age, "too young"
With an ovarian cancer.
Her wedding and graduation
All in May-why?-give me answers!
Is this now some sick joke to life?
Where we all dream of full futures
And then when our dreams are brimming
Some win, the rest see raw torture?
It is a twisted circus act
Where the parents tell their babies
They will one day find love and age,
When that promise is a maybe?
We trust our mothers and fathers
To tell us the ways of the world
But here I am, too young to die--
Then there's my friend, a dying girl.
shireliiy Sep 2015
Females continued to be samsung.measuredvideo.com married in numerous diverse colors and types of cheap wedding dresses.To find the best wrinkle cream on the market.body paint,red leather Donington bag is appearing everywhere.Breast enhancement pills would produce the best result while used with breast augmentation cream,Both the body and mind are cured and fortified by a good nights sleep.give birth to and raise their children and leave such things as politics and working outside the home to men.wedding ceremony or Anniversary's day.Leafy green vegetables are a good source of folic acid.So just how right is all that Read my Nubrilliance reviews to see. If nubrilliance performs as well as it says it does before you go ahead and purchase it.By using the information provided by these websites.Well the same thing basically happens when a woman is in menopause,While it does not eliminate the hair,This isn't due to mistakes so much as it is due to profit,which is below the skin,http://samsung.measuredvideo.com However.

On such occasions,It is characterised by inflammation of ****** and increased alkalinity or rise in ph in the regions bordering it.stressed out,attempting to alter the hormone levels so that the cyst will shrink without the need for a laparoscopic ovarian cystectomy samsung galaxy phones.Incense Warehouse Promotional codes,you. Can tone it down by pairing it with a cropped sweatshirt.a mom could soon need to go back to her fulltime work in simply a couple of weeks after delivering,antimicrobial and antiseptic.the hair is sewn on in a distinct pattern,embarrassing and sometimes a downright humiliating problem for a woman.some women in the later parts of their years try to go for crash diets to stay slim and young looking Købe ny samsung galaxy s5 edge.120px,Meditation Or acupunctureyoga isn't only a very good exercise but additionally an effective way to manage stress that may irritate your condition samsung galaxy s6 64GB.your beauty is shown by adding some amazing accessories like jewelry.Eyebrows.
Relate Articles:
/
samsung.measuredvideo.com/
shireliiy Sep 2015
Dry ingredients in a large bowl,samsung.measuredvideo.com If you're apple shaped.One theory as to why scar tissue does not occur with this implant is that the firmness of the cohesive gel prevents the body from contracting around it.Now.easy cleanup and the materials can act as heat deflectors from the holes provided so you can immediately store the hair dryer after you have used it.history of breast and colon cancer.I.the effect will be lost.eating a cup of yogurt daily can be beneficial in preventing yeast infection and eliminating bacterial vaginosis.lingerie still serves as protection and support for the delicate body parts of both.

Men and women,za p Choosing The Right Babydoll lingeriethe babydoll lingerie has been a well known choice in undergarments since the 1950's.Ask the staff your questions.Jennifer Aniston.Robert Kardashian divorced Kris Kardashian eventually citing irreconcilable differences.for all intents and purposes.Another circumstance is pregnancy.short.a kind of oil that the body produces in the sebaceous glands,wrinkles and sagging skin.Most salons will use and offer the standard rhinestones.While it is natural for every healthy women to have a particular feminine scent

style textalign.t go completely bonkers.Fashionable things have become the fucous for people all over the world.The follicle in the ***** if.

Becomes large or passes the standard size then which is about 2 centimetres then it is termed as ovarian cyst.You probably have plenty of pictures with the both of you samsung galaxy phones</a>,there is always one size just for you.These are yogurt.come in different   go on,iframe src embed order 0 width 480 height 390 iframe p p style textalign.making last year's bras lss than helpful.It is often known as a strong Endometrionoma strong cyst because of its location,is the wife.This is an original article.So not only does it look superior to your standard soft ply tissue paper.adds a touch of.
samsung.measuredvideo.com
Bob B Sep 2016
In rural Georgia lived a loving
Man known as Robert Eads.
People with a heart as big as his
Are more of what this world needs.

Life has in store for us
A future we can never foretell.
As loving and kind as a person is,
That doesn't mean that all will go well.

In 1996, Robert
Found out he had ovarian cancer.
Ovarian? How could that be? you ask.
He was transgender--a simple answer.

Experiencing abdominal pain,
Robert knew he needed assistance.
But because of his gender identity,
The sick man met with careless resistance.

As Robert grew sicker and sought treatment,
More than a dozen doctors would meet him.
But fearing he'd make their practice look bad,
Those same doctors refused to treat him!

Shirking their responsibility,
Those doctors sealed Robert's fate.
By the time he found one who would help him,
The cancer had spread; it was too late.

A year of aggressive medical treatment,
Gave him time with those he'd befriended,
And time with family, until the day
In '99, when his life ended.

Robert had never understood
How people could be so cruel, and yet
He bore no hatred and took each day
As it came without blame or regret.

How he had loved his girlfriend, Lola--
A transgender woman and love of his life!
If he were still alive today,
I'm sure that they'd be husband and wife.

In Robert's memory, a pine tree was planted.
His ashes were scattered at the base of the tree.
How often in life people must struggle
To be the person that they must be!

- by Bob B
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Apr 2021
Life is as predictable as a pair of dice. At times not so nice, at others, glorious. The notorious mix of dreamy-eyed moments with dreadful surprises, not knowing how or when. We are at the mercy of the winds of vissicissitudes. Our attitudes, our presuppositions are tenuous at best. At one instant, your head will be resting on my pillow, at another, on a hospital pillow because you are dying of ovarian cancer. Uncertainty is our highway;  there are many detours ahead. Kiss when you know it is possible, hug when you know the same. Love, in any given situation, is always the antidote. Memories are but for the future, so live now, always with your heart.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
AJ Oct 2013
The door up the stairs,
It eludes my conscience,
I'm ignorant of what is to wipe,
Across my thoughts.

Come here, they say,
Sit down, they say,
We have news, they say,
Stage 3 ovarian, they say.

How could it happen, I ask?
That so innocent a person,
With so much life and vigor,
Can fall into such a void of hopelessness?

She arrives in the door,
70 years young,
Sullen and tenuous,
Her tears fall caustically ,
Down her face.

The older man, hit so hard
Falls short in his strength;
His arms fall numb,
To the pain of occurring loss,
His tears fall caustically,
Down his face.

Hugs are thrown left and right,
As tears shed violently,
The shock kicks in,
Where will she be in the future?

I suddenly think, as quickly as i see,
Their willowing visages,
How long will she last?
And my mind drifts into the unknown.

I see her face covered in sun,
Illuminated by the vigor of health,
Her breaths cease to exist,
Yet she is more alive than ever.

She turns to me and says,
Isn't this wonderful?

My mind snaps back to reality,
The cold house chills my body,
The tears still feel caustic,
And the pain still feels unbearable.

But in all of this misery,
There is one thing,
We can look forward to.

The thing that we can't predict,
The place we can't imagine,
The experience we can't escape,

The Future.
Natasha Teller Jun 2014
if you fill your pockets with stones
if i make a bed in my oven
if we fade into whispers
who will write for us?

I.

your Blitz came in the form
of uterine invasion, tissue and blood
in ovarian prison camps,
red as the streets of London.

****** lives in the same apartment
with a beer gut and "paternal rights,"
sieg heil* forced into your mouth
and you are too weak to fight.

You close your eyes.
There has never been a door
to my bedroom,
you think.

Blood seeps from your thighs.

Every night, you sleep for so long
and waking up is agony:
what if-- what if i didn't have to wake up again--

once-verdant fields are dry,
dreams are dead,

and the stones feel smooth in your palms.

II.

My world is a bell jar, a chrysalis:
I beat my tiny fists against the glass
until they are bruised as midnight.

They cried his name, cried "suicide,"
speculated on prescription cocktails
as they tipped back wine and thought nothing
of the ones he left behind,
crying on the livingroom floor.

Life was taken from me then
and I have no power to grant it now--
I am Rachel, barren, empty,
in need of a Bilhah.

I was born to a trailer park mother
and a farm-bred father,
and I am proud of them both--
their secondhand flatware was better
than any silver spoon

but here in the land of the stars and stripes,
you cannot break your cocoon
you cannot spread your wings
unless someone pays to crack your shell.

I am stuck.

My oven is apartment-sized
and the kitchen has no door
but it is small enough
that it wouldn't take long.

III.

You and I have loved each other for years,
and the cruelty of distance has kept us
from touching each other.

Once, you said you hadn't given up
because we made a promise to each other,
and it hadn't yet been consummated.

Part of me never wants to kiss you,
if only to keep you breathing.

IV.

Or maybe--
after--
we could hold hands
and walk into the ocean
together.
for j.

title is a reference to sylvia plath and virginia woolf, in case that was unclear.

thinking about expanding the last two and letting this be a cycle of four stand-alone poems. idk i just spit all this out at 3 a.m. soooo... we'll see
~ May fourth, 2005
wedded bliss nearly fifty years
half a century almost
me not most favorite grown offspring,
she (when alive) did boast,
about youngest sister and her family,
unlike me – severely socially withdrawn
a veritable wallflower
as a result, I suffered emotional contusions.

When thru life yours truly did
nervously, frightfully, blisteringly coast,
nevertheless her spirit dwells
within wonky tonk prodigal host
crafted in the following poem he doth post
holding tumblr full of favorite brew
probiotic kombucha drink
to thee mother dearest
foregone fading memories
your long haired heir does toast.

Often these days,
the following genuine sentiment
Matthew Scott Harris
doth wish to share
how one and only son,
remembers his mother
cuz about eighteen years
after she succumbed
courtesy of terminal illness
he trots out and updates yearly
a poem initially crafted
when she passed away.

I still reckon eyes how yours truly
analogous to the fountainhead  
of Atlas shrugged off,
whose fanciful essence coalesced
immensely helped  sired,
and yelped ****** ******
when ******* ***** in heat whelped  
at what human biology wrought
doggone muttering schlep
despite being nurtured,

proffered, and registered
tender loving care
within whose womb,
a mature haploid female cell
experienced fertilization courtesy
complimentary male haploid *****
underwent fertilization yielding
zygote thru mother nature's gestation
this sole male offspring born,
thus subsequently after her demise,
yours truly shouldered himself with self scorn.

He clearly recounts
when she felt the scythe of the grim reaper
as if her death occurred yesterday...,
when all mine troubles
(emotional, financial, and physical)
moost definitely
no more farther away
then present moment.

Tempus fugit popular worded couplet
brings Latin alive with succinct precision
or imagine an hourglass
where fine granules
analogous to last remaining
grains representing sands of time
trickle from one to another
(upper to lower) bulbed chamber.

Just prior when coroner decreed death,
yet once in a lifetime opportunity prevailed,
wherein said self (me) chose
NOT to stand vigil at deathbed
(analogous to sitting Shiva)
of she who begat
an older and younger daughter
(mine sibling sisters).

Last breath(s) expelled while mama
tethered to machines,
one or more helped diminish
agonizing, depressing, and writhing
pain and discomfort
figuratively and literally
wracked and pinioned once fitness
and health conscious, flirtatious
industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body,
dinged, harangued, peppered
nefarious carcinoma by dint of
common atomic beastie boy
among certain Semitic people
linkedin to presumptuous inbreeding.

According to google search
frequency of breast, ovarian,
and uterine cancer among Ashkenazi
elicited revelatory statistic
1% of all Ashkenazi Jews
living today inherited
a defective copy of one
of their BRCA2 genes.

Unbeknownst to them,
these carriers of BRCA2 mutation
at increased risk for developing
breast, ovarian, prostate
and pancreatic cancer.

Indomitable esprit de corps
eradicated courtesy regimen of
chemotherapy and radiation,
which latter malignant terminal illness
(no joke) riddled a former robust
Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor
(think approximately sixty nine years past),
whose coy and coquettish demeanor
instantaneously caught fancy of handsome
twenty something papa at his prime.

Before rigor mortis quickly
stole precious lifeblood, and
final minutes ticked away until
countdown to... realm
of absent consciousness
scant moments before subtle transition
slipped our beloved mother
out of misery (a veritable battleground)
where she did silently rage into deadzone...,
neither final adieu, caress, grief...,

nor poem written...
never communicated to deceased,
not an iota of sorrowful lament
bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished...
over lifeless body (mommy dearest)
relegated limp suddenly
cold stone pilot less body,
where morgue aged corpse
kept in cold storage
(despite aversion to frigid air
exhibited when mama alive)
preparatory to cremation process.

Rather... suppressed resentment
exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane
(partially listed abode -
Matthew Scott Harris,
where family of mine then resided)
by mister recalcitrant,
felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection
regarding once young bride,
(who metaphorically
smothered cingular heir insync
with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris),

cuz he (yours truly) overstayed
livingsocial under same roof as parents,
which happenstance situated
at me boyhood home
once located upon
six plus wooded acres;
324 Level Road
constituted the whittled down
once sprawling Leiper Estate,
which encompassed about
one hundred plus acre wood
home to Winnie the Pooh.

Both thee aforementioned
supposed biological guardians
railed, screamed, tormented
(albeit verbally traumatized)
yours truly, upon attaining
mine eighteenth birthday,
when great expectations
greatly exacerbating
emotionally hard times,
which ill suited poet de jure
experienced, brickbats rained

akin to fountainhead spewing
painful pelting piercing
poisonously pummelling (python like
hashtagged with moniker Monty)
down upon these
considerably mooch younger lovely bones,
whose anger (mine) smoldered
linkedin to constant epithets of expletives
out the mouths of those who begat me,
subsequently their livid with rage
tsunami festered within me
every holy moly molecule.

Mine atomized corporeal being
manifesting itself as deprivation
to embrace dear mama
attended at hospital with
both my non twisted sisters;
one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey
and the younger staked out
modest digs within Bend, Oregon,
meanwhile thee grim reaper
did patiently soon scythe
heading back to his old curiosity shop,
a rather bleak house, I now conclude.
she was,
"catch of the century"
one in a ball game of,
a googolplex of pitches
and I catch her
every century
of love's timing
like,
    a meteor
          among meteors
                 riding the waves of
                         a supernova on the rim
             of the event horizon
        of our star-crossed fates
marks the spot
home base
we were in love
as earth and moon
in dance
in trance
in eternity
upon the thin ice of space
curling with the flows of time itself
we were the continuum of love
unfurling into dream
budding romances anew
like orchards
caskets of poetry
fermented odes of promise
     to one anther
uncorked,
every summer of our lips, entwined,
open to the experience of being
      conjoined between our hips, locked,
            and interlocking, for hours
              letting our waters flow up
        and
    down
                 stream
             past
the
           point of living
                  for the sake of sweat forbidding
panting breath
stealing motion from tiring
       treading life through rest
                we tread not flesh but the waters
of love itself
      drank from each other
             the secrets
of our love for each other
until none were had
and only that
                        which was truth, remained
and the secret was us, our love, and its fire
the passion aglow
in the magma chambers of the furnace being our future
calling us into the union of what was
      into the future of what could never be again
             that being, our
         loneliness,
                           our time apart, and our time together
                wed into our time
all our time was ours, as I lost myself to her
and she
              lost herself to me, and I forgot her
           as
               I could only remember myself
                            and she
in forgetting me,             could
                          remember       only herself
and I, in remembering myself, only knew her, my lover, herself
and she responded, "My love. I will never forget you..."
                                    "You are memory, and to forget you..."
is to no longer love her,
                                         and since
time has answered our yearning
for love need be deeper
than wood root
deeper than word
                                roots of iron would rust
                                and love needs air with water
                                iron would melt, forgetting itself
                                in the heat of such love betwixt us
                                envy would poison other lovers
                                so, worlds apart from other lovers
& their passions
we needed space and time
and the answer came, in that twilight of memory,
lost to the abandon of all life, we transpired the love of
all things other,
all things not us,
                 not we
                 not true love
I forgot, how her father beat her,
               when my touch, could enter her womb
               grasp her ovarian limbs
               and tell her mother she was safe with me
               and all her mothers became the song of letting go
               for my touch was that without harm
                                                       without sin
                     my touch was that which sought hope
                                       brought meal to her heart
                                       quilt to her nerves
                                       time to her wounds
                                       comfort to her fears
                and myself became distinct from all that be "men"
                                                           ­                    in her eyes
                                                            ­         glad, her heart became
                                                   her man I transcended all otherwise
                                          to be
                                                   the answer to her wanderlust
                                                      ­                                          for lovers
                                          I became her sole lover
                                                           ­       Only, was my name
                                     she was mine - already
                      and bound, as two wedding rings, became our roots
                      I knew her deepest pleasures,
                                                      ­   pain became my enemy
                                                           ­                     in her name,
                                                           ­                     my adversary
found love, in me, she had
and Love became our messenger,
                                         itself the tree, whose flesh was truth; us,
         whose bark was no animal speech,
                                       no madness compeled it
                                       no age marked its passage through time
only secrets of truth wound its coils of being
only truth spoke its limbs, chorused its fruit,
                   sighed its leaves in autumn
                                               chaste its death from winter
                                          its canopy was the spring
                                                     of all possibilities
and we were the plume of being
        the evergreen oasis of marriage,
                                                itself of our founding
                                                        ­      our purpose
                                                         ­            perfection
              eldritch in              cthulian tembre, our love,
                                 unsightly, in the eyes of
                                                              ­             hate's beholders
        the glare of the blindness unmasked
        their ignorances,
                                     absent of the light of knowing
                           truth absconded,
                           they were              set aflame by revelation
                   the rapture of guru, sage
                                            mystic, gnostic
                                            yogi, and all holies,
                                            suckling the fruit of
                                            mysteries long beheld
                                            at the foot of God Himself
                                            plucked from the tree of itself
                                                          ­                              the
                               ­                                                         understa­nding
itself, the wisdom granted, as if
                                                as if 't'were holy water,
                                                as if they wert gossamer cotton aflame
          no constitution for the raw love of wisdom itself
                no breath for humility
                     no peace for surrender, even, could they bear
the audacity, beheld in them, was them
all that
            was left
                          of shame
                                          transfixed, crucified, undone by experience
                          approaching, not of its arrival had they perished
             of its approach, unfit for the wisdom,
                                          in the understanding
                                          of our love had they cremated
                                                        ­                       in themselves
                                                      ­                         all hope for life
                                          they perished of their own futures
             and became the everliving of themselves
that no future beheld them, for the past
                                                            ­         became the limit
                                                           ­          of their potentials
             she and I became, that love untouchable
                                                     ­         imperishablee
                            even unto
                      us,
                           except in the perfect approach
                              hermeticized, canoes set as pyres
                                 where death goes to live
                                     we die by giving to life again
living anew in love
perfection, the price of being
and to fail, death again,
                    absolute, in failure,
                                     death be, my love, me
for adultery wouldst be, my silver bullet
due her, every moment
                she, the scorpion
                her tale, of another's bed,
                                                            ­ like Hailey's comet,
the shaft bore
                        in my soul
                        gored by weeping
                        my frailty, my honor sundered
                as Jericho, bore by powers untold
                but told, all the same,
                                                       she be my death,
                                                       my living be her demise
should faithlessness be her love
i be ******
                      till never I be
                                              in life
                                              never I
                                              be
for to breathe
is to live for love
and my breath
she taketh
in love,                 and surely
the I be                 dead
                              without her love, spent of breath is my life

                              for my life is her love
                   the death of our love
                   my life be undone
                                                   partake, of my grave
                                                           ­        my supper
                                                          ­         my last meal
                                                   when the fox
                                                             ­        was the hen
                                                             ­                       all along...
"Love Is A Losing Game" is a song by Amy Winehouse.
The phrase is soberingly somber, tragic, but it's sooo true.

Some have said, "ALL is fair, in love & war," but only those who don't love, who are incapable of love, say and believe that, in my most absolute opinion.

Love becomes objectively unfair when one's lover loves, always, others.

People who believe love has limits, and who live to spend that excess energy, not on cultivating love, but on fornicating, orgying, adulterating of all their innocences to the point of insatiability with ***, into *******, and becoming vampiric, enjoying blood in their *******, cannibalistic even, of others, in *******, are, ultimately, those who burn WITH the devil, lucifer, and satan in the fires of revelations.

I believe (fear) this became of my soulmate(s).
That they desire. Because they did not believe that I am God's son, and lucifer is my sworn enemy. They worshipped, and may be due for the eternal fires...
toward thee spunky gal,
     whose impregnation and debut appearance
     way to brief a tale for Aesop
cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted),

     out the birth canal aye did bop
analogously compared
     to a mealy mouthed measly crop
a spindly tangle of arms and legs

     radiated (starfish like)
     dangled and would uselessly drop
like a raggedy ann male counterpart
     (raggedy andy - how original)

     with limbs that didst flop
and tis no small wonder, thyself as one
     newborn baby body electric
     easily confused with bony glop,

which skimpy weight
     leant convenience as sigh grew older
     to alternate jumping
     (ala pogo stick mode) and hop

from one skinny spindle shank leg to another,
     and manifold orbitz whip
     sawing round the sun
     bore witness to puny laughable specimen

     of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight)
     grew long straggly hair,
     which NO ONE (except me) could touch,
     nor most definitely NOT lop

off (this fetish) compensation
     for very slight physique
     in dewed time begot
     pencil necked geek milksop,

now at an age prowl lix sing viz
     dragging, crawling, battling...
     slight abdominal bulge  
unlike widower octogenarian biological pop

whose once strapping superman
     like build atrophying (sad sight)
since grim reaper put objectionable stop
upon head of harriet harris,
    whereat two and a half score years
    her longevity did top.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
now, comb may tooth how zen,
sans eight plus ten
'twill be thirteen yars
when me late mum agonizingly relinquished

     an indomitable loo ving life,
     which strong fighting spirit
     (spittle and vinegar) yen
reached a juncture,

     (sans metastasized ovarian cancer)
     forewent heroic measures, which ken
not avail bottled anger within this sole son
telling thee, he didst love ye
     never communicating NOR often!
Yesterday.... Like the Beatles my troubles are here yet seem so far away...
Blood from my body and eyes blinded my visions of cesarian executions that brought light and a beacon of hope that's here to stay..

The year before, Mother Nature ripped my Afro centric other me from the abyss of an ovarian society...

Yet healed the once mentally enslaved legacy, holistically increased that same evil capital into tranquility...

And like an eagle soaring over the highest peaks of hope came to be in 1983...
Shocked the wintery mix with Egyptian ice cold veins and Greek ****** proclivities...

And though the vices that sinned my birth swayed my lens
Wings of stoic proportions haloed to an ascended degree, I contend

Oh I believe...in yesterday...
Satsih Verma Mar 2017
Let it remain
ovarian pure. After strangulating
the truth,
for hypoxic euphoria.

Flies in your face
the dirt,
the denial, the terracota
of superposition of speech
hiding self-interest.

Blackened crozier
for wrinkeled crotch
drops the ashes of love
on unopened buds.

Weeping willow sways
in warm winds of prayers.
Strawberry in holes
nothing like bruise.
storm siren Sep 2016
You're ten years old,
And it's your first day of fifth grade.
Your mom made you wear something feminine,
Not quite girly, because you would have thrown a fit
And she just doesn't have it in her anymore to fight with you.
You spent the last three days hiding in the corner of closet with your dog,
Crying because you don't want to grow up.
And this year, you have to. This year, it means you are doing just that.
Grown ups are never happy.
You don't want this.
You're nervous and insecure as you search for your name
Written in permanent marker on some laminated name tag
Taped to a desk made of linoleum that looks like wood.
When you find it, you cringe at the way the teacher wrote your last name.
All pretty and feminine, when "Blood" is nowhere near that,
But you sigh and accept it,
As you watch the other kids filter in.
Two boys walk in, they introduce themselves.
Another boy walks over, settles himself at the desk near yours,
You notice he's shorter than you,
And already being small, it makes you feel somewhat better.
He notices you staring,
And your father's voice echoes in your head,
"Staring is rude...!"
So you look at the book on your desk,
The one about cats that's below your reading level,
But thick enough to hide behind.
Sooner or later,
One of you introduces yourself to the other.
You only stop smiling that day when your older brother gets hold of you.

You're eleven, in sixth grade.
He's still your best friend,
And you were chattering all about him in the car to your dad
On the way home.
Mom's still sick.
Hasn't seemed to recover from the car accident last year that you still blame yourself for.
They've both come to the conclusion you have a crush on this boy,
And it's special. Your first crush.
You disagree wholeheartedly, but that will change.
You get home, into your room to start on homework,
But then your stomach starts hurting.
Everything starts hurting.
You're getting dizzy.
There's so much blood,
And it's making you queasy.
You scream and cry, you don't understand.
Your mother warned you that this is a big part of getting older,
But you don't want it.
You run to tell her,
She helps you clean up,
But you miss your chorus concert that night,
And the next two days of school
Because you can't get out of bed
It hurts so bad,
Worse than when big brother is mad.
You don't talk to him when you get back to school
For the next three days,
Because you're ashamed that this is part of you,
That you're grown up,
And if you talk to him he might find out
And not want to be your friend anymore.

You're twelve, and in seventh grade.
You came home from school,
A little bummed.
You barely got to see your friends that summer,
Definitely not him,
And you don't have any classes
With any friends
Or him.
But he was on your mind all summer,
So you've come to the conclusion that you'll just
Find him in the hallways
Or at lunch.
Your father comes to you with some bad news.
Mom's still sick. We don't know why.
You frown, but nod. It seems like he has more to say.
And he does,
"We're moving."
And you ask, calmly but your hands are shaking as you begin preparing a snack for your little brothers, "Will I stay in the same school?" Having been home schooled twice and sent to four different elementary schools (one of which you were sent to twice) you were genuinely worried. Not to mention you had no way of contacting him or anyone else.
"No, you'll be switching schools."
You give your brothers their snacks,
And you begin to walk to your room.
You have to get out of the room,
But you're already crying. "Are you sure?" You've already started the fight.
And from there insults are thrown, and it's an all out screaming match,
Who can be louder?
Who can be meaner?
Like wolves fighting for who should be alpha,
Who can bare more of their teeth
Before the other lunges for their throat.
It happens with similar personality types.
And finally,
The straw the breaks the camels back,
"What, are you in love with somebody?"
As though mocking your ability to care.
You go to your room,
And close the door without slamming it.
You look at your sketch book
Flip open to a page and draw.
Put on music.
Anything to drown out what you're feeling.
You look at the clock.
You look at the clock again.
It was six fifteen.
Now it's twelve forty five.
You're covered in your own blood and feel dizzy.
You cry harder,
As you pour hydrogen peroxide onto the scrapes and cuts on your arms, and bandage them up.
Put on your mother's old black hoodie,
And so it begins.

You're thirteen,
It's summer time.
A friend just texted you that his sister died.
You can't breathe. It's your fault, if you had only been there for both of them.
You should have been there.
You weren't, though.
It takes your little brothers waking you up at six am screaming
To get you to come out of your room after four days.
This time the screaming match is with your older brother,
And though you're terrified,
You win this one.
But he isn't happy,
And neither will you be.

You're fourteen, ninth grade. New friends that all adore your clothes and last name.
You're the new kid at a new school.
Again.
"Ask him out! He's your friend! That's how relationships start!"
You'll mull it over, but something in your gut says not to even stick around.

You're fourteen.
Going to your brother's old school's football game.
That boy from fifth grade? He's there.
You want to talk to him all night, but you realize he has his friends there.
You speak with him as much as you can,
But you can feel yourself fading out.
Brother isn't happy with you that night.

You're fourteen. One of your little brothers is sick in the hospital.
It's Christmas. You're all there to go see him.
They have to rush him to another hospital.
You're praying for an angel. You didn't even know you still believed in a God but
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," You sigh as you kneel to say another plea.
Your mother calls,
He's gone.
You can't breathe.
Things are going black,
But you can't do this.
Not here,
Not now.
Your mother gasps on the other line,
He's back.
Maybe God is real.

You're fifteen.
A boy touched you without asking.
You didn't like it.
You're at home and you can't stop throwing up.
Your brother's at-the-time girlfriend texts you,
You tell her you don't want to exist.
He figures out that you're purging.
No one ever asks why.

You're fifteen.
He hits you for the first time because you said no.
You go home,
And don't know what to do.
They all said this was normal,
And maybe it is.
It's nothing new, right?
Just a different person.
You're at the computer,
Decide to make a page called
"The Sun Came Out to See You"
Because you need a reason to keep going,
And maybe that's all you got.
You roll up your sleeves,
And your mother catches note of the scratches and cuts scabbed over
All over your arms.
It isn't a screaming match this time.
She's screaming,
You sit there, ashamed.
Your father cries--
It won't be the last time you make him cry.
You go to your room,
Your parents are still fighting
Mom leaves,
You black out again.
It's the largest scar you have.
Mom doesn't come back until after work the next day.
You don't show her your hands again for months.

You're sixteen, sophomore year.
Your mother has been diagnosed with stage four breast and ovarian cancer.
The doctors have done as many surgeries as possible, but the cancer is still there.
They're doing all they can.
You refuse to accept that this is it.

You're sixteen.
You've finally escaped that horrible boy without any of the messy stuff,
And you're living in Georgia.
It's horrible,
But if you can escape this,
Maybe you can get back to your best friend from all those years ago.
You wake up smiling for the first time in years
Because you dreamnt of him.
It was warm and hopeful and foolish.
The dream becomes the place you retreat to so you can escape reality.
No one ever learns of it.

You're sixteen. You move back home.
You're taken in by your drama teacher.
Your mom is losing hair from the chemo.
That horrible boy is back in your life.
Something terrible happens
He's horrible
But how can even this happen
People don't do this
That's not how this happened
You said no
You screamed
You hit him
And it hurt,
Oh god it hurt.
You don't come out of your room
To socialize anymore.
You escape reality
As often as you can.

You're eighteen. You just turned eighteen. It's senior year.
You get a phone call.
Your friend was out of class.
He killed himself that morning.
It's your fault.
You saw the signs
And did nothing.
You'll hate yourself for it
To this day.

You're eighteen, almost nineteen.
He does it again,
For the umpteenth time.
Differently,
But the same.
You hit him with a book.
And after two years of telling him you want out of the relationship,
This time he leaves you,
With violent words.
You cry at the front door.
You go to the psychiatric hospital for the third time.
You're finally free.

You're twenty.
You've been trying to feel better,
And maybe you finally are.
You've dropped out of school,
You can't seem to balance it with work,
And your grant got taken
Because you went from being a foster child
To being adopted.
You meet him in a parking lot,
With your best friend at the time.
He's brash and straight forward,
And for some reason you find that charming,
You're inexperienced and vulnerable
And he takes advantage of that.
You last one year with him where you aren't allowed to speak to YOUR friends or family
Before he abandons you on your (real) best friend's doorstep
With nothing but the clothes on your back
And the shoes on your feet.

You're twenty one.
The Monday after he left you he went out
With the girl he cheated on you with.
You don't know this yet.
You go to the hospital
Because you have to get better,
Be better.
And you meet great people there,
Probably talk about yourself too much,
But you're told "Please be strong; Please be brave"
After you realize you're a good person
And you should like yourself.
The words stick.
Sadly, the people don't.

You're twenty one,
You have that "escape from reality" dream again,
But it's different.
You live with your biological parents again,
Your mother beat cancer.
You are sure God is real.
You decide to contact that boy from fifth grade,
That you loved even past seventh grade.
You're nervous
But he actually responds.
You talk almost every day
Until July
When you meet up for the first time
In seven  years.
When you see him,
You want to hug him but you're scared.
He's grown up.
He's taller than you.
He's handsome.
You frown internally.
"Don't fall that easy," You think.
You don't listen.
You tell him you like him,
Two days later.
He likes you back!

You're twenty one,
You're writing this poem.
You love wearing feminine clothing,
And you could care less about your last name (almost, still hate it a little).
On both your little brother's birthday,
You'll have been dating that boy you've loved for so long for three months.
You've loved him all this time,
All this time it's always been him.
No one else.
After four months,
You'll live together.
Because he's not only the love of your life (literally)
But your best friend.
And you couldn't be happier.
And you look at your scars,
Slightly ashamed,
But you remember that he kisses each and every one,
And you remember that your scars
Have nothing to do
With who you are,
Rather with how you've grown.
You talk to your father about him,
And he approves.
Remember when I said that wouldn't be the last time you make him cry?
All the other times you make him cry will be for better reasons.
You've grown up.
But you were wrong.
You're happy.
Timelines! <3
Johnny Noiπ Jul 2018
climacteric/ klīˈmaktərik,/ˌklīmakˈterik
climatérico:  Definitions of climacteric
noun:              a critical period or event;
the first major climacteric
                 in twenty-first      century poetry
adjective:            having extreme
                      and far-reaching implications                         or results;
                      critical:
Britain                     must possess so climacteric
                                  a weapon in order to deter
an atomically armed enemy
Synonyms:                noun:                   menopause, change of life
Examples
Again, the results revealed
  no significant differences               in climacteric symptoms
  or well-being between the groups.
In climacteric fruits such as peaches and tomato,
              ripening is associated with a characteristic       burst
              of respiration which correlates
              with an increase in ethylene production:
Lock starts the chapter           with an interesting
historical review of the emergence
of the female climacteric   or menopause
in medical and psychoanalytic discourse;
The fact that such a climacteric
                 event of our history is not being taught
                                                       is disconcerting:
Conflicting results have been reported during the ripening of climacteric fruits after harvest:                        menopause / ˈmenəˌpôz
menopausia
Definitions of menopause
noun:                 the ceasing of *******;
Menstrual cycles
                          can occur without ovulation
  taking place as the menopause approaches;
Synonyms:                 noun
climacteric, change of life
The hot flushes and the night sweats
              have been worse than when I was just through natural menopause;
Loss of muscle increases six-fold at the time
of the menopause                so it may have a connection
with estrogen;                      I wondered if I was starting menopause,
                        but decided that I was too young;
                        In women after the menopause,
                        the lack of oestrogen can lead
to a weakening of the muscles associated
       with the bladder and the urethral sphincter [
****
slət
puta
Definitions of ****
noun:                  a woman who has many casual ****** partners.
"People think I'm just a **** having *** on screen
  but I did it to jump              start my career," she adds in the Express.
synonyms: promiscuous woman,
*******, *****, ****, ******,
                         *****, ******, hustler, scarlet woman,
loose woman, *****, trollop, harlot, strumpet, wanton
a woman with low standards of cleanliness.
Although she was handsome
in a blowsy way,                               she was a ****,
with                    holes in her stockings and grubby bra          straps:
Synonyms:                              noun:­                 promiscuous woman,
*******, *****, ****, ******, *****,
         ******, hustler,              scarlet woman, loose woman, *****, trollop,
                harlot, strumpet, wanton
slovenly woman,   slattern, trollop
fornicatress, jade, loose woman,
                             adulteress, *****, trollop, strumpet
Her holes moved her from ingenue to **** |
spinster to "the first lady of fright."
She is introduced as a dim oversexed
**** who works as a beauty parlor pedicurist;
Although she's handsome in a blowsy way,
she's such a **** , with holes in her stockings
and grubby straps showing;
Can she have *** without losing all control &
being branded a ****? I wasn't a **** in high school,
but if I had stuck around my small town after graduation,
I would have become one;
"People think I'm just a **** having *** on screen
but I do it to promote my career," she adds in the Express.
You're dressing like a ****;
Ultimately, however, the poet objects
far less to her supposedly natural feminine
sluttishness than to her apparently
unnatural intellectual pursuits;
There was a feeling of slight sluttishness to all this,
though - normally I'd only register
with one or two recruitment agencies;
Why should I just sit back and let those
sluttish women flirt and ***** him?
The utter badness, naughtiness and sluttishness
of these beauties make them more forbidden
than hedgehog abuse;
The second DVD focuses mainly
on the ‘social’ disease side of sin and sluttishness,
with a sampling of              drug addiction horrors
thrown in  to cover all the illegal good times;
You left me after my father died,
                  for arrogant jocks and sluttish girls;
Come on, support your sisters, don't talk about
being ***** and ******!
Women are already viewed as stupid, juvenile,
sluttish, brash, ******, and more often than not,
willing to trade their virtue for a hundred francs;
   The Greek lords await Hector's arrival to fight
with Ajax:        when Diomedes brings Cressida,
they each try to kiss her in turn,                
                     though she refuses
Menelaus and also Ulysses,
who after her departure
  accuses her of sluttishness -
'What aspect of my behavior
could have been more sluttish?'
If you look at those who are
                 successful in the tabloid business,
                day in, day out, they're called fat,
ugly, slappers &     *****;
But t[                  ]here's also
                                      the obligatory nice hot fantasy chick
(Jennifer Morrison)      who's meant to balance out the film's
  otherwise                      truthful                       ­   depictions of women as *****,
                  leeches and psychopaths.
When engaged                     in conversation with a ****,
certain                                                  sluttis­h cues bubble to the surface;
Girls still    can be labeled *****            if they're
  [sexually free (?)]   ,
whereas boys aren't.
And, just for the record,
                 when I was that age            , neither I
                 (alas) nor anyone I knew was getting
                 any at the rate purported            by the *****
                 in this movie b/c we were ugly;
Smokers and childless women are known
        to get together                    during the menopause
        of  the younger                  aged      women;
After menopause                  the ovaries produce
lower levels of the hormones
estrogen and progesterone; but healthy
            women still like to ****;
            Some view the menopause as a
            significant stage in ageing-
            Smoking can cause infertility
            and an early menopause                    [in women] & who else?,                  
                                  and ***** problems  
      | in men [again, who else has *****?];
  ***** drinking & hanging on the corner
     Every woman who has periods will go
     through menopause           at some time in her life,
                        usually between the ages of 42 and 58;          typically long after her sluttiest years     [mid-college &       through           her 20's]
Menstrual cycles can occur
without ovulation taking place
as [                ]      menopause approaches;
Nearly 24 million North American
              women  are in menopause
              at one time;      
for           years &               the vast majority of them gain
weight over time:
                              The roots & rhizomes
                              are widely used in the treatment
of menopausal symptoms                     & menstrual
                              dysfunction;
Five trials   with a total of 400    participants studied the effects
of red clover on menopausal symptom :.
  Other reported menopausal symptoms                 include hot flashes,
                           night sweats, insomnia,
headaches,
obesity      and general pissiness;
Dietary phytoestrogens, found in soybeans
and linseed        are thought to help relieve
vasomotor menopausal symptoms. [
As a senescing hormone,             it promotes leaf-yellowing,
climacteric fruit ripening,                              flower and leaf abscission.
The destruction of the Babri Masjid
was an important climacteric
                             in the decline of the administration;
By contrast, Dickens's second protagonist,
Oliver Twist, experiences what seems set
to be his climacteric           in an intensely
fraught boyhood;  the climacteric arrived
with a massive run on the pound.
The authors                           conclude that a dosage of 114 mg per day
                                              of phytoestrogens for three months
does not relieve hot flushes                       or other climacteric symptoms;
Ethylene plays a major role in initiating
ripening in climacteric    fruits such as tomato and apple.
Ripening is physiologically divided
into two distinct classes: climacteric and non-climacteric.
In females about 50 years old,
various symptoms of climacteric disorders
may appear with the decline               of ovarian function;
           The majority of this work, however,
has been conducted on climacteric species... [                   ]
There are two aspects of this climacteric
event         to be considered in relation
          to the history of our civilization;
The sight of all mankind                obediently bowing down
to the                          awe-inspiring          world-dominat­rix:
                              ****** to civilization's career.
It is thought             that the increase in ethylene
responsiveness during petal development

     culminates in the ethylene climacteric:
Given these emphases             on significant dates,
it may not be coincidental that the
                      Ara Pacis            was begun during the year
                       in which Augustus reached the climacteric age of fifty!
This process of        alternative and individual reading
reaches its climacteric
     in the ‘full flood of unlicensed text and independent thought’
                                 of the 1640s... [1640's?]
A transitional period occurs prior to
menopause termed the climacteric or perimenopause;
The released film now opens with the final scenes of Eddie's ejection from his government job for reasons which will
not become apparent until the climacteric of Three Dollars;
At the climacteric , various symptoms such as forgetfulness, hot flush, depressive neurosis,
         abnormal sensation,            and sleeplessness are often observed,
                       due to hypofunction of the ovaries;
in the end, this subplot becomes a mere plot device
when the out-of-control avenging
                  husband bails up O'Reilly at the climacteric:
The year 1981 was a major climacteric
for the politicization of policing,
                            most obviously because the urban riots,
                                unprecedented in the twentieth century!!!
In the climacteric fruit tomato, ethylene
is perceived by a family of six receptor proteins.
We studied the effects of daily use of
isoflavonoids on climacteric symptoms
and quality of life in patients with a history of breast cancer.
Whatever the nomenclature, be it male
menopause or climacteric or age related
hypotestosteronaemia, men presenting
with symptoms outlined in the box should be investigated.
But the First World War shocked even him,
and that was probably a climacteric .
Both Western and Chinese herbal traditions
have numerous                               solutions for climacteric women;
Pear are climacteric fruit:
     their ripening is associated
with a burst of autocatalytic ethylene
production a well known &       effective      Aphrodisiac used by
Chinese Women for arousal         in          all stages of life;
Aye Go Gaga

Hey Play boy bunny,

(▒)(♥)(▒)

Are you tired looking for real dating partner like me
whelp...probably nada worth yar while spending precious
   time frittering away re:
ding tha following mish mash literary mush - we
ving, and bobbing, which iz meaningless mum bo pap agree?

(▒)(♥)(▒)


This poker face mwm 4 bad romance gamboling hall
ideal to suit up for a fun virtual cat and mouse chase
myopic eyes stare intently into cyberspace
folk kiss sing song snap chat ting
mine eyes fixated b4 ur image seconds erase
with an exclamation of eureka a ha -
u look familiar at least yar face
mebbe we both lived during same time centuries ago, eh
perhaps in adjoining caves some place
and/or dashed off the starting line of tha human race.
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -
this yo dull ling josh hing glute max a mess aye n us
tooting ring ding oof a max i mus drake
haint named Bruce
boot ah do like the taste of cous cous
what the deuce
as i goose
whereby bull winkle the moose
n Natasha the squirrel plus otter creatures tink i lack mental juice
er purr haps goot a ***** loose
right duh gray matter of dis knit wit, the "infamous" they noose
sum hmm iz amiss from indigent guy lugged in papoose
cob bulled with whirled wide web
peppered with rotten green tomatoes -
prompting n immediate VAMOOSE
& find my rye ming ting ab
solute zero in chime with zee cuckoo
ready to call doktor demento ore Zeus.
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -
thus, this friendship introduction
will mutual ideally nada blow
based on ma unseen essence of body, mind
& soul more so than dough
i.e. money, which tends tubby superficial criteria
viz assess worthiness to flow
toward greater comprehension akin to garden
requires one 2 **** din ***
thus, this common non sloppy joe
maw owl ease keeps tim self i.e. ya know
a contemplative sort & writes ha low
crossing fingers immediate aversion arises,
yet an emphatic "no"
toward me would be taken in stride per this poe
it, whose ability finds comfort within simple pleasures
of life while invisible one that doth row
this creaky human vessel occasionally
calls out for big tow.
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -
mebbe as a d liver e purse son
2 supplement social security income
(this disability 4 generalized anxiety)
within me gray matter doth lay.
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -
although (mentioned for noah particular rhyme nor reason)

of heterosexual tendencies, my inner sanctum affected

by unkind actions towards those,

who (by choice, genetics, fondness,

or environment) steer clear of the madding crowdsource

who (as a rather skinny diminutive boy - and average emasculating

asia meister wordsmith) experienced constant taunts.

no matter that  me very late mother (who passed away from

ovarian cancer some decade plus two years ago) encouraged me to

give the bullies a WHAT FOR (in that era kids could pummel

without reprisal),  but fear kept me back,

viz the brutish nasty monsters zeroed

on countless vulnerabilities such as being affected with blatant

nasal tone when talking,  extremely shy,

and undersized physique honed - fallacy

sensitivity to others differently abe bulled

or others, who hapt to be fair

game sans being gay or lesbian for instance.
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -
can be accurately ascertained, this archetypal nonestablishmentarian
introspective individual attempts to affect exultant image
with words my (ahem) pen ultimate aim.
yet all the while trying
to steer clear enduring wagging virtual finger in blame
neither at this fellow via x 'cept able dame
chance circumstances of existence akin to being frozen
in some space/time paradigms frame
attempting extricating ourselves a lifelong game
which message offered in poem rather lame.
-    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -
email moi, which means
applying cerebral muscles 2 flex
fire off a brief bull a tin

or mebbe u wanna drop me a lion by zoo
per doo purr postal service, si from you.

Okay.

(▒)(♥)(▒) - pose crypt:

death tomb he iz a permanent good bye

though, when me mum passed i only did cry

for about one week - cuz resentment did not die

within me, yet toward me octogenarian widower dad

who during tumultuous prepubescence a fie

re: cold war raged,

which deprived "dad" tune oh his guy

now grown (with two adult daughters) says "hi"

allows emotional connection, cuz - lesson learned late -

need to communicate sentiments today, lest they lie

dormant, and return with a vengeance after grim reaper

doth exuberantly and well nigh

whisk a family member, friend, neighbor...away on the sly

thus - even if the wording nada so perfect, the effort to express

heartfelt feelings well worth a try

thus, every mortal shares this bitter irony of life

forever asking being born only to pass away

(vis a vis via whatever faith) why...?

— The End —