X equals O
I equals YOU
Why can't they be there too?
DustDusty fingers move quickly,
When they are sickly.
Clean Fingers make haste,
because they don't have the time to waste.
Lopsided FeelingTears run down my face, I cry
Inside and out but you dont know why
It because of your skull of steel
That my thoughts dont turn your wheel
Im weakened and starved by your words
But that doesnt meant Ill allow my flesh to be eaten by the birds
I amI am the child that waits
I am the child that fears
I am the child that worries you'll never be here.
I am the teen that hits
I am the teen that cries
I am the teen who is always asking 'Why?'.
I am the adult that works
I am the adult that fears
I am the adult of the child that waits for me to be there.
Excerpt From FB Fan-FictionThree hundred sixty two days, Kyou reminded himself with an indifferent voice.
The cat couldnt figure out that out of everyone that he could never see again, why did she have to go. Why did she have to leave him in the shadows. Why couldnt she stay? Within his mind he kept replaying the scenario constantly over and over again in his brain even though he knew the answer. The carrot top shook his head fervently trying to shake the images of her delicate kind face from his head. He was foolish to love her, to care for her, and to try to protect her.
To try and defy God...
The wind blew solemnly tossing hair in his face. Closing his eyes he let stray strands of hair tickle his furrowed brow. Fat puffy grey beasts rolled around the sky soaking up its moisture, they growled with pleasure as they began to approach the Sohma residence. Just as the young man stood up and began to file out curses towards the clouds he heard the petite slam of a d
Alzheimersi hear my grandfather breaking shore on D-Day,
the muffled black and white German blaring
on the History Channel. the memories etched
in his face fading as the rabid fear, break-neck
hug, anything, to hold on.
and his fear seeps into my clothes, my spine,
lingers there for days.
How To Raise A BorderlineDon’t recognize your child’s needs,
or at the very least see them as
secondary to your own.
Ignore your child’s tears;
tell them to buck up.
tell them if they don’t stop crying
you’ll give them something to cry about.
That outta teach ’em.
Weigh them down with adult demands.
Expect them to cook dinner
at nine years old
because you’ll be home late.
Force them to grow up too fast,
or don’t allow them to grow up at all
because in a child’s dependent role
is where you can control them.
Don’t be consistent,
Change your values like you change your sex partners.
Swear off drinking one day only to get a DUI the next.
And when you discipline
do so arbitrarily and explosively;
base it on your feelings rather than your child’s actions.
When they spill their drink on the floor
and look to you for a reaction,
don’t tell them, “It’s alright, honey, it was just an accident.”
Yell at th
The Gay AgendaThe Gay Agenda
we unpacked the car in hundred-and-ten degree heat
home after our three-months, big-haul supermarket run
stared at the late season watermelon
we grabbed on an impulse
I got the cutting board and a bowl for rinds
you got the never-dull, wedding-gift ceramic knife
we tore into our pieces at the same time
swamping desert thirst in southern fruit
pretending we were comfortably cool
believing it during each bite
I opened a new paper towel roll (we had been out)
you gave me the next slice, cut yourself another
we ate the whole damn thing in one sitting, not talking
just munching one icy wedge after another
until I mumbled a joke you made me repeat
(had to slurp-swallow to do it)
I said, “I said, I think this makes us—”
you, with a fresh juice smile, finished: “—a couple of fruits.”
Dear Parents:Strike the soft skin of your children; leave marks.
Go on: show them how hard they must become
to be like you.
Mold them to be mindless: coach them to react
with fists; make them believe that words have
Shape them into an almighty monster: modern man.
Destroy their purity and imagination by damning them
with absurd words of a god who previous men
Teach children to follow a leader, and to not ever
break the circle they belong to, so society never
Above all: train them to question love, even your own.
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
Dear Mother,Why is it always me?
The one you have to sit down and talk with,
The one that does everything wrong,
The one who can never just say the right thing,
The one you look at differently.
I am the last child of three,
And I don't know if that makes a difference or not.
But, it does mean a few things:
That I am the one blamed because my hands are red,
Only because my nails bite them too hard.
That I am told to shut up and sit down,
While my legs are tied to a chair and my mouth
Is sewed shut with years of experience.
That I am the target of disgusted looks,
Because I state the obvious, the thing no one wants
To touch on, because it means you are stuck with only
Me as company.
That I am the one whom is suppose to sing your songs,
Follow in your combat-boot footsteps,
Wear all your clothes and make-up,
Because your first daughter already passed judgement;
And who better than to fill her place?
I am the last child of three in a broken home filled with
And yet you still expect me t
Optimism, reviseHad the truth looked uglier,
I might have faced that inevitable
everybody else saw coming.
True, the word cancer's a terror,
but I'd seen so many survive,
so why not you?
You lost all your hair. You grew so thin
I could count your vertebrae when we hugged.
Without gray curls or bushy brows,
you had the charming face of a startled kewpie doll.
We were already used to it all;
operations, prescriptions, pills.
Arthritis-fused ankles, infected sinuses
were everyday pains.
What difference did another surgery make?
Just one more scar for your patchwork skin.
A kidney gone? There's one to spare.
The signs were there:
Your kidney and lungs were not all to be claimed.
I ignored each flare warning hazards ahead.
Faucets left running? The losing of keys? Trivial.
Who could blame you for not being all there,
when you had to wonder how long you would be here?
You bore it with your private brand of dignity,
the deadpan (and bedpan) jokes at the hospital,
the stoic shrug at the news
that the last tum
FrailtyI see it in her sinking eyes,
the silence of their gaze--a child
batting at the final thread
of life, nine for nine. Darker days
pass with worry tumbling deep
in its high-walled pit. I see it:
something that says this is the last,
when I touch the curve of her back,
the rise of spine, the uneven quiet
of her response while winter bulks
and burns with its oppression of frost.
I see it in my brother, the care
of each hand as it arches over bone.
There is hunger, but she does not eat--
only laps at a small drinking bowl--
and I tell him this is it, it is now:
but he insists as love does--wandering
dove in the dark cave that is death--
says all he needs to do is feed her.
But I see it at work flashing up
with his number that same day, his voice
quivering as tongue-tapped water;
and I knew he would rescind
our agreement: a leap into the dark
without the interference of barbiturates,
a vet's cold table, two gloved hands
that are more steel than hands. I see
it there, to give in like that: to
DadI turned out like my spot-skinned father
and I would twist and turn the dry tall-grass threads
that I found on the prairie into braids of hair
like he taught me,
and I would feed the horses blocks of salt
before they took flight in the bleak twilight of the plains.
I lived in a world of dry winds and cul-de-sacs
and reached the thinking end of things
before I knew I had no-where to go,
and I first fell in love with a girl
who’s handle is lost to that wind
but her brown eyes are sketched to my soul for eternity.
When I left home he stood on the old porch
while the wind chimes sprung chords
across the flat land like a funeral bell
as my mother walked me to the car,
and as I drove across the cattle grid for that final time
he was already inside the house and gone to me
as a shape and as an image.
He died of a stroke 6 months later
and she told me in her soft sweet voice
how much he had loved me and his pride of me
but it was always in her voice
and I had to use my imagination