Sure since youth she's had chin hair,
But she just does not whatsoever care.
Sure she has always had fine thin hair,
But she will never ever come to care.
Sure she has some ovarian cysts,
But since the start she could care less.
Sure she still makes everyone's lists,
But she can always choose to care less.
Sure she can never conceive easily,
But she can do whatever she likes.
Sure she isn't always taken seriously,
But she doesn't put up with tykes.
Sure she is more irregular than most,
But she refuses to let it keep her down.
Sure she may sometimes feel like a ghost,
But she always turns frowns upside down.
world in much askew
sheeple treading timidly
contests of mankind
As far as anyone can tell, I am alive and well,
But I am still trying to end my persistent depressive spell
Through resilience and love, even as I go through Hell.
One day when I’m better it’s going to be fine.
I’ll get to be people then,
understanding the meaning of it all,
others not to offend.
Right now, I’m still quite set apart
Your fear has built my home.
Courageously and brave of heart
I seek a place called ‘own.’
One day when I’m normal I’ll be your kind.
I will really be people then,
acting and thinking like others, just fine
and maybe you’ll be my friend.
Mental Illness.
Just too much of too much.
Carrying a huge wooden box containing a single apple.
Rotting, burning core.
Saying I would never beg for forgiveness again.
Then tipping the doll house over.
Mental illness.
You would think the “too much” would implode one day.
Never.
Just weaves rotting roots to grow higher.
Creaking sounds like memories if they could swallow.
Destiny is always around the corner for no reason.
And my destiny is helpless too.
Mental illness.
Creates.
Weird, unfurnished feelings.
Just too much of too much.
Mental illness.
I know where it comes from.
Maybe they’ll know someday.
In my eyes, alive I see
A place I wish to be.
In my eyes, alive I see
A way I wish for me.
To be alive and to know
My friends as friends go,
To face my way and then
Conquer my fate again and again.
If you’re told a lie long enough
You believe it.
(9/20/25)
Words are enough.
They don't some overdramatized definition of them,
Don't be a fool to explain it to me.
I'd rather die a lonely and cruel death, by my own hands.
Words —
They don't come easy, do they?
The blurry effect on my left iris left me partially blind.
It tears my other eye to see it in the mirror.
Words, they are spat out like fetid, rotting chunder,
Why do they taste so putrid and smell so obnoxious?
When I try to let them out, they escape through my eye,
Leaking and spewing festering dross.
Technicolor yawn mimics the man in the mirror and then
He would call in sick the next day.
As the pus decay in the drought and barren land of my eye,
I was recommended using Ciprofloxacin.
Words —
Words like "I need help" and "why does it hurt so bad?"
I wish I never knew how to speak.
Instead of the infection of my worm-eaten and vile eye,
I desiderate it be my mouth rather.
Words like these are what made me feel how I feel now,
Enervated and debilitated.
73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
Yesterday's old woman knitting,
to a rusted old wind-screen-shield,
& the torched stranger in corn fields
produces crops none shall wield,
against the killing & the raping
but the flame-thrower of Belial's
against a knight that heralds,
a shield for which for blocking,
but the fields lay ablaze in dying,
and the starving in which eloping,
to those eager to hold on to living,
as hound bouncing glorious beagles,
eat up past boney hands cluttering....
A feast before they too become death.
Too sick for writing
Head above water flailing
My thoughts are wailing
God gave me too much of me
And some of me too little
That to live must be —
That to live must be reduced
To something less
A lesser someone
Or in fullness being —
A being forever bounding
To where the lesser could never reach
Or reach immensely slower.
God gave me too much of me
So I longed to pass as Elijah did
In my chariot of fire
Lacquered black and finely barred,
Run on one-way furnace rails.
May my words cut deeply into thy soul as a sharpened sword
Loosening the impediments of fear and hate causing your discord
May they like the shinning surgical blade make their incisions
Removing all delusion and indecision
Yet, also let them be as precise as a master surgeons work
Clearing even those hidden elements as they lie in lurk
Waiting to surprise and cause great demise
With full effect causing great pain and loud cries
But let my closing bring healing and peace
As the comforting sigh you now release
Let my words, now new seeds be
For you to use eternally
Let them nurture and encourage your life
Helping to endure and overcome strife
Knowing my love will always endure
And always be there for you, for sure
Words may be sharp, but be used to be kind
It’s just a matter of which ones you find
Every word I say traveling to thee
Is meant to bring love and comfort from me
I want to hear your voice
Not by will but by choice
I seek your guidance
For on you alone is where
I place my reliance,
Alliance, radical defiance.
I want to hear your voice
Above all voices that ever pieced
My ear I seek your final word what
Is it your declare?
I wish to hear your voice
To calm the turmoil of inner
dialogue and rumination.
I want to hear your voice,
the divine melody that guides my footsteps
Your words are the calm to all storms
Protection from external devastation.
I want to hear your voice
A light house and beacon
among all dark forces that
may come against me.
I want to hear your voice, the gentle thunder
that awakens my soul from slumber,
I want to hear your voice calling me to purpose beyond the noise of this world.
I want to hear your voice, the sacred song that resonates
in the silence of my heart,
I want to hear your voice reminding me I am never alone,
That within your words I find my true home
Surely, we walked together...
But just like shadows,
Some cheap ghost climbs in nightly,
Pondering the same.
Were all our lives rich folktales?
Panic knots tighter,
As I must have lost your face—
The one that was mine.
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