Lost Titles
Play games with me, I beg.
You’re both home from school and work now.
So why instead do you tell me to break a leg
When I go on stage to perform my show?
Now I confront Brother of mine.
Brother, please play with me.
Ugh. You’re annoying, you swine!
I’m not gonna answer your plea.
I find hope in my sweet Yorkie,
She’ll never run out of games to play!
But when she is done, she’ll play the Z,
And I’ll retire to my old lonely way.
Satisfied you would be, knowing your child harms,
For she hasn’t the slightest idea of what lies in your arms.
You’re both home from school and work now.
So why instead do you tell me to break a leg
When I go on stage to perform my show?
Now I confront Brother of mine.
Brother, please play with me.
Ugh. You’re annoying, you swine!
I’m not gonna answer your plea.
I find hope in my sweet Yorkie,
She’ll never run out of games to play!
But when she is done, she’ll play the Z,
And I’ll retire to my old lonely way.
Satisfied you would be, knowing your child harms,
For she hasn’t the slightest idea of what lies in your arms.
You Think You're Smart, Huh?
Drool sweet invective.
Barrage me with punishments.
I will leave smiling.
Barrage me with punishments.
I will leave smiling.
Slimy Studded Poster Girl
She grew up innocent and free like any blossom.
Never once considering, you could watch the girl on the poster.
Though, without the opportunity of interest, she never opened a book.
All she knew was a bodacious reflection, the superficiality of a perfect apple.
The fluff and spice from the presses, she sneaked around in slippers
Around the society created from destruction, led by a vicious snail.
As she tip-toed around brainwashed note-pads, carefully as a snail,
She came across herself, a pretentious Venus fly trap blossom.
Realizing her elders’ mistake in her upbringing, regretting the gifted slippers,
She watched her false self float into the crowds’ lusty minds from the poster
And wished she could fall into a wakeless sleep, bite from White’s apple.
She needed to destroy the audience’s perception, burn the book.
To acquire the sacred page collection known as the forsaken book,
The girl had to exhaust them, pour salt over the possessive snail.
She had to plant a seed which would one day sprout the holy apple
And then they shall redeem the sweet poison nectar from the apple’s blossom
So no longer could they drool acid from their mouths as they lusted over the revolting poster
And mill around in their superficial and loud golden high-heeled slippers.
Poster girl discarded the afore regretted and soul-burning slippers
And set out on her quest to absolve that which encaged her, the almighty book.
Unto her destination was she lead by the fine print found in a simple poster
And directed by a willing forest dweller known as the giant snail
Who sat upon the most glorious and intimidating Venus fly trap blossom.
The snail told her to begin climbing after finding the pedestal upon which sat a blue apple.
She saw it, though it was not a blue apple like she imagined, but a lit candle shaped like an apple.
She approached the candle and the flame died. Her eyes opened to again see the golden slippers
Which she hated so, which made her feel like the most crippled blossom.
What could she do? Where could she go, trapped in this endless book?
She felt betrayed. Locked up and further trapped, all by one conniving snail
Who began its reign with a single fraudulent and exposing poster.
Now still imprisoned, she is forced to stare at what they’ve made of her on that poster.
Again, she watches the man-made and superficial apple
As it runs through the minds of those who have contributed to the snail
As they kick and beat her with their golden high-heeled slippers
As they keep her from ever even mending the cruel book
As they continue to cripple her as what she is and will never evolve from, the blossom.
The accursed snail shall now experience the burn of the poster.
She’ll pluck the petals off her self blossom and never allow the growth of an apple.
Their golden slippers now break and they forever fall into the confines of the book.
Never once considering, you could watch the girl on the poster.
Though, without the opportunity of interest, she never opened a book.
All she knew was a bodacious reflection, the superficiality of a perfect apple.
The fluff and spice from the presses, she sneaked around in slippers
Around the society created from destruction, led by a vicious snail.
As she tip-toed around brainwashed note-pads, carefully as a snail,
She came across herself, a pretentious Venus fly trap blossom.
Realizing her elders’ mistake in her upbringing, regretting the gifted slippers,
She watched her false self float into the crowds’ lusty minds from the poster
And wished she could fall into a wakeless sleep, bite from White’s apple.
She needed to destroy the audience’s perception, burn the book.
To acquire the sacred page collection known as the forsaken book,
The girl had to exhaust them, pour salt over the possessive snail.
She had to plant a seed which would one day sprout the holy apple
And then they shall redeem the sweet poison nectar from the apple’s blossom
So no longer could they drool acid from their mouths as they lusted over the revolting poster
And mill around in their superficial and loud golden high-heeled slippers.
Poster girl discarded the afore regretted and soul-burning slippers
And set out on her quest to absolve that which encaged her, the almighty book.
Unto her destination was she lead by the fine print found in a simple poster
And directed by a willing forest dweller known as the giant snail
Who sat upon the most glorious and intimidating Venus fly trap blossom.
The snail told her to begin climbing after finding the pedestal upon which sat a blue apple.
She saw it, though it was not a blue apple like she imagined, but a lit candle shaped like an apple.
She approached the candle and the flame died. Her eyes opened to again see the golden slippers
Which she hated so, which made her feel like the most crippled blossom.
What could she do? Where could she go, trapped in this endless book?
She felt betrayed. Locked up and further trapped, all by one conniving snail
Who began its reign with a single fraudulent and exposing poster.
Now still imprisoned, she is forced to stare at what they’ve made of her on that poster.
Again, she watches the man-made and superficial apple
As it runs through the minds of those who have contributed to the snail
As they kick and beat her with their golden high-heeled slippers
As they keep her from ever even mending the cruel book
As they continue to cripple her as what she is and will never evolve from, the blossom.
The accursed snail shall now experience the burn of the poster.
She’ll pluck the petals off her self blossom and never allow the growth of an apple.
Their golden slippers now break and they forever fall into the confines of the book.
Feminazi Attack
I am what I’ve grown into and heard and seen and what I allow those around me to perceive me as.
But the moment I hear you place your foul and conclusive words in my mouth is the moment I start losing control of what I think I am and what has me ME starts to deteriorate.
You asked me is I either supported the inception of the female being worked and honored in the same viewpoints as that of a man, or if I saw the woman as yet another object in the collection of that same man.
I merely expressed that I did not want to commit to a side because society has hammered into my bones that choosing either side is offensive to all and I have no interest in adopting the stress of that war.
You decided it would be smart and funny and out of my control to tell me what side I was automatically on, without knowing my experiences, where I’ve been, who I’ve talked to, and what I have had to endure.
You put me in a place I had no business or desire to be without truly looking into my eyes and finding my state of mind.
And how can you expect me to want equalities for the women of our world, when you yourself represent the lot of them who caused the uproar and misfortune in the very first place?
I dismiss you, scoundrel, for inviting yourself into my ears and making them bleed with assumptions.
But the moment I hear you place your foul and conclusive words in my mouth is the moment I start losing control of what I think I am and what has me ME starts to deteriorate.
You asked me is I either supported the inception of the female being worked and honored in the same viewpoints as that of a man, or if I saw the woman as yet another object in the collection of that same man.
I merely expressed that I did not want to commit to a side because society has hammered into my bones that choosing either side is offensive to all and I have no interest in adopting the stress of that war.
You decided it would be smart and funny and out of my control to tell me what side I was automatically on, without knowing my experiences, where I’ve been, who I’ve talked to, and what I have had to endure.
You put me in a place I had no business or desire to be without truly looking into my eyes and finding my state of mind.
And how can you expect me to want equalities for the women of our world, when you yourself represent the lot of them who caused the uproar and misfortune in the very first place?
I dismiss you, scoundrel, for inviting yourself into my ears and making them bleed with assumptions.
Earbuds
The little white orbs that find their happiest homes in the holes on either side of your head and, though not the source of the music, they do translate those melodies which so drive us everyday, without the worry of damaging said holes on either side of your head because they put you in control of how absurdly quiet or acceptably loud you want the melodies to flow into your ears as you listen for a long enough time that you forget about the subtle white orbs on either side of your head, allowing you to forget to appreciate them even though you are subconsciously twirling their body around your fingers and swing them in circles only to help pass the time which they so quickly steal from you.
Common Thoughts
I’m always dealing with this fear
That my end is drawing itself near
Whether it comes in an empty bottle
Or from sudden non-motion at full throttle
Or underwater behind locked doors
My mother would have me no more
I couldn’t be so goddamn selfish
The silence of me ain’t no one’s wish
They tell me I shouldn’t consider
Taking mine what was to me delivered
Because I ain’t got the rights to mine
They’re for those who for me wasted time
Don’t humor me and listen further
It’ll only cause the fears to fester
What happens in my sleep ain’t my bidding
For my actions they won’t be forgiving
To rest I’ll have no luxury to go
Wrongings keep restless my soul
Yet when and if that day arrives
I hope none will suffer my cries
That my end is drawing itself near
Whether it comes in an empty bottle
Or from sudden non-motion at full throttle
Or underwater behind locked doors
My mother would have me no more
I couldn’t be so goddamn selfish
The silence of me ain’t no one’s wish
They tell me I shouldn’t consider
Taking mine what was to me delivered
Because I ain’t got the rights to mine
They’re for those who for me wasted time
Don’t humor me and listen further
It’ll only cause the fears to fester
What happens in my sleep ain’t my bidding
For my actions they won’t be forgiving
To rest I’ll have no luxury to go
Wrongings keep restless my soul
Yet when and if that day arrives
I hope none will suffer my cries
My Hylian
Oh still young warrior,
While you are only just reaching adulthood,
I am preparing to complete mine.
You look so peaceful, whistling through the very instrument
Which used to call me to you and instill our trust.
Surrounded by the falling, dying leaves of the fall,
My grey hairs will soon fall and join those leaves.
Both in their new home and in their lifeless state.
I know you won't forget me,
My song will be forever burned into your fingers.
Just promise me you'll find another steed
Worthy enough to accompany you
And let my song be heard by them.
While you are only just reaching adulthood,
I am preparing to complete mine.
You look so peaceful, whistling through the very instrument
Which used to call me to you and instill our trust.
Surrounded by the falling, dying leaves of the fall,
My grey hairs will soon fall and join those leaves.
Both in their new home and in their lifeless state.
I know you won't forget me,
My song will be forever burned into your fingers.
Just promise me you'll find another steed
Worthy enough to accompany you
And let my song be heard by them.
Welcome to my Candy Shop
It is dark in here. Loose. My brethren around me.
We bump into each other when the Higher Being
is about to shed light and take another sacrificed brother.
It is about to happen again, as I feel myself get close to me brothers.
There isn't enough time to say goodbye
-there never is-
before I realize I am the next sacrifice.
Wondering if I will burn in this new light,
Instead I am pulverized, my bone now a powder.
What have I done to deserve this?
Why must Higher Being now pour me into this liquid Hell now?
It burns more than the new world light!
Argh! I thought I screamed.
I am now being manipulated into a hardened form that is
different and more flamboyant than my old porcelain self.
The cha-ching! and passing of me to a child of undeserving fate.
Their warm, large, sticky, slimy, bumpy, pulsing muscle of a
tongue wraps itself around my new colors.
Ugh.
But soon am I met with a hard surface, only to be subsequently
met by the child's now spunkless and far gaze as their skull smacks
this hard surface and their fingers relax.
So this is what my brethren have done.
And now I have served my purpose, as well.
I can hear another unsuspecting victim enter the shop.
I'll soon see another brother.
We bump into each other when the Higher Being
is about to shed light and take another sacrificed brother.
It is about to happen again, as I feel myself get close to me brothers.
There isn't enough time to say goodbye
-there never is-
before I realize I am the next sacrifice.
Wondering if I will burn in this new light,
Instead I am pulverized, my bone now a powder.
What have I done to deserve this?
Why must Higher Being now pour me into this liquid Hell now?
It burns more than the new world light!
Argh! I thought I screamed.
I am now being manipulated into a hardened form that is
different and more flamboyant than my old porcelain self.
The cha-ching! and passing of me to a child of undeserving fate.
Their warm, large, sticky, slimy, bumpy, pulsing muscle of a
tongue wraps itself around my new colors.
Ugh.
But soon am I met with a hard surface, only to be subsequently
met by the child's now spunkless and far gaze as their skull smacks
this hard surface and their fingers relax.
So this is what my brethren have done.
And now I have served my purpose, as well.
I can hear another unsuspecting victim enter the shop.
I'll soon see another brother.
Van Gogh's Starry Night
"I am proud of my curves.
I am proud that I am not black and white, but blue and yellow."
I can hear the canvas in my room whispering to itself, reassuring
itself it is worth something and that I haven't forgotten what it has
watched me go through.
It is with me now in Gallery Park.
It was with me on the Schwindstrasse.
It even was with me when I was surrounded by big pink petals
in the French estates of the country.
It was with e when I thought I was the new Shakira, and
when I cried that he read my letter aloud.
When I dropped my pastry on my rug and tried to keep the dog
from eating it.
When I wrote angry letters I had no intention of sending.
And to this day where I waste away my minutes on the internet.
Those curves and blues and yellows are now my subconscious,
whether they know it or not.
I am proud that I am not black and white, but blue and yellow."
I can hear the canvas in my room whispering to itself, reassuring
itself it is worth something and that I haven't forgotten what it has
watched me go through.
It is with me now in Gallery Park.
It was with me on the Schwindstrasse.
It even was with me when I was surrounded by big pink petals
in the French estates of the country.
It was with e when I thought I was the new Shakira, and
when I cried that he read my letter aloud.
When I dropped my pastry on my rug and tried to keep the dog
from eating it.
When I wrote angry letters I had no intention of sending.
And to this day where I waste away my minutes on the internet.
Those curves and blues and yellows are now my subconscious,
whether they know it or not.
Van Gogh's Starry Night 1.1
The subsequent manmade mankind, as it is stale and finite,
Cannot wish to block what is real.
Reality is curvy, wavy, and has infinite shapes and forms.
As I sit up here, cloaked by my companion, the darkness,
My buggy, yellow eyes choose to absorb the light which has traveled so far,
Only to be stopped mere inches from its destination of the floor
I sit upon with my feathered body retaining my heat.
In the distant space I see remnants of the light I used to see
Before these peasants inhabited our lands.
Before I was driven from my hollowed tree and into this dark cave.
Their forced lights keep them from understanding why they live.
Why do they refuse and reject the beauty of the real?
But hoo am I to speculate?
Who...
Cannot wish to block what is real.
Reality is curvy, wavy, and has infinite shapes and forms.
As I sit up here, cloaked by my companion, the darkness,
My buggy, yellow eyes choose to absorb the light which has traveled so far,
Only to be stopped mere inches from its destination of the floor
I sit upon with my feathered body retaining my heat.
In the distant space I see remnants of the light I used to see
Before these peasants inhabited our lands.
Before I was driven from my hollowed tree and into this dark cave.
Their forced lights keep them from understanding why they live.
Why do they refuse and reject the beauty of the real?
But hoo am I to speculate?
Who...
Frostbite
"She's GONE!" she says.
Gone! HAHAhahahahahahaaa
That's cute. Just because she went
exploring in the woods on her own
in the middle of the night with no
supplies and is as clumsy as any other
five-year-old her age and without
the proper gear in this below-freezing
winter night that holds a full moon...
And she thinks her daughter is just
up and GONE!
Hahahahahaheh heh heh
I've got her right here, Miss Lady.
I, the gentle, cool, crisp breeze of
the Winter, am caressing her, and
gently, mind you.
My flakey children shroud
her like a blanket, the moon I call
Mother, her night-light.
Rest easy, we've got her life in our hands.
Gone! HAHAhahahahahahaaa
That's cute. Just because she went
exploring in the woods on her own
in the middle of the night with no
supplies and is as clumsy as any other
five-year-old her age and without
the proper gear in this below-freezing
winter night that holds a full moon...
And she thinks her daughter is just
up and GONE!
Hahahahahaheh heh heh
I've got her right here, Miss Lady.
I, the gentle, cool, crisp breeze of
the Winter, am caressing her, and
gently, mind you.
My flakey children shroud
her like a blanket, the moon I call
Mother, her night-light.
Rest easy, we've got her life in our hands.
Name Games
You've known me for too long and think no more.
When was the last time you spoke my name?
I have not heard my babbling leak from your mouth in weeks.
Does it not so quench your thirst anymore?
It must have left that mouth dry, lusting for something more foreign.
Do you expect me to change into that, or worse, expect me not to?
I cannot fulfill that.
Ever thought about what I think?
I think I love the taste of your name dripping through my parted lips.
Do I still have the privilege to feel that?
I will take it even if the privilege is not mine because I am a hard headed bitch.
But for that will you be aggravated and encouraged to leave me to my morbid thoughts?
I will again being to torture those who have tortured my mind, because they are ungrateful, undeserving, and over privileged to even cross the mind which I dare call mine and send stressors through my body to steal the good fun I used to have just by thinking. Believing. Speaking.
Your name.
When was the last time you spoke my name?
I have not heard my babbling leak from your mouth in weeks.
Does it not so quench your thirst anymore?
It must have left that mouth dry, lusting for something more foreign.
Do you expect me to change into that, or worse, expect me not to?
I cannot fulfill that.
Ever thought about what I think?
I think I love the taste of your name dripping through my parted lips.
Do I still have the privilege to feel that?
I will take it even if the privilege is not mine because I am a hard headed bitch.
But for that will you be aggravated and encouraged to leave me to my morbid thoughts?
I will again being to torture those who have tortured my mind, because they are ungrateful, undeserving, and over privileged to even cross the mind which I dare call mine and send stressors through my body to steal the good fun I used to have just by thinking. Believing. Speaking.
Your name.