Write a poem about justice.

Is this really justice?

I really don’t know

Sitting in my cell

Looking out the window

No shops, no roads

No people I can see

Only other prisoners

In the same position as me

Having flashbacks from court

When the judge finally said

Be prepared for the next

4 ½ years ahead

My head hung down

I was leaving my freedom behind

Nothing but my family

Was running through my mind

The bloke was an arsehole

Why couldn’t this be seen?

I just wanted him away from me

The horrible little fiend

Shouting and pointing in my face

Who did he think he was?

I should’ve stopped and thought about this

And put the world on pause

Instead the fight was finished

Before I even knew it

There was man who took a snake into his house to take care of it.  He was kind and spoke soothing words as he prepared for it figgy pudding. As he approached to deliver his figgy treat to his guest, the snake bit him.  There is a moral to this tale...

Yeah Im wondering how long till this ffff-fing narrator tries to chop off my head with a hhhh hoe.

"Little time left to leave

Still waters shallow but haunted

Eyes of variation

Iconoclast of the bereaved." BCCJ

The funeral was lightened

By long looks in the coffin

At the sweating corpse

And the saddened reports

that indeed this man had sprung a leak;

still on bended knee

or  sidillin' up just

to see

to believe

That maybe this man had come back to tell everyone

under the sun,

that they were right

and heaven was fun.

But as he sat up

and begun to espouse 

the notion that man was divine

and we'd been wrong all the time...

Well someone shot him right in the face

and killed him again.

Snarlin, "that mans a liar, has always been."

So we went Applebees where 

kids can eat free.

And toasted to relief from our sin,

again and again and again

Ate some pellets of mescaline

Told our wives they were thin

Dropped our kids off at the Pen

Dirty bomb we pulled the pin

Then he dosed me after I dosed him.

Were divine, we heard somewhere,

we know that we'll come back again.

It was dawn when they woke me up. Not the dawn with the cream-coloured sky and candy floss clouds. Not the fairy-tale dawn caressed by the mellow custard sunshine, nor the bright crisp chirping of exotic birds. The sky, painted khaki and flecked with dullness, seemed to have been the perfect setting for an apocalyptic period. Well, then again, I was in an apocalyptic situation. After all, the entire country wanted me dead, simply for having lived life to the fullest. 

I suppose I was living idyllically, unaware of the changing times. Unaware of the blood boiling in the veins of the country. People wanted change and I suppose I did hinder this change. But how can I be blamed? I was forced into an uncomfortable, awkward and lonely position that I had to make something of it. I had to brighten up my days, have fun, invite guests and create my own social revolution. I did bring change, but not the change the people wanted. Whereas I created my own social revolution and transformed the world of delicacies and fashion, the people constructed theirs only to kill me. I am innocent. I only wanted happiness in this world in which I succumbed to expectations. However, I made myself happy by using my power and wealth, but I suppose a woman is is alsways to blame in this world. Whose fault was it that I was married off? Mine. Whose fault was it that my husband was too awkward to sleep with me? Mine. Whose fault was it that consequently I could not have a child? Mine. No matter what I did, do and will do, it is my fault because I am a woman. A woman who must be responsible for all the wrong in the world and carry men's burden because they do not want to carry it themselves. 

They say I murdered the country. They say I murdered men, women and children. They say I murdered everything they owned. Why? Why am I to blame, to be executed, when the responsibility also lies upon my husband, my friends, my entourage, my society? Why, out of all of us nobles, am I considered devilish and sinful? If anything, I am the victim. I am a victim because I was stricken with so much burden, hate and disrespect. I am a victim because despite this, the world hates me, and despite this, I am responsible. I suppose it will be centuries before people feel empathy and love the underdog.

After they awoke me, stripped of dignity, wealth and power, the trial began. Whereas they had the world supporting them, I had my lawyers who were given a day to plead my case. They had decided my case before the trial, convinced I must be executed. 

Then, shoved around, they ordered me to prepare myself for my execution. If only they could kill me now. The unfairness of this world is too much to bear. The unfairness of being a woman is too much to bear. I was forced to change in front of my guards. Humiliated and naked, I was just a pale broken thing. With a plain white dress, they sheared my hair, stripped me of beauty and femininity. Hands bound behind my back, I became an empty vessel. I wasn't the devil, I wasn't unkind, I treated others with respect. I was a sweet person who, although lacking foresight, only wanted good. 

Unlike my husband, the culprit and coward, was given a carriage to ride in to his execution. Me? A simple open cart, under an ominous sky, where everyone could chant and humiliate me. Calling me names, I maintained my grace nonetheless, silent and poised. They may have stripped me of all my wealth, but I am, until the end, royalty.

Kind and loving, misunderstood and alone, my very last words were: "Monsieur, je vous demande excuse, je ne l’ai pas fait exprès."

Forever a Queen, forever myself, forever, Marie Antoinette.

For Jeff Stewart

The end is always near

In the heartbeat

Of blood &

Time

Making long-distance

Collect calls

To a god who wonʼt answer

From phone booths

That no longer

Exist.

The talking heads

Keep talking,

Telling us more lies.

North Korea has its finger

On the trigger.

ISIS never sleeps.

Meanwhile,

Everybodyʼs working for the weekend

Watching football on TV

Waiting for the perfect death,

Or retirement,

Whichever comes first

Going back & forth

On trains

In cars

On roads

Stuck in traffic

Up & down

& across America

The land of the free

& the home of the depraved.

What makes us great?

How can we sleep

When our beds are burning?

In the shadow

Of turning

The mirror sees

Everything:

The face…wanting

Waiting

For the next new song to play

On the radio

The next earthquake

Building below

The skinʼs surface

The temporary happiness

Of insanity

& complacency

Drinking to forget

Remembering to let go

Worshipping the sex

Of chaos

The anxious brain

Balancing between body

& soul

The burden & cost of the cross

How it looks to others

How we look

To it

Having feelings that murder

Logic

Stepping on the shoulders

Of children

To get a better view

Can we ever know the truth?

Sitting on couches

Staring at walls

While the world is out there

Spinning

We stay inside

& surf through images

Comparing ourselves

To how others live

Staying up late

Eating crackers in bed

Reading T.S. Elliot

Taking pills so we can dream

Taking pills so we can think

The beauty & the waste

Beyond windows

Beyond screens

In crowded cities

Of overpriced rent

Commuting to the next place

The next thing

The diamond ring

The hope of love

The lust

The broken promise

The fairy tale

The betrayal

The enchanted forest

Littered & forgotten

The longing

The failure to launch

The haunted, burning questions

Tunneling the dark mind

In search of answers that can speak

For themselves

The unwanted thoughts

Of fear

Guilt

Doubt

The worm in the dirt

Digging around the bones

The cancer

The debt

The slow death of the living

The price of neglecting

The ink

The love of words

The machine at the table

Waiting for the poem

The shrine

Of a silent god

Wanting nothing less

Than blood

The voices

The faces

The bodies

Fucking away the time

In the sand of the hour glass

The naked animal

Behind the mask

Yawning during the movie

The emptiness of an empty church

An abandoned home

The memory of a bad childhood

The ice at the bottom

Melting together

Remembering the thirst

The agnostic laughter last seen

Leaving the bar

Alone

- I look at you.

This gun leaves me paralyzed,

I shed a tear and

I try to breathe.

I am trapped by

the invisible ghost of my mind,

I love you - I swear.

It's so violent and hard

yet beautiful to look

you in the eyes.

I am chasing old ideas,

the cracks of my lies,

the edges of my mistakes,

and my ten thousand tries.

You dragged me here,

I whisper to the gun.

Make me want

to fall in love again.

The nudity of my feelings

flew with your holy doves,

I cry for my mistakes

and my ten thousand loves.

I do not want to die within you.

but I am a lover and like all lovers,

I am not afraid to die.

"Let me know if you need anything." "How are you feeling?" "You're pretty much my favorite person in the whole world." "Hey, this is for you." "You okay?" "I just want to help people."

That's all me. I'm the dork that buys way too many gifts for everyone at Christmas and then gives the last of my cash to the bell ringer outside. I'm the community service maven. I'm the sucker for the donation jar. I'm the always there friend.

I'm not bragging, God, I'm not. I wish I knew how to take without feeling neurotic or selfish or Hellbound. That's probably never going to happen, and the opposite is probably worse, so I can be content in how I am. But I've got a secret wish, while I feel too much and care too much about everything and everyone else. My quiet little plea that I've never actually said out loud - I'd like to get as much as I give, just once.

I want to light up someone's world. I want someone to feel nervous and queasy when I'm not okay. I want someone to see something or have an idea and think of me immediately. I want someone to rush to their phone when they hear I've texted. I hate wanting all these things, it's so selfish, I shouldn't want it - I definitely shouldn't feel like I need it - but there it is anyway. 

I'm so tired of giving everything and watching people walk away and leave me out of their little bubble worlds. I have so many pieces of me that I've given that revolve around something other than myself. I'd just like a piece of someone to come and sometimes be part of my orbit, too. 

Shhh! I may be considered a predator or a psychopath, but I take pride in being a harvester of humanity. You might say that I just nibble around the edges of lives. The profilers believe I’m a male because of the manner in which the bodies are mutilated. All of them are wrong. If you saw me walking down the street, you would think I was a beautiful young woman with my stiletto heels and my sexy blue dress which matches my cornflower blue eyes. My skin is so lush that you would be tempted to drink it, inhaling it into your body. I don’t have to wear makeup because of my natural creamy coloring and blushing cheeks. My dark lashed eyes seem to look into your soul. But make no mistake – there is no feeling inside me.

Every man I have ever met wants me, except for this one. He just doesn’t seem interested which makes him more intriguing. Since I always need to be in control, I am determined to watch him and follow him until I can fulfill my desires. I have never felt any empathy for any of my victims and he will not be any different. I know that I am more intelligent than he is and I will have my way. Usually, I kill them after a sexual assignation but I don’t think this will be the case with him. I have seen him with women so I know he is not gay. He is completely oblivious to me as I lurk in dark corners, waiting for him to be alone and unwary. It’s worth it to take my time in order to get what I want. Power is my aphrodisiac and I am excited and alert.

Tonight, I am outside watching his outline against the fluttering curtains in his bedroom. I linger on thoughts of sex with him but it would be all for my benefit since I give nothing in return. I haven’t perfected my plan yet but he will be mine. I observe his shadow leaving his bedroom and heading toward the kitchen which I can’t see fully. I know it is there, though, because I have been in his apartment, rifling through his drawers as I learn all about him. I like to be prepared for all contingencies. I figure that he must be getting a snack because he is taking a long time.

I hear a slight snap behind me and whirl around to see my prey holding a gun which he jams into my stomach. I am not afraid because this slow motion stalking needed to come to a head.

“Turn around and march straight forward to my apartment door,” he commands as he nudges me with his weapon.

I twirl around and do as he says. Why should I confront him now when everything is working out well, although not as I planned? He herds me into his bedroom and tells me to remove my clothes. His eyes move upward as I reveal my full lush breasts and wet my lips with my tongue. I have him exactly where I want him. I kick his gun out of his fist with my shapely legs and hurl my body over the weapon. I roll over with the gun in my hands and shoot him between the eyes. Now the fun will begin. I walk to the bedroom door to go to the kitchen to get some knives to complete my handiwork but I find the door is self-locking and of such sturdy construction that I am unable to kick it open. I race to the window and find bars over the panes. I panic for a moment as I realize I can’t get out. I have no weapons other than the gun and try to shoot out the door knob but it doesn’t budge. His apartment is isolated and there is no one around to call for help.

What is an entrapped psychopath to do? I am beginning to get hungry and thirsty and must come up with a plan for my survival. I claw at his body with my sharp nails until I have an opening in his femoral artery, lower my head and begin drinking my fill. When my thirst is quenched, I begin to tear chunks of his flesh with my teeth, chewing them until I am able to swallow them down. There is plenty here to sustain me for a while. It does bother me a little that when they find our skeletons, they will think he was the predator. I want them all to know that I deserve the credit for this. I dip my fingers in his blood and begin penning a note on his floor, telling the world that I want the fame and the glory to be attributed to me. I have satisfaction in knowing I will go down in history as the greatest female killer of all time.

“He must have forced her to write it,” the detectives said when they found the remains. “That poor innocent young woman."

Sept 23, 2016

Dear Diary,

Hello, I guess. Jesus, this is stupid.

I always felt that writing in a diary was pretty much the most self-absorbed, idiotic thing anyone could do, and even more ridiculous to address it as “Diary," but here we are.

Iʼm not sure what Iʼm supposed to put in this thing. I don't know what the weather is like outside.

I smell like a 14-year-old boy whoʼs wearing Brute and forgot to shower this year.

I like puppies and long walks on the beach.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I love no one

Hell, whatever. At least I have something to do now.

I guess if Iʼm going to sit here and scribble with a crayon, I might as well use the opportunity to its capacity.

So, Diary, my name is James. I live in this chickʼs basement now, unfortunately, and she gave you to me and told me to use you to "think about what I've done and explore myself."

Her name is Amy. I'm pretty sure sheʼs going to read this, so let me emphasize to you now that sheʼs just a swell person. It also just dawned on me that Iʼm writing with a crayon, which means I canʼt edit or erase. I hope she can understand that Iʼm not very good at this diary thing and forgive my frustrations.

I hear her coming. Be right back.

Okay, back. Yep. Sheʼs going to read you everyday and counsel me through my issues because sheʼs a wonderful, caring woman with my best interest at heart, and she knows I need her help.

First assignment is apparently to explain why Iʼm here and "how our actions result in consequences." Due tomorrow night at 6 p.m.

Gonna sleep now, Diary. This should be fun.

• • •

September 24, 2016

Dear Darla,

Diary, I've decided to change your name to Darla because why not. Itʼs better than Diary, and you're hot pink, so I thought Darla would suit you.

"Why Iʼm Here and How Our Actions Result in Consequences"

I am here because Amy thinks Iʼm dangerous. Amy told me that she knew I was going to rape and murder her and dump her body in an empty field somewhere, so Iʼm here to learn to keep my hands to myself.

I need to show Amy that this was not my intention at all. I tried to tell Amy that I think sheʼs an amazing cellist, and that listening to her play at The Vine was one of the most intriguing experiences of my life. I told her she was beautiful, and I meant that. I told her that I wasnʼt stalking her. I swear. I was working up the courage to ask her out.

I told her I was sorry for following her to work and watching her on the bus, but I promise I never meant to scare her.

But she didnʼt believe me, Darla. I understand why, but I need her to realize that I wonʼt hurt her. She doesnʼt have to use the gun when she brings me food. She can stay and talk to me if she wants. Iʼm not going to try to leave. Iʼm not going to harm her in anyway.

Darla, sheʼs a counselor, so I know she'll see that Iʼm not bad. She can read people. Sheʼs obviously a brilliant lady.

Talk tomorrow,

James

• • •

September 25, 2016

All right, then. She doesnʼt like your name, so you no longer have one. Sorry about that.

She also doesnʼt like the fact that I tried to use you to con her, and I can appreciate that. She said I should direct questions or comments meant for her, to her. I didnʼt mean it as a con. I do hope she knows that I was being honest. It doesnʼt help to share with someone if they wonʼt listen to a word you say. Thatʼs why I wrote it here. I thought maybe if she read it, it would be easier for her to hear. I know I scared her. Itʼs hard to listen when you're afraid.

So I have to write feelings in here. And I have to answer the consequences question. I forgot about that yesterday, so I'll do it first.

The only understanding I can share concerning consequences is that when we do something, something else happens to balance the action. If you do a bad thing, bad things happen. If you do a good thing, good things happen. I have no idea how to put it into better words. Thatʼs going to have to be okay.

As far as feelings are concerned,

I feel sorry for what I did.

I feel hungry.

I feel tired.

I feel like Amy misunderstood me.

I feel like I wish I hadnʼt followed her.

I still think sheʼs beautiful.

Good night, hot pink book.

• • •

September 26, 2016

Amy says if I donʼt expose my true intentions, I will never leave. She says she doesnʼt like my thoughts on consequences, and she thinks my understanding of them is probably why I've gotten myself into this situation.

Itʼs been eight days in this basement, and I feel like Iʼm losing my mind. I donʼt even know what time it is. Thereʼs usually a window or something in a cellar, but I donʼt see one. I canʼt search around because of the chain.

Iʼm scared now. Amy isnʼt frightening, but I am afraid I donʼt have the right answers for her. I've tried to explain myself so many times, but I feel like maybe sheʼs still afraid. She doesnʼt have to be.

The casserole she brought me last night was good. It really was. I know I should hate her, but sheʼs a great cook and sheʼs taking the best care of me she can in this situation.

Last night I yelled at her, and I feel sorry for that. Sheʼs not a bitch. My eyes still burn from the mace, and I understand that I deserved it. I shouldnʼt have jumped at her. I shouldnʼt have screamed. I was stupid.

I just need her to believe me. I need her to understand that I mean what I say when I say it. I wasnʼt going to rape her. I wasnʼt going to kill her or torture her or dump her anywhere. I really only wanted to get to know her.

I guess I got what I wanted. I shouldnʼt have been so shy.

• • •

September 27, 2016

Nothing I say hasnʼt any impact on her, Diary. Nothing. She doesnʼt believe me. She says Iʼm in denial. She says Iʼm creating an identity to justify my actions, and I need to look harder.

She says I need to dive deep into my psyche and fish out the demons.

Maybe sheʼs right. Maybe there was part of me that wanted to hurt her. Maybe I did plan to rape her. I would never have killed her, but maybe she was just so out of my league I couldnʼt have asked her out, and it would have been easier just to force myself on her.

Maybe Iʼm sick? I think I did need her help after all.

I wish sheʼd leave the gun upstairs. I wish she wouldnʼt pour cold water on me in the mornings. I wish sheʼd loosen these shackles.

I feel afraid.

I feel pain.

I miss my dog.

I feel disappointed in myself for being a monster.

I feel grateful for Amyʼs help.

• • •

September 28, 2016

Dear Diary,

She wants to know my intentions. I told her. She doesnʼt care.

She wants to know how I got here. She put me here. Thatʼs how I fucking got here.

She thinks Iʼm in denial? Maybe sheʼs in denial. I wonder if sheʼs ever considered that, diary.

If I could just kill myself now and get this over with, I would.

I feel hopeless.

I feel alone.

I feel like I can say or do nothing right.

• • •

Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.

Fuck you.

• • •

September 30, 2016

Dear Amy,

You know what? You want to know my intentions? You want me to expel my devils onto this ridiculous notebook?

You were right, bitch. I was going to rape you. I followed you into that alley with the sole purpose of slamming your head into the brick wall until you passed out.

I followed you for two weeks, Amy, but Iʼm sure you are aware of that. I knew where you were each second of every day. I watched you undress through your bedroom window. I watched you feed that dumbass cat. I watched you check your mailbox at 5:30 every morning.

I saw it all. I know everything about you. No boyfriend. Dead mom. Runaway father. Pathetic job at the high school. Iʼm sure theyʼd love to know they have a deranged slut chit-chatting with their behaviorally challenged students.

I parked my van around the corner behind the school. I was going to shove you through the back doors and take you for a long ride, you psychotic cunt.

I have this nice little cabin outside the city, and was going to take you there for vacation. Show you a good time. Then when I was done, I was going to cut you up into tiny pieces and feed you to my dogs.

Is that what you want to hear? Huh?

Why?

I donʼt know. Because you looked weak playing your cello. You looked like you needed me. You looked soft. You looked like youʼd been alive for way too long. You're disgusting. Whore.

You want to know what I understand about consequences?

I understand that I should've done it sooner. I should've killed you the first night I saw you.

Your soup last night tasted like horse piss. It made me vomit.

Why donʼt you just go ahead and get rid of me now? Because I promise you when I get free, you're going to regret ever being alive.

I feel NOTHING.

• • •

October 1, 2016

Dear James,

Good job. When you can open a line to your true feelings and understand your intentions, only then will you begin to grow.

I knew about the van, James. I didnʼt know about the cabin, but thank you for being honest with me. I agree with you that the cat is stupid.

I understand that you're angry and frustrated, so I will forgive your rude comment about my soup.

I really think we're getting somewhere, James. Iʼm proud of you.

Your next assignment will be a series, and unit one is:

"Letting Go of the Ego: Who are You?”

See you this evening, James.

Best Wishes,

Amy