Naked, walking,

With no hope of concealing.

They found me in ,

They found me out,

In the rain I stood,

No cover, as it pelted.

In the desk I hide,

While teachers hovered.

The what if don't concern,

Only thing is certainty.

Hack, I know the meaning,

Like Joseph.

Not so hard.

Hack at life.

Inadequate, frustrated,

A slug, a lesser organism.

And the nasty kids,

Will surely get the salt out.

Pull me apart or melt me.

Save me, save me,

From this hole,

From this burning ,

Magnifying glass,

They have.

Feelings falter.

Freefall.

Fantasies fade.

Feverish fantasies.

Frenzied. Frayed.

Far from forgiveness.

Far from forever.

If I get angry at my

Imagination,

If I get angry at my

Depression,

Am I angry at nothing?

If I get angry at a glance that may or may not be hurtful,

If I get angry at a game,

Am I angry at nothing?

If I’m angry at myself,

If it’s all in my head,

Am I angry at nothing?

If I’m angry at the things that will never change,

If I’m never alone, yet I’m lonely,

Am I angry at nothing?

These days, it seems I’m angry at everything.

Maybe too angry.

But I don’t know how to stop.

Once the thoughts flow,

I have to get them out any way I can.

If that means cut,

I cut. I just need

Someone to see, really see

What’s happening inside me.

My thoughts race like a run on sentence no punctuation needed,

All I have to do is

Break up the lines and it becomes a poem.

I think in rhymes, sometimes.

My thoughts make great poetry.

Now how to rid myself of the unceasing anger in me.

It boils, turns to hatred,

Stews and festers until someone gets hurt.

Sometimes, it’s me.

But it’s others I worry about.

How to rid myself of the anger,

The feeling of injustice that

Never seems justified.

Help me out

Of this angry cesspool I dug myself into.

I was trying on a sexy dress in the women’s dressing room when he slid under the door.

“What are you doing?!,” I hissed, under my breath.

He proceeded to grace me with his drumstick, erect.

As if...

Thinking I might like some gravy?

“Are you crazy?”

“Damn!”

That man.

One track mind.

At least wait ’til we get home to have your pie!

In poetry, I dance.

In poetry, I cry.

In poetry, I make romance.

In poetry, I die.

MidnightInk 11-6-18

YOU~

the one my HEART

beats in RHYTHM for

each- & ev’ry moment

ME—

ready to cherish

you in endless

loving, PURITY.

#vrai #et #pur

The fluttering of her soft brown eyes has a direct mechanical connection to the sinotrial node in my right atrium, sending electrical pulses into my heart. For years, the magnetic power of her soul had transmitted through our cardio-ocular portal, pumping blood from my heart to the smallest capillaries across my body, allowing me to walk, eat, make love.

Now, I can hear the slowing beat of my heart. Tapping in time with dim beep of the machines keeping her with me. Her eyes flutter one last time as I stand watching her in that hospital bed. My heart stops.

Sweetie pie

Grace is . . .

Dressing

. . . her 

drumsticks

. . .in gravy

I am in love

with the idea

of a book in my hands that I created

I am in love

with the idea

that someday I will stand in New York in the fall

(they do not have fall

here—

the trees stay green)

I am in love

with the idea

of orange and red and yellow falling around me

(i hope when I get there

i will have finally found happiness

but i doubt it)

I am in love

with the idea

that maybe I am more than just a girl

who will waste away in her room

watching the stories of someone else unfold

(Trapped)

(I am trapped)

I used to love Dad, like more than ice cream, or life itself. We'd play and play and play all day.

Then he became a controlling chauvinist, and we did nothing to stop the metamorphosis. My mum was especially powerless to stop a raging egotistical maniac. He was gruelling, having meted harsh discipline to his boys at school. But when you're defined by what you do for a living, it's not easy to transcend.

Granted, we were entirely cocooned in our own insecurities to know better.

One day he came at me with a chair, and I left the house. I didn't run away, but that love that was fast eroding crossed the threshold into hate.

Dad probably never stopped loving me, just like when I was fresh out of the oven. He'd never stop, like I never will with my boy.

Dad remains just another man in my life, although I wished it could be different. But to dredge up the past is to tear open old wounds and I'm not brave enough.

I haven't lived my life following principles that preceded the well-being of my family.

I'll never know why Dad did what he did, but I had an inkling.

I'll never understand what drove him, but I appreciate it could've been worse.

I see him in me at times.

I still cherish the values he instilled.

I use him as a reflection, a compass that points true South that I may always walk the opposite path.

I still love him.

I hope he knows.

Maybe one day, we'll tear down the barbed wires, spend more time watching his grandchildren grow up, on our back verandah, drinking beer, eating peanuts.

It's not too late, right?