Every time I am feeling bad, I need a cuddle.
I am sorry that I glared at you in the checkout. I needed a cuddle.
I am sorry that I yelled at you for not paying attention. I needed a cuddle.
I am sorry that I didn’t offer you the world today,
I needed a cuddle.
I am sick.
I needed to release.
Tears on your sweater, let me collapse on your heart.
Cry into fetal position,
let them see you beneath the tears, shed your fears~
Why did I not just ask?
Because I did not know.
Despite the number of stars in the sky,
the grains of sand on the beach,
the feeling of Truth,
there are a million~
a million, incomprehensible to someone like me,
a million possibilities,
of what now could be,
you are where you are.
Can you look around?
Describe the quality.
An empty plate with an ooze of peanut butter,
piles of books and a dirty old speaker,
a couch with a fuzzy blanket~
patches of light adorning half,
messiness reflecting back the
assurance that you have lived,
a face full of concentration or a smile,
psychic energy infused spaces~
merely to ask,
what is your relationship
I’m feeling fine,
finally getting mine,
going to bed tired,
waking up when I want,
smoking on the front porch,
wild deer munch below,
wild deer hunch below,
A million different possibilities,
where do your dreams and reality
Do you feel closer each day?
Does your truth take form
as you fall away?
Door blowing open~
the dream of a summer
an eastern breeze,
birds in the trees,
eagles flying high,
picnic in the park,
babies learning how to walk-
on an open beach,
water within reach,
trees touching the sky-
dirty, dirty feet,
beating the heat,
a breath of fresh air.
I am a tree,
pouring into me,
from down below,
I am rooted in the hollow
earth, pussy fed,
tingling with delight
between my legs.
in my dreams-
Once upon a time~
a little girl was upset.
She found out there were
people paying for sentiment,
so she took it upon herself
to offer friends her gratitude
She has not stopped writing since.
From fairy tales to journals to short stories to
poetry to short stories to lyrics
to poetry, to poetry, to poetry,
to note-taking, to note-taking,
to journals and note-taking,
to thoughts and ideas and
journals and poetry
When is she a writer?
When will she be
This is the seed growing,
for this is the crux of it all.
The magic, nay,
the hidden secret. Could
it possibly be, can’t you see,
it is her that decides?
And it comes deeper,
with the deeper truths
explored. For what
is the core
but what’s been before?
And it is you that must agree,
for neuroses to flee,
but don’t despair, for she
partakes in the ever-growing
face of potentiality, in which
nobody can decide but she.
And once decided,
she is a force of
determination, a storm
perhaps, a voice
calling from the centermost
point of the universe,
Better in flux~
She is a writer~
always will be, possibly,
but this is not all,
just merely a scratch,
for that cannot be all,
each speaker needs
The source of me,
comes from Her,
courses up and out,
pre-dominantly wet between my thighs,
bursting forth, she sees,
speaks through me,
so how I can be wrong?
Why not sing my song?
and laugh and cry
mesmerized all the while.
Nothing is as sturdy
as a life built on dreams”.
Or so it seems,
and so it goes,
in the depths and the hollows,
with her knife
and her fortune,
on the warrior’s mission:
Visita interiora Terrae rectificando invenfies Occultum Lapidem.
So she dives back into the process,
take a bit of this,
some of that,
and integrate it,
like a serpent
in the sand of a desert,
back and forth,
up and down,
round she goes.
Somebody is your mother,
loving, caring for you,
in a way, they all were,
loving you into being.
Maybe she was not
the one you thought
she would be.
Maybe she was dirt and trees,
or a grandmother on her knees,
maybe a hive of bees.
She is everywhere, around you,
the particulates in the air,
the dance of your wrist in
spiral rhythm, the fire
of desire in your stare.
Have you considered lately your ability to love?
Striving to reach the surface.
Where are you holding her in?
The Lady is free, let her be,
or reconvene 6 feet deep.
If you loved the land as your mother,
If we loved each other as our mother,
as much as you say,
how would it be different? In what kinds of ways?
It’s hard to see her, trapped in concrete,
sterile, cold, society~
uptight, depressive misery~
see the monotony, the mediocrity,
the travesty that’s become of
Oh, instinctual knowing,
from down deep,
I bow to you.
I discovered roller coasters for the first time after I saw my therapist
She told me I had
OCD, DID, ADD, and an eating disorder
stop trying to please others i told her to set herself
on fire I decide to take my damaged ass to an amusement
park and tell the driver I’m allowed I’m 5’4 You’re a whore I spit
on him and jump into the car I defy gravity by myself on this topsy turvy
future mobile I go up and into space ride through cliches until my overalls
Snap off and set me free where i float without medication Snap out of it, you hairy
Slut You never know how it feels to lose control until you’ve lost all control She never
knew with the giant pebbles and water cascading downwards in a freefall And the terrible
feng shui that parts her massive thighs point my eyes into her pant stain while my entire head
falls down for the bottom A sick endless cycle of torture just like
……at a restaurant
……sitting on truck tables at the doctor’s office
…..cutting off death DNA chunks into ‘style’
…..fighting off fever with drive by flu shots
So I count to 5
While I make hot cocoa
and tap the doorway
I try of 4 different pairs of pants
eat an entire bag of Cheetos
and throw up
It’s all situational and relative and ridiculous
I don’t care if some 14 year old wears orange lipstick and
gives her teacher a Flintstone blowpop
Tell me Doctor, what’t the diagnosis for my sick bluish foot
Oh, you’re right, I guess I do need to vacate the premises
The Land of the Lepers exists and we have renamed it “America”
Beneath the Moon,
I think of you and how I could have made it better-
Did you feel everything I wanted to do, despite the
I held you close,
to honor the tides Divine,
but I felt too quick,
a desire to please,
I hope you’ll forgive me.
I love you.
You told me I’m your everything, but I didn’t know I was another illusion~
for the takes you make that leave you lost in confusion, the solid steps that look like stages to you~
the final words that leave you satiated in truth.
It’s not my business what you say to me
you say I’m your everything and I’m just what you need,
but you wish it were true but the truth ain’t what it seem,
you like to get lost in me but you don’t wish it were me
it’s just the motion taking you over,
singing your song and justifying sleep,
don’t come back to me in the morning
because I’m a woman with a full and open heart
a woman with breaking weighing on the dawn.
Stay with him tonight, stay with him ’til the dawn.
It’s not my business anymore,
ain’t my business no more.
It’s a personal experience, because baby you hardly know, how much I want to see you and how badly I want to let you go.
It’s only me here, waiting for you, believing in the embellishments of a soul wanting, to love and be wanted .
Well, more drunk I’ll get waiting for the proclamation of a love that lasts forever, the kind binds our hands with the lapses betwixt the noise~
we wait all of our lives for the spaces that show us where we can be-the black hole at the center of our galaxy that is me.
We are mission control avoiding a gravitational vortex~ to emit, a consistently persistent- or a reason to exist.
There is a hole surrounding which no light can persist~ a constant mortal reminder of possible inheritance…
You could be this…or this….
Yet I could not know because my relationship is with Love~ not you, silly boy.
As a woman, we are compelled to look for love and to form it wherever it seems to take hold, like a virus very focused in on the perfect environment.
And I can love myself, with a finger and intention, a woman in possession, of a secret you wish you could get to, and your dick is promised and successful in context, but here I wish you well, for this is the soundtrack to my life and you aren’t here to provide a beat.
I am a romantic mess, waking up with only
one of your socks on the floor by the zillion
pieces of single clothes on the single floor
of a bedroom a single girl sleeps in.
Your sock on the floor reminds me of the time
I stole the sock from your drawer while you sang
in the shower, the love we kindled the
I am a romantic mess, because as I dress, nothing
matters but the sock on the floor. I make a mess
of the mess already there, trying to look for
the missing of the pair, trying to see past
the omen of fear that only one of us can
The socks with you were a pair, both of us,
happy and living in the post-coital bliss. The sock
I have here is but one, the other amiss. Where
could it have gone? I searched everywhere,
it’s as if it just disappeared. The magic cannot
be denied, I’m trying not to die inside, but my heart is
What about the time when you hate me, when the sock
will be a horrible reminder of the wonderful memory? Or
the time when you leave and I’m left with the responsibility,
the evidence~ a sock in solitary? Or what about years from now,
when I throw the sock out, reminiscing about that time…that time…
You are my friend, I hope forever until the end.
I hope I can find the sock before it’s too late, I can’t stand this heartache.