Ruins
Their words linger
Stagnant, in the air
Suffocating
Love, trust; gone
In an instant
Leaving a crumbling statue
Of a family; now in ruins
They proclaim
It's Satan's work
Fixable, curable
A poison I refuse.
They say
I am too young,
Naive,
Still figuring things out,
I'll come around,
I'm just confused.
They swear this is true.
But I know better,
I know me.
I know my heart.
I know love.
And it ain't changin'.
They refuse me.
Say it's my choice
And I'm choosin' wrong.
That I ain't no child of theirs.
They raised a good boy
And a faggot ain't no good boy.
Lost for words I stutter
Looking for a rewind button
That doesn't exist
Or glue that can fix this
But I can't deny who I am
No matter how hard I try.
So I watch
It all fall apart
Before I walk away.
ROYGBIV
Red red roses with velvet petals brought to a lover with fiery burning passion
Orange hues are slightly less fiery... the heat is on its way out and crisp leaves crunch under foot
Yellow is so soft, like warm sunshine or a fuzzy chickadee against your cheek
Green is the scent of cut grass
Blue, the scent of ocean, the taste of salt
Indigo like a deep chill, cold as ice
Violet, oh violet... how to describe thee. I suppose there's no better way than to breathe in the scent of the lovely purple flowers by that name. Inhale a handful of blueberries and then taste them. That is violet.
To feel and smell and taste colors is the very best way to experience them!
Biological Clock
Snaking our bodies together
melted and warm
thermal oasis
loving words spoken
by my searing flame
I want us to have
a baby together
carbon copy of us
reminder of this
ready to surrender
to biological clock
before it strikes
number too high
but are we willing
to include another
taking time
from each other?
He looks outside
and says yes
but deep inside
he says no
and I remain
unsatisfied
ready to move on
to seek creation.
Dropping Shoe
Jittery, jumpy, butterfly panic
Waiting for other shoe to drop
You weren’t here last night
violated word of honor
no response to your cell
life hanging on thread
alone and without borders
cracks opening around me
yawning abyss threatens
to swallow me whole
my phone rings
needles of fear
frozen and threatened
trembling grasp phone
reject and dismiss
what you tender
other shoe drops
more lies.
Nourishment Ethics 101
Plato was right; justice is a matter of ownership. Aristotle was right; justice is a matter of virtue. Hume was right; justice is a matter of pleasure. Kant was right; justice is a matter of order. However, ownership, virtue, pleasure, and order are outcomes of justice. True justice, the essence of justice, is nourishment. Specifically, nourishment as it pertains to one's needs. This version of justice implies a difference between needs and not-needs. For example, breathing is a need. Alcohol is not a need. Understanding justice practically, then, is a matter of understanding human and sentient needs theoretically.
Technocracy
What I saw was far beyond chilling.
The President removed his head from the rest of his body with his own hands. I realized they were not human hands. They were machine. The President of Earth had just been elected and none of the voters knew he wasn't "he" at all. Why? What was its purpose? Was it benevolent? Malevolent? Neutral?
Despite the feelings of fear, I had to smile. It all made perfect sense now. Why President Ainson never fabricated the truth; why the President never made a mistake while speaking; why his brilliance was so renowned globally.
Wow.
Times New Roman
Pardon me for being so plain, but plainly speaking, said plainness, painfully, is such by virtue of being default. So you see it isn't my fault for appreciating the essence of this symbolic set's aesthetic aura. Orally I prefer circles and squiggles and curves and spirals but textually, I prefer squares and arrows and lines and more lines. I prefer a good suit and tie to sweatpants and a t-shirt even though I'm hypocritically wearing the latter now.
flowing.
I signed in to Prose on my laptop today, because some things are difficult to view on my Android browser on my phone.
It's been a long time since I've given this my full attention.
I look at the upper left corner.
It says, Write.
I guided my mouse to the upper left corner. I paused.
Click.
Now an empty screen sits in front of me. It's not as empty as it was before, but there's always more room to fill. No matter how many words are written down, there's still more to write. All the time.
There's still so much more to write.
I feel restless. Unhappy. Empty.
Even though I have so much love in my life, it feels like there's always more room to fill. I'm missing something.
How can you be a hopeful cynic? How can I allow myself to have so much hope when I don't know how to deal with the crash and burn of disappointment? How do I decide to choose happiness?
I could keep focusing on the good.
I don't know how to focus on the good without shoving my negative feelings inside an already full drawer. It's so full, the bottom has collapsed into the drawer below it, and I'm unable to get to the bottom drawer.
I keep telling myself if I could just clean up my drawer-the messy one with jumbled up feelings-I can finally get to the bottom drawer, and see what I've been missing.
Then, I just decide not to. And I continue with my day as a robot whose only directive is to not cry.
YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO CRY.
Only to live. Only to get by. Only to show gratitude. Only to smile, speak positive words, assure people that I'm fine. I just have frequent migraines (which is not completely a lie).
I need to continue to fill the empty space with honest words to myself. Then, maybe I'll share it with the world.