Once upon Ye Olde English heath, as the door to her cottage swung open, Hildegard smelled burning. Her husband’s boot had crossed the threshold, he would expect dinner, and he would not want it to be burned.

Hildegard rushed to the hearth. She grabbed the dangling pot of stew and instantly, agonizingly, the metal seared her palms.

“Zounds!” she cried.

“Woman!” her husband remonstrated.

“Zounds, it hurts!”

“Hold thy foul tongue!” her husband roared. “Thou wilt not blaspheme in my house!” (For zounds, dear reader, derived from God’s wounds, a reference to the crucifixion of Christ, and to employ the torture of one’s Lord and Savior as an epithet was as shocking to a pious old Englishman as the lyrics of NWA would prove to his descendants' erstwhile colonists 400 years after.)

“But it hurts!” Hildegard cried. “Thy stew burneth, and the metal hath proved too hot for my tender hands!”

“Stow thy pitiful excuses!” her husband retorted. “Find thyself a godlier path, or never again look me in the face!”

Hildegard departed. She wept even after she treated her second degree burns at the home of a crone who practiced homeopathic medicine, for Hildegard loved her husband, for some reason, or at least loved having a roof over her head to escape the goddamned English rain. To keep her husband roof husband, she needed aid, so Hildegard set out to a person who could set her on a godly path.

“Woman, why dost thou weep?” the Archbishop of Canterbury asked.

“Forgive me bishop,” Hildegard answered. “I hath displeased my husband.”

“How?”

“With an ill word.”

“What ill word did thee speakest?”

Hildegard hesitated. “I said, Zounds, your bishopness.”

“Jesus,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “that’s fucking awful word. Why wouldst thou say such a thing?”

“I burned my hands, your bishopness. On a pot. Heaven help me, if I don’t find a safer way to hold a pot, I might blaspheme again, and my husband will disown me. Is there any hope for such a disgraced wench as me?”

“Let us pray.”

And Hildegard and the Archbishop knelt and prayed, and, i dunno, burned frankincense or something, and lo, the Holy Ghost sent them down a dove, which carried in its beak a thickly woven fabric, and they gave thanks to the Lord.

“Almighty God,” asked the Archbishop of Canterbury, “what wouldst You, in Your Infinite Wisdom, have us call this thickly woven fabric with which to hold pots?”

The candles flared, the stones of the cathedral shook, the Archbishop wet himself, and a voice from the heavens boomed, “A potholder.”

And so Hildegard carried the potholder home, and gave knowledge of it unto other women, and prepared many delicious stews without burning her hands, which meant she never again said the unforgiveable zounds, which meant her husband loved her, five times a week whether she were in the mood or not, and she bore many children and had a roof over her head to protect her from the goddamned English rain, and they all lived happilyish ever after until the plague destroyed their bodies and minds.

The End.

There's not enough hours in a day, to be me

Not enough hours so be who I want to be

Working long hours,

late shifts, early days,

not enough time to help them all

not enough time to even just call

not enough hours to say it's all okay

not enough time to smile and laugh,

not enough hours to waste a day,

not enough time to be a kid,

not enough hours for sweet nothings,

not enough time to calm down-

I think it's time I make time

want to play this game with me-

try to maintain the disease without noticing

try so hard to get you to see

that there is a prettier me

when I don't smash all the pieces,

but I do-

I take me apart with hammers and fists

and screws and

fuck

I take me apart just for the helluv it.

it’s ten in the morning

you’re crying again.

you’re blue as a butterfly,

you bathe in your rain.

told you not to get comfortable

in that pain,

passing time rarely changes

anything

if you stay the same.

let me remind you

of how pretty the heights were

when you flew them

back then,

you promised you’d try to

spread these w i n g s

again.

I saved them from fires, waters, bad men, madmen, but it didn’t matter at all. They still feared me. They were afraid of my god-like powers, of the wrath I could bring them if I ever turned mad. They had nothing to fear, yet they did.

When they tried to kill me for the first time, I forgave them. But when they tried it the second time, I couldn’t forgive them. I didn’t want to hurt them, but they forced me to unleash my wrath upon them. So much blood was spilled on that day, and all of it could’ve been avoided. All they had to do was accept me for being different.

Being afraid of someone or something different was always in their nature. Since their dawn, the one who was different was shunned or murdered. Yes, they did horrible things to those who were different when all they had to do was accept them.

I’m not skinny but I’m not fat,

they say I’m easy to look at.

I’ve got curves in all the right places,

I’ll never be Einstein but my IQ is aces.

My brain a mass of beautiful neurons firing,

despite the chaotically intricate wiring.

My love is loyal, deep and strong,

qualities lost in the throng.

We’ll laugh each day together,

even as we age and weather.

Hold me too tight,

I will take flight.

I require care,

Isn’t that the way with things that are rare?

I am willful and stubborn,

a fact you may sometimes mourn.

I’m everything you never knew you had need of,

a precise mix of chemistry and love.

I’m not perfect, how utterly boring would that be?

I’m just me.

I go to sleep. I fall asleep. Then I wake up because a mouse is making a great noise. Well, not great but big enough to keep me awake. I try to scare it. Nothing works. For several days a mousetrap (mine doesn't kill mouse) is empty. My sleep is gone now. I might as well go to the living room. There. On. The. Sofa. Is. A. Big. Fat. Rat. I scream. Apparently hard enough for my neighbours to hear. They call the police. Now I have to tell the police my story of the rat. They laugh. Why? They go into my living room. They catch the rat. Now I'm free. I go to sleep. The mouse starts to make noise again. That freaking damned mouse.

pink, he is clothed in petals

sweet-smelling cherry blossoms

lingering in the space where the sun touches the earth

at the horizon.

he lives in the sunset

his bare feet softly touching the ground

the bare ground

raw and fresh

wet soil and wet leaves and

wet petals sprinkled.

pink, she loves herself.

she wears long flowing dresses and braids her hair with

flowers.

she works hard

too hard, maybe

maybe she just wants to be seen.

pink, she is

loud and quiet and everything at once,

pink,

she is the world.

When she met darkness, the night stretched on for miles, 

and it pushed her down beneath the frigid waves, and

cried out, "You're useless" 

the waves were rough, their gentle touch forgotten, 

pushing her around, twisting her until she forgot

that such a thing as kindness had ever existed.

Help me, darkness has reached its hands around my neck, I'm choking. 

when she met darkness, it decided to never let her go, 

the night was endless, the stars were stolen and locked away, 

none of their light could shine down on where she stood. 

there is no longer enough laughter to soften the edges of pain, 

no longer enough courage to fight back. 

Help me, the night is so dark, the stars are no longer there to give me hope. 

when she met darkness, it smothered her light beneath its icy glare, 

it could not be swayed or changed, 

it held her there, a light in its darkness, 

she asked it why. 

Help me, I can feel the light fading fast. 

when she met darkness, It took her in its arms and clung to her, 

crying and crying, tears melting the pitch black to a gray. 

"I wanted a light in my suffocating darkness,

I tried to bring the stars back but they were buried too deep in myself, 

I couldn't find them." 

when she met darkness, the darkness turned to light. 

Acorn minded freak

Words I sought to speak

Lost translations at my feet.

There She roams,

Chaos wielder, angelic healer,

Leave me be in ruins ahead.

I don’t know how to talk to you. You want honesty, I can only write it down any other format would be pure disappointment.

Irony or not

Here I run

Clouds eclectic, frozen/burned numb.

Perhaps I can lie two ways but I cannot emote in both forms, here I am genuine in sentiment.

Night atomic

Spliced idiocy

Propeller thoughts

Fly me high

Insanity talks,

Look left then right

Off they walk.

I want company more than food and sleep, yet I crave solitude. I avoid responsibilities to gain a chance at youth again. I pursue truth not seeing my lies.

Paradoxical paradise

Godzilla laser eyes

Slash architecture paralyzed

My inability to write for the past couple of weeks has partly been a problem and has solved my problem somewhat. What else is my mind hiding?

Smoke floats cosmic,

Bistro lights glow

Like floating lanterns

Concussive notes repeat

Empty glass, melting ice,

Dimming taps, horns decrease.

Peace.