He DM'd me privately - you're not crazy, like you say you are.

Another way of telling me to shut up.

I'm definitely not defending myself, but hey.

I'm still grieving, another way of saying I like writing.

One time in the hospital a five year old girl

told her father she saw ghosts, and he begged

her to stop. Please, darling, he pleaded.

There's nothing there. It's all monsters in your head.

I'd argue that they're there.

I'd be willing to bet she saw something like justice

that they got to live beyond our little minds,

ghosts that survived the meaningless game of life.

I never heard her voice. I only heard the pleading,

the endless refrain, the father begging when his daughter's

fate was clearly outlined in a pediatric psychiatrist's handwriting.

I never saw her face. I just know she wasn't afraid.

I never responded to his DM.

I don't see things that aren't there, but I sure as hell

have some self-respect, and a history of knowing little girls

who are god knows where right now.

A beautiful mind gone wrong.

I hope she's still here, somewhere, still believing

herself and not the refrain of the mentally sound.

There's a popular tweet, made more popular by my inability to shut up about it: A grocer is asked, "Can I try a grape?" by a customer was browsing the produce section.

The grocer says: "I wouldn't care if you lit this place on fire with me in it."

This is everything - I can see the grocer pressing "pause" on his music, slipping his iPhone into his pocket, waiting to hear what fresh nonsense a customer is presenting to him on this particular day in hell.

The grocer's student loans have been piling up. He needs to pay rent. His mom called, she's in the hospital. The trifecta of American bullshit bills has piled up, and he is on call to pay them.

He makes $16.70 an hour. This is above average. He wanted a new Xbox. A new TV. This is now a wet dream.

While the customer asks him about the grapes, he is somewhere else. He is in Tahiti, or Puerto Rico, or at the bar down the street. He is singing karaoke at said bar, drinking his problems into oblivion. A beer in this city costs $8 before tip. That's what he makes in half and hour of work.

While he is thinking this, and saying: "I wouldn't care if you lit this place on fire with me in it," he is imagining the fire from within, the one that keeps him coming in for his paycheck.

No: he is actually thinking about flames, about annihilation, about burning.

For this is corporate America, and he is just a player in a bigger game of grapes.

someone unfollowed me

after my last post

about the DSM 5 -

I wasn’t judging anyone

just trying to shed some light

on my experience,

the way my mental illness

affects my life

not trying to play

the victim card

I hope I am still relatable

just a writer with some strife

A month ago I fell in my home and broke my ankle in three places.

I had to crawl to the living room to get my phone to call 911, then I had to crawl to the front door to let the Paramedics in because my dog wouldn’t allow them to come in the back to the unlocked back door.

Luckily I live in a tiny little house!

The following day I had surgery to put my bones back together, this has been an ordeal! Then after a week in the hospital, they sent me to a “Rehab facility“ or what most of us know as a nursing home.

At fifty six I can tell you I was the youngest one there and I surprised a few of the nurses and patients when they saw how much younger I was.

This state I live in has some of the lowest regards for our elderly people that I have ever seen. It’s plum shameful and disappointing. Our childcare system is handled the same way! Elderly and infants are treated terribly at some facilities.

Here’s an idea why can’t they have a retirement home, that’s a big farmhouse? The farmhouse is on let’s say five acres and two acres are dedicated to a big vegetable garden and those elderly people who can, can come out and tend the ggarden and

there could be raised beds for those in wheelchairs.

Also a spot for chickens and goats maybe a cow or two and a pony.

Then in another area have a nice big flower bed with all kinds of flowers that bloom all year long.

And in the very back of the property a bee colony to make our own honey and sustain our garden.

I noticed how many elderly just waste away in beds or chairs staring off at nothing. A lot of these people have useful information about life and they remember, but they are thrown away and forgotten. They are thrilled to get to pet a therapy dog, or cat, or see a therapy horse! Fresh flowers make their day! Also, talking to them as adults instead of like babies would be an improvement.

I know it’s hard taking care of people who are hateful talking. Most of the time it’s not their fault.

If I had the money I would set up a place like I described above for the lower class because they need it the most.

After all

You Can’t Buy Your Way to Heaven.

comme ci comme ça

His makeup held in place. His wig removed years from his bald spot. The workouts did their magic. He dropped six sizes in the last two months alone.

He worked for each and every one of those new computer user certifications. He even attended night school to learn Python and PHP.

On paper, his resume told the story of a programmer who could step into this mid-career position, sans training, and hit the ground running on day one.

And it would have been a great first day if he could just get past the HR Lady who did not subscribe to his POV.

“Um”, as she nibbled on the cheese fry with her left hand while trying to type with her right, “I see that you are a programmer. Tell me more about what you do again.” He waited patiently to repeat himself between her slurping gulps from her near empty 64 ounce soda.

It didn’t matter. She could hear, but could not listen.

I review this video with each of my new hires. Upon its conclusion, I rarely have to comment. Perhaps the stigma of not understanding the importance of a job well done speaks for itself.

Profits and productivity are up another 2% this quarter.

Not bad for a so-so web-development firm.

In shadows deep, where whispers lie,

A cult of darkness 'neath the sky.

A virgin's fate, held by their hands,

Infiltrate their forbidden lands.

Silent steps through moonlit night,

Cloaked in darkness, out of sight.

Mystic chants and eerie calls,

Within their lair, the temple walls.

A sacred place, where shadows dance,

Entranced by rituals, a twisted prance.

To stop the sacrifice, a daunting task,

Unveil their secrets, wear the mask.

Through the threshold, brave and bold,

Into the secrets, untold.

Infiltrate their sacred rite,

A silent guardian in the night.

A virgin's innocence they seek,

A darkened ritual, twisted and bleak.

But in the heart of the cult, a flame,

To extinguish their sinister game.

Disguised among them, a spy unseen,

A guardian angel, fierce and keen.

Whispers of conspiracy, secrets unfold,

As the cult's veil begins to fold.

Symbols deciphered, cryptic signs,

A web of lies that intertwines.

In the heart of darkness, light prevails,

Against the tide, courage sails.

The altar stands, adorned with dread,

As the cultists bow their heads.

But in the shadows, a hero stands,

To break the chains with steady hands.

The virgin's eyes, wide with fear,

But salvation's whispers draw near.

A daring rescue, swift and brave,

From the clutches of a cultish grave.

The cult's demise, averted doom,

Infiltrator emerges from the gloom.

A saviour of the innocent, a beacon bright,

Against the cult, a valiant fight.

In shadows deep, where courage gleams,

A tale of thwarted, darkened dreams.

A hero rises, in silence sown,

To stop the sacrifice, the light has shone.

When you came to me you were just Wilson.

Full of confrontation, unimpressed

with your own kind, with mine as well, but stressed,

you were seeking quiet contemplation

with Buddha in his lotus position.

Peace may come from within us, Buddha confessed

Yet we lack the grace which a cat is blessed.

The cat curls against the Buddha’s cushion.

You were not yet old, not yet a mister,

An acolyte to our little garden

born wild but it’s no accident.

Sweet Bodhisattva, gentle inquisitor!

a cat will love, no matter how far then

humans are deceived by our own embarrassment.

for cats, self-deception is not in the bargain,

and when it comes to love; they’re expedient–

sunlight and belly scratches; a solemn Sacrament.

If I were a poet

I could write a love song to God

that only she would hear

I would whisper it softly

into her ear

softly.

if I were a poet

while I was singing

I would brush away the tears

that would fall

upon her holy cheek,

gently.

softly.

was I wrong to reach my hand

out to you

when I saw you cry?

and when I said I believe in Karma

you misunderstood.

if I were I a poet

I would tell you

the Wicked are not always

Punished.

the Righteous do not always receive their Just Reward.

it’s that

All Of It.

All the Good. All the Evil.

She. Will, Consume. It.

All Of It. It will amount to Nothing.

I lay my head upon your chest

just to hear you breathe.

if I were a poet

I would sing my love song to Gaea

softly, gently,

until you fell asleep

my words, like jewels, would fall

in the spring rain.

only…

it’s the spaces between

the words we remember,

the pauses on long walks,

the barely remembered glances,

one hand touches another.

If I were a poet

I would never catch my breath,

nothing to say.

stare out the window.

hear the door slam.

was I wrong

to reach my hand out to you

when I heard you cry?

I’m sorry for hurting you. I was wrong and self-centered and scared, honestly. I was afraid of you getting too close. I was afraid of showing myself to you and as you got closer, I instinctively pushed you away. I, at the time, felt that a part of me was too dark and scary to reveal to anyone else and I pushed it down, deep inside myself. I couldn’t come to know you while I was trying to amputate a part of myself.

I hope he loves you in the way that I couldn’t.