Woman’s Words

Grammar questionable,

Refutable words,

A poem inevitable,

One I think we all deserve.


I think she may had a stroke on the page,

…the simple ones,

Strokes obviously have nothing to do with age,

…the complex ones, meanings run rampant—

In between the white spaces between the letters…they disobeyed,

The laws of longhand and go on little tangents,

And tantrums…and rage.


“Go ahead leave!”

Really means,

“Stay please”,

Really means,

“I need space to breathe”,

Really means,

“Stay please”,

The cryptologist’s nightmare…the penned encryptions of the woman,

Only her words can summon,

The most immovable man…I’m sure.


1 Inch

What do we do,
When we no longer wants I and I no longer want you?,
What do we do when evident reality decides to describe you,
As a thorn that was never plucked from variety’s back,
The in group evolves, in fact–
It revolves on a fixed track–
Of fads and getting that next hit of social crack.

If I’m not mistaken, I think I smell flesh,
But our guess is as good my guess,
I sleep when excluded, in my nest,
Of horrid smells and dust mite guests,
I sleep until the night comes to wake,
Me to hate–
My reality.

I have found in years that I am unique,
I do not need company to keep,
I am no thorn, no freak,
My mind goes far and deep,
And no matter how steep–
The devil builds my hills,
I will accept the challenge and embrace the thrill,
One inch at a time 🙂 Continue reading

A Simple Game Of Creation

Craft me please,

As the ocean does the soft breeze,

Against the rigid earth,

Please stand still, find the worth—

In the chilling cold,

Choose to be created from no mold,

But boon,

The boon that burst from his mother’s womb.


With the tips of your fingers and my guidance…build,

I’ll speak explicit of the pressure your fingers wield,

You fingers will,

Be my beginning,

You fingers will,

Do my trimming, skimming, bending, thinning –

Of the last, brass, crassly brash past…

That holds in my memory,

The enemy…the enemy to my future and creator of my present,

A simple game of creation, you must be eternal, you must be incessant,

For my past…is good at what it does; create.


If you were to place you fingers right between my vertebrae,

You’d behold what keeps breaking my back,

In fact,

It’s the evil cousin of dismay.


It sleeps in witched chambers of questionable thoughts,

The ones that don’t belong,

Strong, be gone, a song—

It sings off hollow walls that rot.


The brain be my beaten chamber of me,

Pink and free,

But bound,

Trapped, the sound—

Of what it screams,

Often worse than it seems.


I have given enough power to the passing moments,

I have given enough self to selflessness and atonement,

A thirst,

A thirst,

Not quenched,

A thirst,

The worst, is close,

The first of notes,

Of screams to a bursting throat,

That bodes a choke…

And finally breaks the cloak,

That she has up,

She the demon, she the beast,

That rips the joy from my face and base from my feet,

But no longer.


The morning shakes,

The bed rumbles with what feels like earthquakes,

I can hear the foundation break through the wall,

Upon the bed, my husband sprawls.

He cannot hear, feel the violence,

From what I can tell, he believes the stable home and room silent,

I sit up in bed, in night,

I trip up my head, in fright.

Maybe my brains tendencies play games,

With joy and pain,

Freedom and chains,

To a broken psyche maimed—

By the terrors of my yesterdays,

And the sorrows of my grays.

My husband wakes, I off-balance,

I sway,

The next words he’ll say,

Must regain my control, his talents—

Include the marring of my scattered mind,

With hands heavy, and words kind,

“Everything’ll be fine”,

I stare and smile,

His brashness dispels the night’s wiles,

Hours pass,

I lie in his arms, we awake,

Moon’s present, while morning’s late,

He stays awake,

To keep my from the vain actions my mind makes,

He stays awake,


The moon’s fervor no longer lives to appall,

The night befell, befall—

Be the sun’s grace,

A joy no night can berate,

He took, he takes,

The weight from my chest and sorrow from my face,

He is my husband, the best of what God makes,

For it is no longer late,

But early from which the daybreaks—

Through the beige blinds,

And I everything…is fine.


Phrenic agelessness induces a feeling of immortality,
Involving purely with the psychological, we challenge seconds,
Maybe we are paranormal standing outside the realm of certain reality,
Waiting for humanities edicts to be beckoned.

Another thought clashing with fickle fabric of the unsaid,
Avoided by tongues of the undead,
This feeling keeps us with smiles,
And within the antithesis of the mind’s wiles.

We bedew the torrid areas of our surroundings with our beliefs,
That freedom of souls remain within our hands,
And are always prepared to be unleashed,
When tempted by societal constraints, from the “elite” clans,
Such as religion and monetary value,
But baseless are these values.

Immortality is directly handled by time, not by the mortal hands of the doer,
Actions, and impacts to transcend years,
Remaining intact throughout the most cavalier —
Of folk,
Beside the opinion of the ridiculer.

I, we, us, tied to time,
Why we must abide by mind?,
We don’t, break the brain beyond what time cannot tame,
Nor tamper, nor wane, nor damper,
Be opposite of what seconds say,
And separate of what time may–
Not allow, step just outside the box,
And become the paradox,
Both dead and live,
Both fled and nighed.