The-Shy-Imperfect

MAYHEM You chose this path Empty feelings and bitter tears Hacking hacking hacking away at the soul I know how it is to be alone, just as you do. To be surrounded by endless people But feel absolutely nothing for any of them But contempt. To have all but given up To have remained silent For months on end. My dearest... What are we to do? the taste of blood Condemn them all! Damn them all! We are different! DIFFERENT. Never swallow your pride, do not sink to their level All we need is us. US. If it were up to us, we would let them die of their own social diseases. And leave us sterile, untouched by humanity. A new plague

The sun obviously tastes like oranges. Why else would they call it Sunkist? I want to swallow the sun. Good luck with that- it's a massive ball of burning gas. I wonder if that means I'll bloat when I swallow the sun. Maybe we can split it? We'll split the sun, have a slice each. We could have sun cake. Sun drink. Sun tan. And mellow moon breath mint afterwards. Toes in the sand, no more tides. We could spiral chaos into forever, couldn't we? Just us and the water bubbles, And my poem for you filled with perfect places to stop But I keep rambling on.

When you're a woman, you are told There are certain roles and positions in this world That you, as a woman, simply cannot hold. I first figured this out when I was a child. It was recess on the playground,  Kindergartners running wild. I wanted to play on the big jungle gym; all the boys were there. I didn't want to play with little girls, They were too soft– putting flowers in their hair. I ran to play with them, socially naïve, Their response to my intrusion  Was one I simply could not believe "You can't play with us, you're not a boy" Was why I couldn't join in their game, And up until that point in time, I thought we were a

God plays us. To play- To engage in an activity for enjoyment.  Maybe he's an egotistical man? If he enjoys having his beings fight and die for him, maybe that is so.  If he likes to see his creations suffer under his hand. He's a bit of a sadist, don't you agree? Maybe he's a masochist as well; if he hurts when we sin, but makes it our nature.  And who are we, little dolls, to try to read him like a book? What good will it do to try to divine the Divine? Maybe he's a woman? What we were made in Her image? We all start off biologically female in the womb. Maybe masculinity is a birth defect? Why for the Y? Chromosomes don't even look

I feel like you and I are the only ones without a problem, without relationship issues, without needless drama.   Out of every relationship I know, ours is by far the smoothest. It's not perfect, I will never claim that, we have our shares of issues. But the thing that sets is apart is this: Sex isn't our priority; that's something rare for people of our age. I just want to be with you. It's more enjoyable to just snuggle tight under a blanket and watch all our favorite movies. Which is something I've barely experienced with others. They've almost always had ulterior motives. And I'm not saying I wasn't at all to blame. I'm not alwa

It's dark... The  little light i have offers some solace in my racing mind. Where did I get this light? Was I given it? Have I always had it? It doesn't matter. A few hundred paces around informs me that I am completely fenced in. How did I get in here?  I guess that, too, doesn't matter. What does mater is getting out. Maybe it does mater; if I know how to get in, I have to know how to get out, right? Right? Walking slowly, I try to get my bearings straight. In the distance I see something. My curiosity gets the best of me. I squint. I stay perfectly still. It's somebody. Leaning against a tree, eyes back and soulless peering right at me

 At the beginning of the 21st century, a conservative regime took power in America. They implemented various social reforms, such as the outlaw of birth control and resubordiation of women, union of church and state, and laws that made homosexuals of any type second class citizens. All those who opposed these laws publicly were jailed or killed. Many died int those days. Soon the laws were mostly publicly accepted, aproval ratings (even though rigged) skyrocketed.  This was truly what the regime wanted- One Nation, Under God with Lliberty and Justice for SOME. It was years before the next uprising against The Republic. But the Resistance wa

I write, it feels more like a performance. I feel as if, when I write, I am on a simple black stage, in the whitest of clothes, and it  is a sanctum for the deepest desires and fears of my heart.  It is set to the piano. And there are no words in my performances, only senses. Touch and sight. There is a flexibility and fluidity to my movement as I pour out these innermost emotions. Each step, each bend, each breath in perfect synchronicity with each other. The key signature changes, as does the melody. But only ever so slightly. Soft light across the wood floor. The comforting scent of sandalwood and old books clings to the air. I