

DementedAwake behind my wall, Tracks follow mine. Be gone, I tell her,Demented
Killing cocktail of pain.
It's not the hurt I see, Not when she looks at me.
Useless, eaten by scarring, Connectless to the world. My mouth brandishes nonsense Even when I yearn to correct it.
Stay, I whisper, only when she, With desperation, begs it so.
Cheating axons wander in void, Broken am I, lost to this disease. I cry, inside specter to the debacle, Cheating her of our future together.


Juncture of Sunny HillI amble down the gangway between auditorium seats, the cake balancing precariously on my long, thin hands. The heavens had shamelessly bestowed upon me an unnatural stature with a metabolism that makes starving children take pity upon me. Everywhere I went from the time I was old enough to walk became to me a portable sideshow, with me an unwilling freak of nature forced to strut about like a clumsy newborn foul for the amusement of all.Juncture of Sunny Hill
I depart before they see me, leaving it with an annoying stagehand that can't stop gushing unnecessary compliments-I cannot risk being forced to join them as they massacre my perfect creation.&nb


A Withered TreeA withered tree does produce no fruit, Its hunching, brittle branches revolt. Leaves fall in droves, a massacred troop, Wailing on the ground like orphan colts. Desperate rain collects but cannot breach, Crying in demand for its salvation to see. Merciless Mother Earth cruel to eat A lesson deformed by hunger too deep. It was fire who raged this destroying war,A Withered Tree
Set by a deafening clash of weathered palms.
Yet scorching flesh peels, sun unbarred, Renewed water quenches thirst and calms. Revived bearer of life, mercy does provide, Fruit once again blossoms, the hung


Sisters at the ParkSisters sway past, conquering the tiny army Over a gorge of perilous cement cracks.Sisters at the Park
Red jaws rebelliously snap at their toes, Only retreating as they playfully skip in place. Trumpets hidden in obscurity brave water Just beside them, the honking tracing their steps.
Their buoyant forms are graceful bobbing floats, Protruding from the water as the smiles do From faces watching them above the sizzling grill.
It's promising, the char-broiled beef chuck, Prepared with billows of smoke for succulence, Wafting its intoxicating aroma in sailing waves.  


One WeekOne WeekOne Week
One week until harvest… Until I can cancel desire and become shielded again. Speak nothing of it. Time is ephemeral. It is mine. What I say will happen in its time, and I will be glass again. Inherently outraged, and yet I let it in. open doors - open doors What is said of morals? Of intelligence, of what we know, Of who we are… Of what we dream, and distant stars; You see, I shut my door on someone for the f
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