Pitchforks and Hammer Handles

 Drops.
Down they come.
Slamming and banging away
Against these two hundred and eighty eight panes;
arranged in columns and rows.

The trees outside have come alive,
their leaves of amber, vermillion, and crimson,
shivering and shaking at us inside.
Or are they just dancing to the beat of the rain?
It can't really be October again.

Against these two hundred and eighty eight panes,
drops continuously cascade.

The blustery wind has Barbados
and Estonia flapping
and wrapping around like maypole
when suddenly,
the drops diminish.

Inside
the books are so rarely touched.
(let alone loved)
I drag my fingertips along their spines.
They support each other
arranged on shelves in columns and rows.


Students clashing together
like lime and apricot
we may never speak
we may never meet
we click and tap away
in a world that is our own

It's Okay To Be Utterly Present. The Time We Are In Is Now #notetoself

I’m sorry.

There’s something I’ve been meaning to scream about,
that has been hushed up and settled down,
something I’d like to get loud about.
…
Wound up tight like a Duncan; Tension.
I wish I could oscillate nice synchronized poi:
But Instead, rendered coy,
I endlessly tug silky
rhymes rippling
from between clenched teeth
like the GIF of a clown
in endless repeat.
…
Cognitive Dissonance:
wanting two separate things at once.
I wish I could scream consciousness into the unresponsive philistine,
but instead, rendered benign,
I endlessly abstain.
Righteous indignation
versus eternal damnation;
History in endless repeat.
…
Screw it, I’m not sorry.
Insatiably I see The Dream of a Common Language.
Pierced by those lustrous eyes,
She has split open my seams.

I Wanted To Capture You and I Realized It Isn’t Probable

By: Full of It





I haven’t got a clue what it is
that always has me running off.
Someone
who does everything right
and i am a fraud.

I must feel like a psychotic!
isn’t that love?

You’ve convinced me that I’m psychotic,
what else can explain all this
wanting,
longing,
burning,
erotic psychotic desire?

You wouldn’t tie me down;
unless I asked for it,
hands knotted to the posts of your bed,
attempts to keep silent
writhing under your command.

Without asking,
slightly violent,
I’ll throw you against a wall
on a public new york city street
pin back your arms
bite me back, bite me back please.

Hips hypnotize
I will trace the line from shoulder to thigh
and somewhere in between.

I get lost in your eyes.
Lion eyes,
they light up when you talk sometimes.
Surreptitious and shredding into me,
propulsion of the arcane.

Is that not the thickest of tension looming between?

champagne walls with silvery purple trim

champagne walls with silvery purple trim

and the  wooden floor glowed at midday sun

with pillows piled high, and the lights soft, dim.

the last time I remember feeling young

On the bed three little doggies lay fast,

fast asleep on the quilt like silk lilac

knowing the possibilities were vast

I could dream it all up never looking back

I dove into books and character flaws

I gathered up songs and artists to love

and I wrote and I wrote, just because

the world out there can be what you dream of

that room I called home for a short little while

heard all the laughs from jokes long forgotten

saw all the faces, the changing faces

some were so sweet, and others so rotten

champagne walls with silvery purple trim

it's not a place I'd go back to again 

Im not the same girl i was back then

but then again... yes i am. yes i am.

Dear fuckwad, Rot in hell.

Damaged goods.
There’s just something about damaged goods.

Cheaper;
Not in quality;
In how much you really invested:
Nothing.
Cheaper.

Don’t have to worry about making a scratch.
There’s already a large enough gouge.
Don’t worry about knicks, dings, bruises and bumps;
You’ve already taken out a large enough chunk.

Fragile.
Made up entirely of beautiful blown glistening glass.
Tied together with a smile
held together for just a while.

You’ve carved your named deep into a broken heart.
Certainly have made your mark.

My oh my, you must feel quite like a man.
“The” Man
with her in the palm of your hand.

where do you get off,
guys like you?

high up
on a pedestal
& looking down

Its time that someone takes you down.
I’m taking you down.

the rain is insane

the rain at my window patters and pounds

the heater is making its usual loud roaring sounds

as the mind makes its usual rounds

around. and around.

the rain at my window doesnt stop for no clock

drip drip drip. DROP.

TICK TICK TICK TOCK.

please stop.

To have dinner with someone.

An anonymous poet once wrote, “I think of you often and make no outward show, but what it means to lose you, no one will ever know you wished no one farewell, not even said good-bye, you were gone before I knew it, and only God knows why. You are not forgotten nor will you ever be, as long as life and memories last, I will remember thee.  To some you may be forgotten, to others a part of the past, but to me who loved you dearly, your memories will always last. Nothing can be more beautiful than the memories I have of you. To me, you were someone special; God must have thought so too! If tears could build a staircase and memories a lane, I would walk all the way to Heaven, and bring you back again.” If there were any one person I could invite to have dinner with, any person that has ever walked this earth, it would without a question have to be my Mom. I lost her nearly three years ago; I miss her more than any words or melodies could say or sing. She has the only advice that I want to hear and the only advice that I need to hear. After our dinner, homemade by her of course, I’d like a proper goodbye.

I’d like to have dinner with my momma, and it’d have to be homemade by her. Even though I may have invited her, she knows exactly what I would prefer. Her famous baked ziti or lasagna, no it would be her corn chowder for sure. I miss her with every ounce of my soul; the smell of her skin and how it always made everything alright within; the clanging of her gold bracelets around her wrists and how those sounds let me know where she was to be found; the talks in the car about the bastard at the bar; her manner and grace, every look that ever crossed her face, they all hold their special place.

To be able to sit down with my mother, a cup of Folgers with a splash of amaretto, and a pack of Marlboro lights, to be able to take in all her advice, it would more than suffice. She’s the one person who knows who I am and she knows who I’m not and I just want to tell her who I want to be. Simply put, I find that the only opinions that I really want to hear are from the person that is just not here.

After a few cups of coffee, a long much needed talk, and a sorrowful glance at the clock I’d like to stand and get a hug and kiss goodbye and promise that this would not be the last time. I’d certainly like a proper goodbye unlike the last time, and this time I will not cry.

I would have my mother as my guest and chef of honor over anybody in the world rich, famous, living or dead. Not solely because I miss her, and not only because I crave her words of wisdom, but also because I’d like to at least finally say “goodbye… for now”.