Poem: SMS Game

I texted again

"Ag. Sorry."

finally clearer of mind.

She texted back

four pages of

anger and spite.

I tried to imagine her fingers

typing so fast on the phone

her fingers

so much smaller than mine,

more nimble,

less swelled,

less,

arthritic.

She knows I hate

long emotional texts.

Has promised not to do them before.

But she does anyway.

It is part of _her_ anger problem,

though she'd never admit it.

Expectations unspoken,

wants not met,

then Guilt,

Shame,

Blame.

I hate that Game.

Poem:Some Don't Even Know

It's like we're

both

waiting, wounded, worried

animals.

Waiting for the other

to come help.

But neither of us

is strong enough

to go to the other.

Angry, defeated,

and torn.

Screaming at our beloved

in "righteous" fury

at their (and our)

disability/inability

to Help.

The World Is Made

Like This.

Guilt the other to action.

Shame them into moving,

then reward them

for obeying your whims.

Like training a pet,

or abusing a child.

Poem: Some Don't Even Know

It's like we're

both

waiting, wounded, worried

animals.

Waiting for the other

to come help.

But neither of us

is strong enough

to go to the other.

Angry, defeated,

and torn.

Screaming at our beloved

in "righteous" fury

at their (and our)

disability/inability

to Help.

The World Is Made

Like This.

Guilt the other to action.

Shame them into moving,

then reward them

for obeying your whims.

Like training a pet,

or abusing a child.

Poem: My Best

I am of the Upper, Lower Class.
Having the coveted
Federal Disability Money.
Living in the dreamed of
section 8 funded
single room occupancy.
I have serious
Physical
and Mental
Disabilities.
Yet not so "serious" as say,
Cancer,
or AIDS.
So though I am,
Mortally Ill,
I do not get the excuse
of something "fatal."
The Power of
"Real Sickness."
Yes, I'm viewed as disabled,
but "not as disabled as..."

Stuck in the Middle.

I am of the Upper, Lowest Class.
Poor,
but not the poorest.
Disabled,
but not the most so.
Downtrodden yes,
but one who can
"do _something_ for themselves,
if they really wanted to."

A pretend sickness?
Fuck You.

I do my best.

Poem: Love-Pusher

Wanting it your way,
always just your way;
You and the future
and the plans
and lastly, though,
lastly, Me.

I try so hard
not to get too connected;
for both our sakes,
though I don't think you see that.

Playing games like a kitten,
just the edge of ferocity,
the glimmer of death,
in it's eyes.

Nature, the Hunter.

Your hunting does not stop,
once you have me.
Still you must force me through grates,
channels, analysis, obedience-training,
learning to come when you call,
to do whatever you want...

Unfair?
Perhaps.
It is as it is.

I want you truly and directly.
All pomp and circumstance be damned!
I want you directly.
Body to body,
Mind to Mind,
Soul to Soul.

Throw away these "tests" of my office,
the "games" of my affection for you.
Trust in me Lover,
come to me, Lover,
Make me as worthy,

as your Drug Pusher.

Poem: Youth (#2?)

Out of nowhere I remember being young and doing drugs. Driving our brains like test computers or NASA take-offs; Uppers, downers, trancers, trippers, dancers, and more. Pulling our brains in any and every direction, testing our physical Life's boundaries and sanities.
We didn't all get out unharmed. I know I didn't. Though the "knowledge" we gained, the exclusivity I've attained, the smaller circles I'm a member of...

Leave me searching far away.
But forever close to home.
In the days that I was free.

Poem: Pants Crapper

Tired of feeling sorry for you,
tired of watching you
feel sorry for yourself.

Self-Pity is a disgusting Thing.
I know.
I've wallowed in it for years.

Watching you crapping your pants,
refusing to clean it up,
not letting me clean it...

What should I do?

The disrespect you show yourself
shines into my eyes,
making me angry.
Wanting to yell at you:
"Clean your ass!
Change your underwear!
For Christs sake,
get some toilet paper!"

But you don't.

You just keep looking at me
and crying,
shitty pants around your ankles.