Poem: This Little Earing

I wear this earring
in remembrance
of a young woman
who claimed
she loved me.
And I her.

I always will love her
and this Golden Circle
is a fine symbol.

I was young,
but she was younger.
She was sick,
but I was sicker.
We were both addicts,
but I was legit.
We argued about it for years,
but she'd never get a Doctor.

And I...
I ran out of waiting.
Got raw from her whippings,
all of which came
from her lack of medicine,
which she refused to get.

She blamed me for our
"failure of a relationship."
I blamed her addiction.
We were both right.

I wear this earring in
remembrance
of a young woman
I loved.

May it never happen
again.

Poem: Old Future Henry

Henry walked through the years of advertisements
on his way home from the Library;
First ads for movies he'd never be able to afford to see,
then 3-D movies and virtual reality.
Still using a keyboard at sixty years young,
Henry was considered more archaic than a fossil.
He was an enigma, a retard, an art piece maybe.
But few would notice.
After a few decades the ads on the walls changed
to things he'd never heard of before,
"4-D" and "Senso-Motion Experience"
and on and on.
But Henry wasn't interested
and couldn't afford to be if he was.
He just kept typing out his gibberish until death,
hoping that one day
it might mean something to someone.

It never did.
Like so many other hopefuls
his life's work was thrown in the trash
along with his body and megre personal belongings.
Lucky for him,
he was too dead to notice.

Poem: Another Day #5

I feel like I'm all nerves;
stomach hurting for food
but revolting at the first bite.
"It's just another day,"
I say to myself.
Wanting to cry,
wanting to scream.
There are no answers to my pains,
no cures for my questions.
Everything in this life seems wrong,
I don't belong here.

But here I am.
Surviving like a cockroach.
I've already taken my medicine,
but my hands are still shaking,
can't write
any more.

Poem: A Prayer to Shango

When I start to think of God,
I start to think about patterns
and fractals
and pages of math,
describing quanta possibility matrices,
yet there is consciousness.

Each pattern is conscious.
The patterns created from the first
are conscious also,
in different combination's of
Zero and One, The Yin and The Yang.
Different patterns.
Large patterns.
So large I can't even begin
to understand it
except for symbolically.
But conscious never-the-less.

And I.
A consciousness-pattern,
part of a larger one,
who is part of a larger one,
until God,
Infinity,
the Fifth dimension.

Work with me Larger Pattern!
Hear your little self calling to you!
Come to my aid, Great One!
Bring down your fire,
that all your children
of the thunder-stone
may prosper.

Poem: Depressive is Pain

I am a Depressive;
Most of my life is pain.
My physical health is pain.
My mental/emotional health is pain.
My dysfunctional family is pain.
My deeply troubled lover is pain.

Though I love her,
am often happy to see her,
get fleeting moments
of happiness and warmth,
sometimes,
when we are together.

It's not enough.
My life still hurts.

I don't cry, like she does.
I get real quiet instead.
Slowly losing the ability to speak,
until I'm an unmoving, silent, human,
in pain.
So much pain that any word
seems pointless.

So she leaves me to my silence.
When I need her most.
To hold me.
To talk to me.
She doesn't.

I'm alone in my pain,
like I guess we all are.
She is not good enough
to make my life good.
(Though when she tries
she makes it better).

But no matter what she does:
I'll still be a depressive.
For the pain in my body,
for the pain in my soul.
I wish she could accept that,
accept Me
the way that I am.

And still continue
to love me.

Poem: Why, why, why.

Why don't you love me,
like I think you should?
When you say that you love me,
but I can't feel it,
or see it.
And you wont hold me.

I'm always there for your tears,
but you're never there for mine.
You just make it worse.

My needs are so simple.
My wants are so pure:
Stay with me,
Look at me,
think about me.
hold me when I'm sad.
Listen to my words,
do not twist around my meanings.

If I can't even talk,
then it's really time to try.
Tell me that you love me.
Lie with me until I say
"stop."
Dedicate your time to me,
as I dedicate mine to yours.

When thinking about you only hurts.
And there is no medicine for me,
but to be alone...

After enough time alone,
anyone seems like an Angel.
I just want to be loved.
Something you are no good at.

Oh, you can talk.
But when it comes to shutting up
and just holding me,
well,
forget it.
Like it is not your job to support,
because you're a female.
All you can do is cry,
which makes me feel worse.

God, baby, I love you.
But when it comes to compassion
and just plain healing...

you suck.

Poem: Love Is...

Love is:
Letting someone go,
if it is best for them.

Forgiveness,
for any
and all
actions.

Love is not hate,
hateful,
jealous,
greedy,
needy,
angry,
or short.

Love is permanent;
Infinite,
It does not end.

There are no
conditions to be met,
no expectations to live up to,
no rules,
laws,
words,
clauses,
or traps.

Love exists,
It's around us all the time.

Feeling Love
can be a transitory
experience.
Felt for a moment
while eating,
fucking,
falling asleep,
smelling flowers,
giving birth,
and more.

When it passes,
there can be a terrible hole,
a racking,
a sucking,
a painful,
gap.

What will you fill it with?
But Love?