O Little One

You don’t want me to hold myself up on my own, but you hate the way I fall apart. A tantrum, you call it. You name it childish. I have held my own from the time I was a child. So, call me childlike. All it means to me is fierce independence and freedom from the laws that bind you and the anxiety that claws your back at night.



My words drip in lupine sarcasm

hasten wit, but fall flat in envious

teeth gnashing, hands vying,

seeking attention that doesn’t exist

because of the malignant conspirators

contriving plots against the masses

living in fear of the governments

that should live in fear of them & the

cycles of change – did you know that Rome fell?

It was in the paper last week.  I heard,

says he, who watches the fluttering of my chest

as the bird under my breast bone

sings, so that it might one day be free.

Broken Vase

As we try and inhale love, a little bit of hate gets stuck in our throats

We try and cough but our lungs fall out and suddenly we have no voice

What is this prison in which we stand with walls as tall as they are long

And where is the sun? why can’t it creep in?

What prison is this that’s free of speech

And what soul sucking zombie has throttled our words before they escape our lips

A sensitive, sensitized, censored sound-scape where thoughts are sucked soon after

Blossoming. Shattered. Smashed. Glass vases scattered in pieces about our feet.


My spirit is broken
I cannot weep
So long it has been
since I’ve had a thought
worth keeping.

The rain pours outside
a pathetic attempt
at pathetic fallacy
which could never be represented
by a thought but chill.

These fucking idiots
walking around with their heads
right up each other’s asses
doing what they’re told
and what the fucking system

We need classical music
more than ever
to block out the
and the
and the

It’s about closing,
structure, imposition,
colonization and cages.
It’s about breaking but
not buckling
under the pressure.
The weight of the world
rests solely on you.

No one asks you
how you feel.
You don’t have a fucking
Freedom is a sweet illusion
in the cold clarity
of awareness.

Why Not Wednesday?

It’s Wednesday.

I’ve had writer’s block for the past few days, and, frankly, I’m at a loss for words for what is going on in the world right now.

I have been following Anonymous on Twitter and tumblr, and I love them.

I completely believe in what they’re doing.  Where some people may see it as an act of terrorism against the government, I see it as an act of courage, of freedom.  They are standing up for what millions of people deserve and want – and, ironically, they don’t even know how much of their freedom is being stripped away from them day to day.

I just wish people would open up their eyes, and maybe be a bit more aware of what’s going on in the world.


Wednesday’s word is: awareness.

Quotes on Awareness:

“To Think and be fully alive are the same.” – Hannah Arendt

“But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. “ – David Foster Wallace

Quotes by Anonymous (writers):

“Concern should drive us into action and not into depression.”

“Be alert to give service. What counts a great deal in life is what we do for others.”

Awareness quote to think about:

“We are to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.” – Thich Nhat Hanh


Thank you to Anonymous for being the interesting highlight of my week.  Keep on hacking.  I expect it.


3 parts 


As the sun sets, my sorrow grows,
The lights are dim, and the television screens pointless shows

Aladdin’s lamp is the only one I’d currently light,
I could use a wish, and there’s no prediction for shooting stars tonight


I hate it here: the place is filled with princesses.

And a sorrow blooms in my chest.
My heart is heavy, and my head is light.

But whether I’m in love, or I’m surfing a nicotine buzz is unknown

As I breathe, smoke fills my lungs, and I feel a heaviness – a restriction in my chest –
so that I don’t feel light, but weighted.

And so my mind is.

Desire between snapping and murderous rage
at being dominated, controlled….
Or not caring….

… to not care would be a wonderful blessing.
And maybe I don’t?

My hand smells like cigarettes, and as I ball my fist,
I imagine smashing it into a face…or three.

But I hesitate – do I not want a world without violence?

So I hold my hand, and bite my tongue – so hard –
blood drips over my lips and down my chin.

There is no one to kiss away this pain. No deathly
grip or vice in which to hold and hang this thing

Held over me.


You are three parts, and still not whole.
I’ve fallen down some rabbit hole, now living like some sightless mole,
and walking over hellish burning coal so that I may play the role
of perfect person – never a troll – while I feel my withered soul
is draining away as if someone stole – without paying the toll –

My freedom; and my love: my heart.