Simple Hate

Self-hatred is a bitter pill to swallow.
The mirror a nemesis.
The body- a cell.

Ah Hell

Searching for a link,
something to take my mind anywhere.
I click and scan ...
waiting, hoping.
But the fact is simple.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
I'm not going to find myself in someone else's quote.
There is no lasting peace in fleeting pictures.
Pretending to feel something-
being nothing at all.

Leave me be

Very few things give me peace like closing my eyes.
Cloistering one of my senses so easily, with two flimsy slips of skin.
Step one in shutting out the worries of the world.
Or maybe just the people.
But, add a pair of headphones encapsulating my ears,
and I've very nearly found nirvana.
Sounds of choice, not only loud enough to hear-
but flooding me.

Duct Tape

Anti depressants are duct tape over a broken pipe.
You can't fix the leak, you just staunch the flow.
So the house is still flooding, soaking everything slowly.

Every piece of cloth must be wrung dry,
and you say to use the dryer, but it's shorted out.
Pictures disintegrate and papers become mush.

Nothing is safe in this house.
The water will keep rising.
And no pill can stop it.

Always tilting

Life is big and bold,
a fantastical adventure
brimming with possibilities!
Unless you're broken.

Afraid to be big or too bold-
afraid to be nothing at all.
And you become mediocre.
So it goes.

The world moves on without you,
birth and death, the planet still spins.
You're like a watcher,
feeling the tilt.

Dreaming doesn't stop though.
Hopes and desires still burn in the depths.
You remember being someone.
Once long ago.

Totaling

Why is everyday the same day?
Sleepless nights
have become comatose days.
Hours drag by, sometimes they fly ...
time and date lose meaning.
A glance over my shoulder
could be sun or moon
and neither would bring surprise.
Perhaps time is not the variable
we should be concerned with.
Let's count in smiles,
or tally tears.
Imagine a world where we base the worth of our day-
on the sum our love.
It would feel like more.
Sensation, experience, emotion-
will number my days.
And it will make all the difference.

I made something of myself

Today is the book signing.
I will try to sell my soul in little books ...
and if no one buys it-
what does that mean?

I will give away tiny cards,
embossed with my name.
They will lead you here-
and what will it all mean?

A step further into the light.
The moonlight, the sunlight-
maybe the limelight.
It could mean something.

Reality

If you were real,
I’d meet you in January.
From that moment,
we’d be inseparable.
I would tell everyone,
“I never expected it.”
And it would be true.

If you were real,
we’d be madly in love.
Without a doubt,
you would be cherished.
I would tell everyone,
“I’m so very lucky.”
And I would mean it.

Seen and Unseen

Strange how embarrassing it can be
wanting to be a part of something.
The heat of me is overwhelming,
cheeks like smoldering coals.
Do I want to be recognized-
or forgotten?
Anxiety tells me to remain hidden-
but a need to be seen bubbles through.
How can I express the emotions at war?
Heart palpitations seem to do the trick.
I feel out of place and alone-
I am afraid.
But why?
What lies behind this fear?
Who will I become when it swallows me?
I will be left with nothing.

Express

My age is the separation and
distinction between,
who I am-
who I should be.
They see clothes,
hairstyles, and makeup-
but never see me.
Numbers don’t quantify self expression.
Over 10,000 days
in my mind,
my skin-
I barely know the truth.
How could you?

Despite

Our worth comes from within. Not by the color of our hair, our eyes, or our skin.
The faults of our ancestors are not who we are. I am a torn soul of German and Polish descent, British and Native American … the choices of my ancestors should have ripped the idea of my existence into dissipating shreds of ether.
The people of my past are not me. But I can embrace my heritage and celebrate who it has created.
I will proudly stand up and say, despite adversity amongst peoples, despite hatred, war, greed, destruction, and death - I am here.

I choose love.
I choose peace.
I choose to give of myself to others.
I choose restoration and creation.
I choose life.

I am not a color.
I am not a place on a map.
I am not a religion.
I am not a style.
I am not a book or the words of another person.

Who I am and my worth?
The sum of -my- choices.

Don't tell my son who to love

The idea that female characters are not marketable to boys is idiotic and sexist. Yes, it is. You are off the bat assuming that because the child has a penis between its legs that it prefers guns, trucks and absolutely nothing resembling the color pink.
It would be just as stupid to tell a girl that she can't like male characters. Oh but wait- society pushes all of us to admire the male characters.
All main characters deserve the limelight. Black widow action figures shouldn't be a problem. The entire cast of Big Hero 6 on bedsheets- why is that a problem!?
The majority rules aspect of marketing is skewed and rather than giving children what they want, is telling children what they should want. 

Fuck that.