Slaughtered Heart

All I know about love

is that it hurts.

It left me wounded.

It left me harsh.

It left me burdens.

It left me scars.

It taught me lessons.

It taught me distrust.

It showed me agony.

It showed me too much.

It used to drive me, inspire, renew.

It used to be what I thought

would see me through.

It’s as dead as the night-

grazing black Angus cows

below a McDonald’s billboard

in the dead center of…




In her youth, by her father’s side,

with bold fearlessness

she rode every roller coaster ride.

She explored the wilderness,

climbed up knolls and hills,

splashed over rapids,

crashed bumper car thrills.

She jet-skied once,

swam in swift rivers & eerie lakes,

threw herself into crashing waves

with fewly took breaks.

She galloped windy horsetrails,

slid down curving water slides,

rode on antique train rails,

sat backwards in classic car rides.

Curious charisma with hawk-eye vision,

she tried anything once,

always on her own decision.

Her father encouraged and nurtured her smile,

yet her mother stagnated her identity, all the while.

Shy from fear to express,

her discouraged creativity

developed into a mess.

Her curiosity grew odd, too weird, too strange

for her mother to accept her wide interest range.

Resentment, jealosy, spitefulness, pride

maternally stifled a child who was learning to stride.

Now she is me: A grown woman in heart–

struggling, aching, trying to make

something of this life I did not want to take.

Worded worrier,
Wounded warrior,
Wearisome womanhood.
Hope’s in the noose,
hanging from the
metaphorical Alliteration Tree.
Patience produces prosperity?
Gentleness guides graciousness?
Love lengthens life?
All I hear are realism sighs
asking surreal why’s.
Trying to normalize after
tsunamis of trauma…
like asking “When will my
posthumous reputation begin?
After I actually have one to leave behind?”

​Joy when in good spirit–

Blessed of rare & radiant merit,

Yet how emotion’s vulnerable transience

fades to waves of whimsical annoyance.

Everyday is another day to breathe

struggles through nonstop learning.

Daily demands of hyperflexibility 

exhaust heart, weaken agility.

Without bonds who make life a living,

Life is a socially challenged aching–

Articulating the tip of an iceburg.

Who’s arctic enough to dive deep?

What does one do on the birthday of the departed?

Visit matted grass beds. Pick decaying flowers.

Set the wise stone between the marker and the earth.

Significant of somber reverance.

Heart is drowning under pressure, tension of torment.

Her eyes, heavy, cascade more tears like slow raindrops down milky glass,

blurring optical fractals of bent light into vision.

Is there one who sees nurturing she cannot see?

One who can offer what she needs?

Where are her archetypes? Who’s archetype is she?

So fearful, hesitant of opening up, being wrong,

doing inappropriate, speaking out of place…

Correct to seek reassurance?

Feels like no hope of progression.

Aching stagnancy, restrictive stillness.

Sees she limits herself, but knows not the way out of injured intelligence.

Why is Her blessing unrecognized?

So sorrowful to her heart ; many could benefit if a leader were wise.

Yet, still, bleak pervasiveness: drear and gloomy on a vibrant day; sunshine–wasted.

Is her melancholy palpitating echo felt in the hearts of men?

Weakness abounding fragile essence arms.

Frailty, vulnerable, destitution of purpose.

Meandering, wandering soul is she of excruciating loneliness.

Yearning for an end with no more pages…

Hope of love –now amputated,

depravity stricken arteries of anguished moans unceasing;

her release of profuse agony in barren sectors of love reciprocal,

unknown compatible caring.

Return her soul into the hands of the Lifeforce Giver.

Happy Birthday

Shell-thumping spiral coils, vitamin-pens, blue heron-pigeon-geese feathers, meek confidence coughing sinus congestion, mediocre mild illness meditating oriental fans, crimson curtains, geometric carpets, and sandstone masonry bricking my mortar of Italian sitar angels singing lovingly unto ornamental Vietnamese elephants. And Aloe Vera's on Veda Vikings' far fowls for barnacles, love doves, starfish, and the AF-1 times Eleven is one plus one.
 Then, philosophical spazz-outs, missing identity,
 neurochemical existentialism, and asking questions? HOT Monamine Oxidase Inhibitors herbally, orally, transdermally. Black lacquered magnetic masturbation, nerve sensitivity, mirrored marveling mesmerized tear drops on a popsicle like supple skin contact in contract of mind breath breathing surrealistic nonsense to realistic clear sense while the dissipation of windshield condensation, foggy glasses, flower dew, and asphalt steam evaporate into cumulous cloud particles, rainbows, and the air you breathe.

Surrealistic Transcendentalism

I have not the strength to carry the world upon my shoulders, but only the strength to tend to each day’s affairs as they come.

I have not the knowledge to solve all of my problems, but only the knowledge to know this.

I have not the identity to be anyone but my self, even as much as I still do not know her.

I have not the drive to move mountains, but the drive to walk plateaus alone.

I have not the love to change the world, but the love to change my self.

I have not the wisdom to understand the future, but the hindsight to clarify the past.

I have not the means to reach anyone’s heart, but the flexibility to harness my own.

I have not the breath to persuade anyone, but the breath to capture my own faith.

I have not the sight to see why I suffer, but the sight to see suffering is part of everything.

The End is the Beginning