Enablers Cook for the Addiction

Cooking their veins with skinny topped
Spoonfuls of synergy;
They don’t mind sharing, just give them yours
And they’ll start the daily communion.
Serve the daily bread
Liquidated here to powder and heat
The fumes arise, water your eyes

Your lips are dry, chapped, neglected and
Ignored as your whispers and incantations
Rise like incense with the smoke and taint.
Your eyes twitch like an epileptic in a seizure,
A true believer to worship and adore.
Leave your money, your family;
Sacrifice your soul
For just one more…

They huddle around the single lighter’s flame,
They shove their salvation into the fire.
The tongues licking the bottom of their metallic spoons;
Their prayers ascending,
Their minds descending
Into animalistic intent and single-minded focus.

On cue.
One two.
You ingest the poison and powder your soul
Vomiting intent and diluted integrity
To consume all hopes in you
To inject the sorrow and despair into your veins
Cooking your brain, fry your sanity
For mere moments of delusion.

Why is the motto:
Fight over smack,
Share a needle?
Such irony.

Cooking their veins with sugar topped, artery-clogged
Spoonfuls of resentment;
They don’t mind taking, just give them yours
And they’ll start the daily consumption.
Serve the daily bread and butter
Baked here to confection and fat-frosted
Scents that waft and dry your eyes

Your lips are dry, chapped, neglected and
Ignored as your whispers and incantations
Rise like incense with the fryer steam and smoke.
Your hands shake like a diabetic in a candy store,
A true believer to worship and adore.
Leaving your dignity, and your happiness;
Sacrifice your soul
For just one more…

They huddle around the overladen buffet table,
They shove their hands into the platters.
Their tongues licking the bottom of their metallic spoons;
Slobbering over grasping fingers even as
Their guilt arises,
Their disgust bubbles forth
Into depressed intent and dissipated resolution.

On cue.
One two.
You ingest the confection and smother your soul
In butter, sugar, pastries and gradual death,
Vomiting intent and diluted integrity
To consume all hopes in you;
To swallow the sorrow and despair into yourself,
Drown your body’s voice, and destroy your health
For mere moments of escapism.

Why is the motto:
Fight over snacks,
Share a scale?
Such irony.


Demon in Disguise

I’ve caught myself an angel,

No more to fly away;

Grounded to the solid earth,

No more to soar on high.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

I ripped off her glossy wings;

Now she is one of us

Earth bound beings.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

Isn’t she divine?

She is beautiful and graceful,

An exotic bird on arm.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

That refuses to leave my side;

She pines if I leave her long,

Tightly grasps my sleeve.

I’ve caught myself an angel,

For me she trades the sky;

The outer realms of space and flight,

Heaven, cosmos, and universe.

I’ve caught myself an angel, Mother,

I cannot give her up;

It is very hard to tell, mother,

Who is a slave to whom.

An angel has caught myself,

She’ll never let me go;

No matter how far I run,

In chains, she drags me back.

An angel has caught myself,

Now I’m trapped in this snare;

How could I have ever known,

That one’s possessions can also possess?

An angel has caught myself,

She stole my budding wings;

I couldn’t leave her if I tried,

She’ll go and hunt me down.

An angel has gotten a hold of me,

Now we breed discontent;

I am tied to her, she is tied to me,

One great happy family.

An angel has gotten a hold of me,

Resentful she has been;

I am punished for my sins,

She taunts me to atone.

An angel has got a hold of me, mother,

She will not let me go;

It was good while it lasted, mother,

But now we live in hell.

The Perfect Model

Gazing through the wall of glass,
As the viewers stare and pass;
The perfect model of serenity,
Hiding the inner heart’s tragedy.
The perfect little angel,
Isn’t she sublime?
The passersby ignore the jail
That locks her in her mind.

The invisible chains that bind
The restrictions on her life,
The person that she is is trapped inside;
Inner turmoil, ragging strife.

Unbetrayed by the grinning face,
The pasted smiles and double lies;
The jokes that hide that hidden place,
That inner closet where the soul cries.

Inside her mind she’s screaming,
Her silent heart is bleeding;
At midnight she’s weeping,
A battle of wills competing.

Although the glossy lips are sealed,
The iron bars can’t hold her soul within;
Soon her concealed secrets will be revealed,
Now others can fault her secret sins.

Wherever she turns there’s a wall,
A detour to a dead end stage;
She’s a slave to others’ beck and call,
A jilted bird in a gilded cage.

Banging on the unyielding walls,
Leaning against the glass;
Waiting for the grim reaper’s call,
Blood dripping off the lance.

She left behind a final plea,
“My heart none can ever disgrace;
The world will always hate me,
Who cares about saving face?”

Identity #1.1: Beauty… Eyes… What’s a Nude Palette?

Within the past few weeks, I’ve been investing serious thought into definitions of “gender”. I define gender as the persona displayed on the outside, to reflect one’s inner identification with characteristics that a society or culture may attribute to a specific sex (specifically male or female).

Continue reading Identity #1.1: Beauty… Eyes… What’s a Nude Palette?

Candor: Not every day is the same

Some days are a great time to be alive. The sun shines, the birds sing, and I float on wings that sparkle. I feel great. No, I feel freaking awesome: like I imagine Bruce Wayne does, when the sun comes up, and he removes his mask, and the bruises are badges proving that he vanquished evil, accomplished something that changed one life -or many.

I feel as though I could go to Vegas, and every number I play would win, every stock I choose would spike, every lottery ticket I own will reveal the magic number. On these amazing days, nothing can faze me, my favorite tracks will randomly play despite the usually unreliable shuffle feature on my player, the bus driver will smile and nod back when I say “Good morning” and work will feel like a joy. Smile stretching across my face like the colorful flutter of scarves in the sun, I will strut out the front door, through the elevator, and into my cubicle like I am walking the stage toward an audience even Eminem would be jealous of.

Everything I touch turns to gold, my art is beautiful and I find the perfect notes to my songs on the first try. Every word spills like honey onto my computer screen, deliciously exhumed. No shade on my day, nothing can erase the beauty I see, no evil word can destroy my glow, and frankly, no idiot I encounter can slur my mood.


And some moments, it kicks up a notch. Invincibility. Everything I do or say becomes perfect. Is perfect. Laying on the frosting on cake with care and precision, and my hands are steady as a surgeon. Floating versus walking, confident and cool, like the epitome that immediately sways the world. The rush, the rush!! Pure and sweet, untainted by artificial chemicals, or mind altering outside influences, no this must be even better than such immersions.

This is what sipping the elixir of joy must taste like.

These are the good days, the great days.

The days everyone comes to expect of me, because they occur so frequently. Life is good to me -not perfect, but good. These are the better days.

But there are those days.

Days of rare and spontaneous darkness. Dark in epic proportions, that within my tiny existence, snuffs the light, that usually blazes, and shrinks that inferno to a pin-prick before winking it out. Effort seems meaningless, every step becomes a drag. Liking swimming with weights in the ocean at night, but I am not swimming. Swimming would imply effort.

I am not swimming, I’m sinking, drowning, uncaring, still.


It’s almost like rebirth, except in regression for instead of being born, I’m squishing back into a womb, and I hold myself within spindly arms and withered limbs. With a sinkhole in my chest, as I drain out, like sand in an hour glass, but the grains slip away into nothing. Vibrancy dies, color expires, a funeral pal on the day which may not rain or overcast, but might as well have been.

Imagination and musings, like bare cold fingers of leafless trees, clawing at the sky, or the musty dirt of the sepulcher. Scratching at layers suddenly too tight, at wrappings that stifle and suffocate, twisting in a grave of expectations and a coffin of rigidity. Can the tree that falls be heard?

Sometimes the day descends into a figurative night. Labels, like tape over lips, steal my voice, and the screams in my throat remain unheard. Similar to the aftershock of a nuclear blast, the silent stillness, the slight ring in the ears, when even yelling becomes the flapping of lips, and desperate expressions a horrid pantomime.

Then the violence absent in the days, visit my dreams…

Some days are good, many are great, few are dark. All that I wish, is that at the end, the tally of good outweighs bad. Not on average, but on sheer median: that the count or values for dark remain the min, and light remains maximized.

Because the shadows never lasts and the dark fades. With a tip of the scales, the dawn reminds me, once again, that the pendulum sways, and that the contrast allows me to be even more appreciative of the little details, like the brave bloom of a flower in the frigid dune of snow.

The darkness never lasts.

I believe in the dawn.

Thanks to "they" who encourage me to hit "publish" and light candles on my path.

Why I can’t stand Rom-Coms

Possible spoilers regarding B&B (Beauty and the Beast) tv show on CW. 
Dunno, the term "spoilers" have a broad range definition these days, might as well give you a heads up. 
Aaaand, this should be fine under "free usage" for "review purposes" (hey, "youtube" burned me well, so I cover my bases).

Actually, I should title this, “Why I despise strongly dislike Rom-Coms” aka Romantic Comedies.

Continue reading Why I can’t stand Rom-Coms

Of Steeples and Lambs

These eyes open wide still see but a fraction,
This face blank and mobile displays the soul;
Dark and craven, this heart sluggishly beats,
The resounding prayer of sullen defeat,
This traitorous depiction of loneliness toll.

We bend our backs to the will of “God”,
Bearing our crosses, weighed by our sins;
We face your glory, our inadequacy proclaimed
By your holy representatives left behind, who bear your cross
As a symbol of belief, to beat our backs
Bloody and raw, the imprint of cross in stripes of condemnation.

We scream and pray, and beg to be shown the way,
Yet somehow the rains of blessing are withheld
In favor of fire and brimstone, fire and death;
The soothing promised was mere inflammation,
The care sought was pure defamation;
Beating down on already bended knee,
Forcing complete and agonizing surrender to pitiless One.

Face down degradation to torture flesh with tortured soul,
Delight in ripping apart the fragile bindings that kept men whole;
The glee that forced the beggar’s hand,
The voices that drive wise men mad,
Knowingly struggle and confine and bind,
Now broken inside, peace no longer can find
The fragments of once glorious abode;
Trampled by impervious One –cold

Heartless cruel master.

Enough with the Blanket Terminology!!!

There is a reason I will not engage my parents in conversation regarding economy or the government. I refuse to dialogue with -dare I say- obnoxious individuals who enjoy arguing politics for the sake of arguing politics. And I positively forbid myself from engaging in one-way-arguments dialogue regarding religion in the presence of religious fanatics.


Continue reading Enough with the Blanket Terminology!!!