before i’d said it or written it
i’d thought a lot about it
and i’d made the decision
before i’d said it or written it

it was a tough decision to make
but i didn’t see many choices before me
if i didn’t do it then
it’d have died a long drawn-out, agonizing death

i’d much preferred a quick death
not painless – when has Death been painless
for Its survivors? – but quick, at least,
and i’d chosen it

it wasn’t an easy decision to make
it was daunting and soul-numbing
but it had to be done
to avoid a death much, much worse

so i took them out for one last time
and packed them all up carefully
in the hopes that they would not
disintegrate into a fine dust of unbeing

and then i said goodbye
and laid them all to rest
locked away as deeply as possible
it was goodbye; it was for ever

i’d said it and written it
i’d finally stopped thinking about it
i’d done away with them
i’d said goodbye; it was for ever

This pair of mute lips cannot call
your name; they can only slaver,
and await your lips and touch.

Place your lips on them
and caress them with your tongue –
while they blush before, they now
burn an intense, urgent red.

A single bijou hides between
their folds, burnished with an
inner glow – yours for the taking,
an opiate to my soul.

Come,
taste me
and drink from my lips;
let your breath ignite
the smoldering flames within –

these lips may be mute, and
cannot call to you,
but they would gush

and I
would sing your name.

Thank you so much

7Kate7
Freedom
pkd

Thank you, Crazy

& Mirror

Thank you (((Mirror & Harold )))

Oh you –
Who are you?
Do I know you?
Maybe at one point
I knew you -
Maybe not.
At least not anymore.
Not now.

I don’t recognize you.
You have – must have –
Changed
A lot.
I’m not sure I
Remember you
At all.

A distant memory now -
Maybe I’d imagined it;
Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe you
Are a dream,
A dream I can’t remember.

I play god to the atheists in my head,
my proclamations of who is worthy
and who is not
falling on deaf ears
that belong to the mistresses
and masters of my soul
gorging themselves on the banquet
of my body;
I am the serf that crawls on hands and knees
picking up the gristle they spit out,
though I could be high priestess or physician
to save and heal the dying and the broken -
which is part and all
of me -

instead I find
the fist in which my heart is clenched,
the fingers that bore into my brain,
the heel beneath which my spirit writhes,
are all my own...

Not just god,
I play also judge and jury
to the murderer that I am,
and the eternal jailer of
the prisoner that is
me.

Thank you

iam4u
Harold
MsWiz

29 times in 29 ways
I have tried to reach you
29 times in 29 ways
I tried to break
through the walls that separate us

Was it 4 too few?
Was it 5 too many?

Do I continue to stand outside
pounding my fists till they are bloody?

Do I turn and walk away and
prove that you were right all along
that I would leave you eventually?

Do I wait patiently
Make no move towards you
Make no move away
In hopes that some day
some year
Some how
Some way
you will open your eyes
as well as your heart
and really see me
See that I am still here.

How many times must we play this game
How many times must we run from each other
From ourselves
From the truths that we do not wish to face

29 times in 29 ways
We failed ourselves
We failed each other
You for not giving in
Me for not letting go.

Thank you

Bill
Cav

Thank you

d4tc
Mirror
direct
Harold
pkd
Mystique

In his emerald eyes,
kindness swells
and circles
like the outer bands of a hurricane.
I stand and feel
his wind
blow hard against my face
so that when I breathe
it’s him I inhale.

If I could measure my love
for this beautiful man
it would span the distance
of a hundred galaxies
a hundred times over
and carry the power
of angry infatuation and blind faith.

If I could taste my love for him
it would be sweet
like spring honeysuckle
and linger
like the slight salt
from a
kiss goodnight.

I do not shield my
powerless form, now
drenched in the downpour
of my devotion.
He smiles
and I allow myself
to be washed away
in
this ocean of us.

In his emerald eyes,
kindness swells
and circles
like the outer bands of a hurricane.
I choose
to stand and feel
his wind
blow hard against my face
so that when I breathe
it’s him I inhale.

That's asking a lot around here.

If you stop and listen for a moment,
maybe you’d hear her silent cries
pleading with you or someone
- anyone at all -
to please pick her up, her little body
limp with sadness, crumpled in the corner,
having been discarded,
then forgotten.

She’s so sorry now that she hasn’t been
the perfect doll,
that she had sulked before when you’d
taken her out so very often to play –
she’d thought she’d collapse from wear
and tear -
but she didn’t.

And she now remembers all the
happy times and all the fun she had;
now is she sad, now does she regret
as she lies limp and crumpled
in the corner where she’d ended up,
waiting and pleading for someone –
anyone – to please pick her up.

awww...that's wonderful, hun

I
The passing hours are injuries.
We know the way time slowly
breaks bones, leaves stones in
the bed. It feeds inside the skull

then on it. The brain’s shaking
legs break first. The bat flies
and knocks that hard support.
It vibrates like a diving wasp,

fractures and snaps. Even healed,
signs of the fight remain, cracks in
the structure, a script. Walking
becomes an awkward dance of

hesitation and stuttered swings.
Even with the best repairs, the
mirror, once broken, will never
show a single face. See asymmetry

and wonder where the balance
went. Like the tremor on the
tongue during talk, these
alterations are permanent.

II
We make sounds, mouth our
“ohs” and “ahs,” pad pavement
on pointed claws and flash
our teeth at smaller creatures
as we’re taught.

We bite as we were bitten and
worry over bruises felt but
not displayed.

Notes are taken, folded
tight and stashed in
creases in the brain. Over
years they build a book

that’s only read awry.
Only the eye’s mirror can
reflect the message as it’s
meant. Only as an image
can the mind know what sent
the fist. Only the ear

that’s tuned to bear the notes
can hear them. Only the throat
in wordless moan can tell us
the color of camouflaged wounds.

Thank you

pkd
Mom
(((H)))

Don’t we
actors play along?
Don’t we dance to songs
on and off the stage? When
the ball is thrown we bark and
fetch. We catch and in turn are caught.
We sneer at strangers near the fence, eagerly
lap at praise for our obedience. Faces are painted.
Bulbs get hot. Yet tonight another show is shot. We
don’t believe in fate. We’re ready but our timing’s off. We
wait. We wait. We wait.

I know this much, my place
my world, bare naked
always open to rejections
but nevertheless
I live to hope

can you, would you
casually remember to inquire
how I am doing
can you see
from the other side of a mirror
an old version of me
reflected in you?

not knowing was
your excuse. you tore your own soul-
turned it into scraps
pieces that cannot, would not
fit together anymore

my heart burnt with bitter tears
at the thought of you
lost in someone else's arms
bearing not a single part of yourself
or me

someday you'd wake up
and realize what part of you existed
then you will see
I am still inside you
hoping, waiting
for you

… oh, I suppose you get used to it.
Yeah … you will, sooner or later,
and then it won’t matter anymore –
you stop noticing it.

Actually, I think it’s good;
being on your own is good for you –
it builds character.

What – finding a partner?
Oh no …

I don’t think about that anymore.
I mean, I’m so used to being on my own,
you know?
I think I’d have a hard time adjusting
to having a constant companion.

I’m used to caring for myself.
Besides, I don’t think I have
the capacity to care for
someone else.

Honest.