Word after word, clause stacked on clause. Hoping to touch delicate ear and lend a heart pause. Ever reaching out, with turn of phrase or longing verse. Let me stir your mind. See me first. Allegory, allusion, and alliteration. Paint a picture of want. Masking desperation. Like a thief in the night, literary devices are the messenger dove. Delivering, hope, desire, broad strokes of love. With devices in tow, I can weave a world of hope and euphoric sighs. One that may move delicate hearts, and bring smiles to shining eyes. Where is the wordsmiths muse? For all of the flowery bouquets and whimsical dreams, why is his world so tattered at the seams? Where is the muse to light the way? To bring light and meaning to the words, instead of another device and something to say?

I miss the flat lands of my youth. I live in a valley. Mountains shelter me from most bad weather. Which I guess is nice, but once I lived. My father refused to let his future men fear anything. If a fear was voiced, you can bet the next thing you encountered would be just that thing. Strange twisted man, himself deathly afraid of heights, would scale a 40' tree with child in tow. I blame him for a lot, but I have to give the devil his due as well. We lived in the low foothills of NC. No natural shelter from storms like my current valley. When a storm hit you felt it in all it's glory, and my father loved storms. Where some huddled their family close inside during a heavy thunder storm, my father took us out on the porch to observe the wind, rain, and crashing lightening. It was one of the few things we did as a family. Early on, I honestly didn't get it, but looking back, in those moment's he lived. He seemed at ease, and there was a glow about him. Later as my life started to take it's own shape, I caught myself one day thinking 'this is right.' Not a huge epiphany, but I was at the river standing 30' out on a dock during a huge electrical storm. It wasn't the first time I'd been there, nor was it the first time in a storm. I came there often when my heart was heavy and aching, and always during a storm. In that loud blustering storm, with it's chilling rain, and crashing lightening, everything else melted away. It wasn't an adrenaline rush or thrill ride. My storms were the place where my mind, my heart, my being could relax. Everything I could possibly think or feel was over shadowed by the storm. A logical mind would worry about life, but those thunder storms gave me life. When the world weighed so heavy I couldn't breathe, I ventured out into the storm and I lived.

Not sure if it was real, or the concussion but I saw the loveliest thing (second of course to you lovelies). I was a rainbow by all traditional terms save one. It was this sphere high up in the sky. No trail in or out, just a lovely rainbow ball in the sky.

Anyone can fuck. It's easy enough. Take this piece and that and slam together repeatedly. While not without its own merits, can you touch? Can you move fingertips so lightly that, while you question if contact is even made, knees are weakening and pulses are rising? With a simple caress, can you stir hearts, minds, and loins? Can you, with a soft gaze, or turn of phrase lift hearts and set minds soaring? Can you kiss so softly that worlds stop, time stands still, and right is found? Can you, in a moment, for a moment touch?

I came home at 2p with a few supplies for the larder. We are in the middle of an ice storm, so my jeep is basically coated in 1/4" of ice. I open the lift gate and go to extract supplies from the back, and WHAM the edge of the gate finds the top of my head. 12 hrs later I wake up. I've put the groceries away, made diner and even adjusted thermostat (evidently I was cold).

I've been down this road before. I'm not sure I have ever loved you, but I know I do not now. I should you know, because if I don't. Then who will? Every time I find an ember of caring, you find the perfect way to extinguish it. You are capable of doing so many things and doing them quite well. Yet you cry out to be seen while pushing yourself into the background. How can one so intentionally invisible, bemoan the fact that they are unnoticed? This is your best role, a sad broken down shell who cries over the past? Of all the things you have attempted in your past, the only thing you have truly failed at was ending it. So another weak, whiny poem, another poorly written song about despair and loss. Why not. It's what we do after all. We love. We hope. We dream. We watch as it falls apart at the seams. We pray for the end to come, and curse God because he wont put us down. So, here we are on this road again. I'm so tired of this road. I've seen it so often it's become meaningless. If it has no meaning, then why are we here? Just so you will know. I have turned of the auto pilot. If you plan to crash, you will have to do it for yourself. We are done following the preprogramed course. We are done simply following this road to its end. Drive into a ditch. Drive into a pole. Do what you will, but this time you take the wheel and control your fate. It doesn't end here. It never has before. We will see this road again, but for this time and the ones that follow, you will watch out the window as you drive on by.

*disclaimer: all of the pills are accounted for. all of the blades are blood free. I am not in a mood, or a state. I simply struck by the news of another passing, and decided to vocalize it here. Maybe in some way arguing with myself is therapy.

over soft subtle flesh, fingertips glide
a phantom touch sealing breath inside
for a breathless moment frozen in space
a phantom touch, a lovers embrace
impulses that stoke this inferno's blaze
a phantom touch, a euphoric haze

So, I'm sitting in the parking lot when you pull in beside me. We are on friendly enough terms, so I see another tortured soul setting off to work and smile. I watch you pull in beside me. Evidently, I'm invisible, as is my Jeep. Twenty minutes before work starts, not only do you open your door into mine, but you also do it so hard it rocks me inside the Jeep. My initial reaction was to chuckle, but you didn't even bother to look. Granted its a little 1" parking lot bruise, but you couldn't be bothered to even inspect your damage? So, my chuckle vanished much the same way your side mirror has. The good news is that I'm no longer upset, and you can buy a replacement for $40 on Amazon.

What is the difference between peanut butter and jam?


You can't peanut butter your cock into someone's ass.

Merry Christmas beautiful people, and goblin. I hope the season brought you the things you need.