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Who searches and listens
with open heart and a healthy
Muse, awaiting the bursting
forth of a metaphor reflecting
that in life which is soulful,
gentle, appreciative of both
nature and humanity,
loving appreciations for
justice, honesty and the milk
of human kindness, but
which arrives full blown as
a plateful of poop, accompanied
by the words “I am your mouth!.”
Taking this to heart:
“Youhavescarsonyourarm.” People sometimes approach me, whilst staring at my limb. My first and foremost reaction is to look down at my arm in fake surprise and panic, pretending I hadn’t previously realised the marks. Thank you Captain Obvious for your insightful input.
Sarcasm aside, I am more than happy to explain the cause of the raised streaks: when I can tell that a person is genuinely intrigued-and not intending to belittle me. I am comfortable with admitting that I did this to myself at low points in my life. That’s what happened. Why should I be ashamed of that?
I do not blame those who stare, or those who sneak a peek when they don’t realise that I can still see them out of the corner of my eye. It’s different. It’s human nature to feel that desire to take a second glance at the…
View original post 263 more words
She says it like it is:
It’s just a casual stroll down the street. That’s all it is.
Nothing more, nothing less.
A simple quest to buy milk, or to collect bed linen from the Laundrette’s, with no underlying intentions whatsoever. Walking along the roadside, you lean down to tie up your shoelaces, to adjust the buckle on your knee-high boots.
“Hey, Blondie. Nice tits.” The young men outside the bakery yell after you. “I would.” They turn to their mates and snigger.
They turn to their mates and tell them they want to fuck you.
You would think-or at least, hope-that in this day and age, after years of campaigning and crying outside of parliament, that we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But in a world that has appointed a self-confessed pussy-grabbing maniac as it’s head of state, I can-categorically- announce that we are: and that, as much as it breaks my soul to admit…
View original post 703 more words
When I run into my
father in heaven,
What would I do?
What should I do?
I hope he’s in heaven.
I hope I am too.
The purple skein of yarn is no more.
It has run away–
Hi ho, away I say! Away.
Sweater half begun. No one
left to don it. No one, I say!
The sink is empty, the tree
uprooted. My life? It’s
been one long improv. An
improv, I say! One two three
five–no, four, dammit! I
never did get it right, a life