When two or more come together, there are more gods

Leaning and listening is the art I have chosen to despair. I hear the cry before it falls and I contain the loss of what seems to be unfound. I continue to hear the tissue wrapped in the hand of the pain that scars but has not healed. The sound of whips that screech beneath the laughter, the nails that have been left from the cross that is necessary to bear. "How long?" he asks. " We despise the swim of saturation and some call it a sin. So to rebuke such comforting thought I too become a sinner of revelation. I have only one visitor . I only invite one and if there are more than two then I will scratch your curious eyelids and show you only god. I will fluff out my skirt and begin to dance away to a place you surely will not join. Pillars of pain is my space of work and I don't like the uninvited massacre of opinion. If you are offended then perhaps you too were not on the invite list.

knocking and running away.......

I regret to inform you that I have taken leave from my unfamiliar to familiar. My hands hurt to write as my breast would do the same to feed my babes. Two years it has been my friend and we still share the same kindred spirits. I miss our time we sat and discuss Gwendolyn's decision to be better and let him go. I am unable to let go of such mystery but yes feeling restless enough to begin a new journey. I can hear the wind chiming my call as the smell of the weeds surrounding my dreams. It's bit dark but I know your shadow and I will follow. I will be brave and trample my doubt, the screams , the chanting that makes me scream back. I shall not yield anymore to contemplation and I will no longer associate with those lies of flattery. I have return for awhile but if I disappear , you too know my shadow.

Recycled filth goes in the trash...........

Reader it has been awhile as we have sat and discuss my filth and danced in the muse of inspired writings. My path has been detoured in the much knowing and knowing of one's way to find her way back. I sit here with water, food and no friend to walk on a road I have avoided many generations. I struggle as an infant looking for the womb that has beaten me out leaving me to fend for myself. I am grateful and full of simplicity , something I despised awhile back. I am a dog who has learned not to return to one's vomit and have been cleansed by the only spirit I wish to blow candles for and remember that this season of leaves falling, windy chimes, and cloudy thoughts are my own to hide and dwell in the magnificence of just being. Somedays I remember the chair I sat in and the people I spoke to , healed and hurt, and I know that the chair is being saved to pounce another soul. I have been dismissed, replaced, and hopefully forgotten as I am redeemed with cake , fried chicken and only a memory of what I was doing. Some ask "What are you doing?" I smile and chuckle knowing I sat there asking the same question and learning the answer is a four year old puzzle that has found it's piece.

"Prozac Please, Why thank you for you kind words."

something has visited in me and rested. it's uncomfortable and restless, I am aggitated. Tears continue to flow and I ask for my own therapist to visit. My failings appear to have been highlighed in a day and i dont appreciate it. I dont honor because the pain upsets my stomach and I am ready to cry. what am i , what have i done, have i chosen a field in which i get paid to hear sorrow, crap, and then to sulk in my own. So depressed they say and yes I gleam, I am depressed. Therapists get sad, depressed, and what's worse is we recognize it before others spending minutes tempting to recall "remember when" I dont know who I must be to unravel the part that screams I am not okay. Dont worry I will be, just give me an hour or so, thats about how long I can tolerate borrowed pain, including mine.

Forgetting to push brake

Today I sit still in a defacating space of filth , dishonor, and loveless. I ask and wonder how boats sail here and survive the unspoken, the fearful, the beaten. I am not like them, I am them . I celebrate that i havent forgotten and sit here waiting for the next beating. Everything is heavy yet I could fly easily to a big city and dwell between the freeway. I am hungry but my mouth hurts from the insult , my internal injury. water continues to flow down the faucet in which i have no knowledge to stop. a waisted drop that hurts my ears and haunts me to bed. There is no crying, there is no tissue, just a dollar sitting in a can for the beggars to honor, be grateful and lose insight on the road that led them astray. Chicken Chorizo numbs the sting temporarily and my bat lays on the gravel, never won. There is someone I want to talk to but doors are shut counting the minutes before ones life can begin. sitting here waiting anxiously for my long over due spanking , wanting to blow the bubbles of truth, but scared to, just like them. My apple has fallen far from the tree to a neighborhood of liars and protectors, so I remain attached to the knowing. I am unable to speak, to heal, to listen, to whisper, I am a therapist sitting in a room of ones own with no chair, no light, my legs cross waiting for Wedsnday to pass so I can vomit on thier triumph, another child.

THe Sharing Vagina

Love your body I say, I sit here holding my saggy breast to nourish and wait for someone I do not know, yet created. Play with the rolls of thunder that lie beside your waist and remind yourself , indulgence can be a reminder of what we dont want. stride with the veins that pop out as you pick up your child and hold him near caressing his father's son. Such a simple way of knowing, I want to stay and be remembered. I want to decline the waves of seducing rewards and stay near to what is less frightfull but yet hard.

The devil with many shoes.....

She must suffer for your beauty, another woman says to her daughter. Early years, her shoes matched her bow and now she continues to match, copy and paste herself to you , me and mythology. Raise our hands to the mythology of who is beautiful and who is not, who truely cares and who cannot care to save her life. The images continue to rape the babies and leave them there to fend for themselves. I wonder where I am , 32, and wanting my breast continue to nourish, my womb still vacant. What a scrumptious thought in not caring and moving forward, never looking backward for that trendy jacket. "For I know the plans I have for you..." He says and i eagerly ask what of them and when shall i hold content candles that never stop burning and wont leave me hungry, only to have a rice cake with some water. What I really want is a creamy americano with 6 ,no I mean 7 raw sugars... and to sit where the breeze compliments my skirt, and my skin glows simply out of happineess. I shall say to be that breed is to breathe air and fill loves, secure and attached to the nature of what lies and what is true. What is me and what is you? I sit back listening to another tear, regret, a sorrow , and I ask , still, " Was this the right choice for me? AM I to sit here for the rest of my years and hear the bird not chirp, yet tell the other , there is sound, there is hope, there is rest. I ask earnestly shall I sit here today and feel pretty , feel beauty within or shall I rescind my wear and wish to go home and change in an image of something I can never buy, and yet I pretend.