Another Broken Pencil

Cold tile can be a comfort

Soft pillows can be a hell

And thrusting can be righteous

And sanctioned by the holy Lord

And celebrated by our smiling mother

And it can be unholy and condemned

The cruel thrusting of brutal men

The gentle caress of malicious women

One is heaven, the other is not



Roses can be a hideous sight

So often a rose means love

Romantic love, prospective love, familial love

As often as it means a condolence

Beauty to replace love?

Impossible, a mistake the young and rich make.

I am a fool so my love is not bound by convention

Seemingly no bounds at all, not even capacity

But fickle, the pounding river of my desire

It flows in disregard for the silly plans

Of the mice and men, of the blades of grass naming a home



I worship the smoke and each minute of life.

The fool. But please, no wine.

It gives me a hangover

And makes me the town-drunk

A role that I was not meant to fill this time around.

I am flower power, worship the hour

I have the obnoxious minority mouth

That prays for –peace in this violent predatory planet

People call me naïve

In the pompous upper class place I inhabit

I know the pains of poverty, drug, insanity

I have been swallowed whole into depression

I have risen as a phoenix to a bright mania

I have spent a year laughing amongst those

Who laughed too although they always managed to feel a little differently



Enough about me more about you

I piece the broken together with glue.

I like to build bridges in your brain

To abandon illogic to travel to Sane

I am mad, this is true. It is biology,

Probability, it is ancestral,

Passed down from mind to mind

It is the reason I don’t want children

But it is part of me.

My body is a temple

So I worship my disability too

I pay tribute to the paranoid poets,

Wandering writers, those who scribble furiously

Till their pencils break at half past two in the morning

They find another and scribble till the light of day breaks through the window

And the illusions are broke

And truth lies on the paper.



I pieced myself together again with glue.

Enough about me, more about you.



To be a female, mad, and poet.

To long for ropes and tides.

To wish for waves to wipe away everything

A family tradition

To dangle

Or cut

Or swallow

To snort and to smoke

These traditions I abandon, accepting the sounds of another life

We are always haunted by the abuses of our forefathers

Those who struck, and those who were struck.

My days are smiles and laughs

Northern weather and college folk

Foliage, food, take a toke, read and write, dance and sing

“You are capable of anything”

A life of frivolity, granted to me

By god or chance, I know not which

But I thank the lord and return offering

I honor the Mother for the holy gift

And perhaps my life bears little resemblance to those I have known.

Those dark artisans that I batted my eyelashes at

Those timebombs that spent their life away

Indulging in one pleasure or another

They shut their books and danced with demons

And I do love artists, and I do love to dance.

I do not look like suburbia, or namebrand,

I live outside of time, so I cannot be modern

I am nothing like the people on the television,

Or my nearly normal aunt. I am an anomaly.

I live by a code

Worship your body, live your life,

Bless the ground, lessen strife

It is truth that made me happy when I was poor

It is truth that made me happy now that I’m rich

Abandon your ignorance and tear down the walls

You’ll find you can see farther.