This is a political satire rant of a poem.
No white cis gendered men need apply

No black macho men either

No republican gay people apply

you’re not even alive

You know what only women allowed here

No matter how you identify

No natural health anti vaccers

No climate deniers

That means don’t question reality

in case I needed to clarify

No Israel defenders
No American veterans

and no police wives

no none of you need apply

girls and boys separate

starting early now

protect the girls from the patriarchal state

Black and whites separate

They’ll let you out when the time is right

Whenever they need some tension
To cause a fight

Any one that questions this

sit down and be quiet

No Christians

No Jews

No Amish

no preachers
and no home schooled teachers

No God fearing philosophical people here
No libertarian politics here
You blasphemers, hate mongers and stoners
line up to be stoned

 

no cisgendered white men apply
no no cisgendered men need apply

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Undressed

I’m so tired
here at the end of this year
this year of mourning

denied and repressed

until I cried alone

and alone I undressed

I’m so tired
the end of this year of failed starts
classes that were endured
in a high healing smoke
friends and family  that isolate me
in their righteous fist waving
look me in the face and call me those names

I guess the more we try to prove

the more we stay the same
becoming what we hate
and the hate just breeds more hate
and accuses the other of the same
and it just gets louder
until alone you cry
and alone you get dressed

and we can put on faces
and we can take up causes
but in that mirror of our anger

we still face the last laugh
in our sad but true nakedness

as we raise our righteous fists
and rot in our pride

and hang ourselves on our lies

I’m so tired
tired of these petty sins

that get shoved in our faces again and again

give me my pipe and my paper
and let me see my friends

take your arguments
for they will always be there

take your words that cut

because one day you’ll see the people in between the lines

take all the support only love could give

and then slap me with the time that remains

like some kind of retrograde

take all the support and use it like a soapbox

point your finger and preach
yes…because we become what we hate
and eventually hate what we become

and one day you will be alone

while you are coming undone

and I’m tired

at the end of the year of transitions
I didn’t even get to welcome the change
since all the anti shame warriors then felt the need to shame
so go get on your soap box and leave me be
hand me my pipe and free the weed

because in this circle the real life doers are still getting along

understanding life and love and peace

and we don’t put on faces
and we don’t take up causes
that mirror nothing but the oppressor

and we know who has the last laugh
on the last days of all of our age

when we mirror what we hated

when we face what we run from

when we undress
alone

 

 

 

 

 

Yellow Butterfly/A true story

That love of mine

he loved the butterflies

floating off to the other side

that love of mine

was trying so hard

to get his wings

and in the months later

I kept asking why
why my love wouldn’t tell me bye

was there nothing for me
and I kept looking for my butterflies

that love of mine

Walking along the side

and there was this yellow butterfly

working its way across the concrete

crippling along it’s way

I let him in my hand
and cried about what to do

where to place him for his quiet struggle

and like a miracle he took off

in some beautiful flight

oh… I remembered

and laughed for the free light

of those yellow wings

that love of mine

he loved butterflies

and talked about the next turn

the next life

the next flight

and so my love flew

but not before being in my hand
and thanking me

for the lift

on the next flight…

 

Quitting

I’m a former smoker, as of last week. It isn’t the first time either. Once, I had an acupuncturist help me quit smoking and it stuck for a good while. What ever really is a good reason or excuse to light up another one? It is never as good as we smokers imagine it will be. Much like my acupuncturist and I agreed…a cigarette is like that boyfriend that beats us but we keep going back to him. Because we know him. He is who we turn to when we are sad, lonely or stressed. Then before we know it he is back in our bed, controlling our life and killing our health. All the elements are there. Addiction of any kind is emotional, and nicotine is so easily addictive and so present in our lives, that it is hard not to relate smoking and the smoker to being a bond of sorts. So this time when I let it go, I let it go softly. I thought of it just like a relationship, and wrote a poem about it.

I’ve quit you so many times
and I always come running back
You are like a boyfriend
who takes all my energy
my time and my best
and you give me nothing back
I spend so much money
we hide behind closed doors
we take a deep breath together
and wonder what all this hiding is for
you give nothing
you add nothing
you heal nothing

Quitting
Quitting you again

You’re like an abusive boyfriend
a family member
an ex husband or memory
that keeps me curled up
making my initiative lazy
you make me old
and when you aren’t around
I start acting crazy

Quitting
I’m quitting you again
and if I falter
I’m gonna think of you just like this
like an abusive boyfriend
a lazy ass lover
an ex husband who knows my weakness
A taker
a taker
with nothing to give me

you cant have my money
you cant have my breath
or my life
anymore
smoke

Paper Hearts

Remembering some red and laced striped memories

and conversations about cold weathered distances

healing moments of glorified needs met

stealing moments in spaces

where time knows no regret

Remembering some memories

that are all gone too soon

stretching out to the future already used

smoke from that frequency burning

paper hearts consumed

like never was

never is

never gonna be another you

Birthdays and valentines and lost years
all swirling together
in that season and in that weather
and sometimes you made it out
for some paper and fire

smoke from that frequency burning
mine to yours

paper hearts consumed
never was
never is
never gonna be
another me and you

fire heart

Living

Living in the past, when we were in the present reality

the future couldn’t touch yet

maybe it’s a poet’s thing

or maybe it was something to do with the signs

the air and the wind and the ever flowing lines

those things we wrote together

or things we processed alone

rushing some rush like a mad dive
maybe somehow knowing

too fast we would be on the end of that ride

rushing rush but so sweet and still too
a blessing a laughter
a sadness of reality

those things we wrote together

Things I process

Things I miss alone