untitled

he saw me coming
vulnerability etched like pen marks on my godson's
pants during a too long service.
i am a walking tuning fork
ting ting ting
lonely girl walking
only a woman when time and reason demand it
talking incessantly
not lying
not laying
in the truth before him.
sacrificial lamb
not stylish or necessary
anymore by biblical accord.
tears and intellectually tinged rants are are my only armor
the chinks are too obvious
to the naked eye.
a woman once said to me
what am I invisible
fifteen years later
i finally know what she meant
as she beat her life into my car window
with her withered worldly fist
deep is realizing that your are are everything
and nothing at once.
not there yet but I am surrounded by purveyors of the concept...
he saw me coming
at six
at sixteen
at twenty seven
at thirty three
hell at thirty five
and a few to twenty times in between.
i can't take the blame
but who else is there to shoulder all this extra weight
not prednisone
or enbrel.
eyes still peer
cutting through the layers
and i remember the brevity of real beauty
encased in misses sizes
and flowing good hair.
so i bled out
got my new blood thinking, praying
that this blood would start the revolution in me
yet i've come to know that changes lies not in
blood or
bone or
tears or
words but only in grace.
and my hands slightly twisting
becoming slowly misshapen
grotesque in my eyes...
in fact
are clasped in prayer
pleading for its elusive descent
because i want to be
much more stealthy.
sometimes my arrival should be a mere whisper
and surprise the hell out of whoever
or whatever is
waiting

what RA will make u say...lol

I do not like my state of mind
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men...
I'm due to fall in love again." - unknown