Lessssssssons

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Where are the whispers that used to fill the inside of veins, “you want more”.

Give me lessssssssssss ons.

Give me lessons?

Give me freedoms.

Give me sleep.

Give me guiltless memories.

Give me kind interactions and a pillow of done enough.

Give me…nothing…no worth.

No.

No lessons.

No grace.

Give me jokes in face.

Your moms face.

Your moms face burnt with fire the bombs left her.

Left her an eye to give back to the soldier that saved her life…but he took that eye.

Lesson learned.

Why aren’t we laughing?

Clean You

You.

You will not come to my dreams and torment me,make me hate me,take me sexually.

Give me remorse in the color of lusting after you, while the groan you carry on your lips is as deep as a valley.

Non-penetrable by genuine caring.

Genuine art.

You.

You will not come to my dreams in the form of the ultimate love, the one I cannot win.

Craving me.

Delving into me.

Taking me.

Then leaving me.

Not leaving me in the sheets for that would be welcomed but leaving me in understanding .

Understanding the lust.

Understanding the artist.

Understanding the creative process and the yearning for more.

You will not come to me in my fucking dreams and then wake me to the idea of not good enough.

Your ass crippled from the life you chose to take place of your genuine questioning.

Glittered in the saliva of your childrens conquests while the chair you sit in folds in from the weight.

The blue that sparkles in the eyes of you will not take the bad taste you have left in my mouth out.

You.

You serve no purpose but to watch the show go on and detest the actors risking their sanity to bring you reality.

Normal.

Normal you will stay.

Untouched you will meet your grave.

Gentle.

Gentle existence.

Gentle exiting.

Harsh reality…

of all you didn’t try in order to cleanly survive.

she uses she

She uses everything. She hates and hurts and loves and weeps all at the same time.

She dresses in black and morns the loss of her true love. . . Herself.

Once in a room painted purple she plummets into the bleak beige world of self delusion. All things hurting stem from her, for her. Even unleashing on others. She gripes at the scorn and tears at the heart of home. Nothing sacred and no pleasure does she find in such mental tattering.

Simply raised this way. Not born this way. Raised this way.

Today she woke with her hair in knots and her stomach playing catch up with her running brain. Coughing she stumbled upon a sleeping child. . . the child was her. . . twitching about in her sleep she was not. So, mistaken, it could not be her.

For she, as a child, was not friends with the sand man. Nor any man. All they wanted from her was the redemption of their orgasm in her tight twat and budding tits.

Another story for another day the point being. . . this child sleeping was not her. It was the children about her whom she cared for that were sleeping. Peaceful and dreaming.

Waking annoyed with the every day twitches of all living things due to their comforts. She, relating to everything and yet finding no one to relate to her. She, nurtures the others.

Her nurturing comes with a bite though. A hurt so deep it will strike if you are tearing at any part of who she is. Or what she is trying to create. She will rear up and smack the taste out of your mouth. Disrespect she takes none of and yet she can spit it out in an instant. No one comparing to her as she yells, no one comparing to you. Selfishly calling you selfish. But she wants health. She aches for it in fact, it is the very reason she acts out. Her perfectionism of balance makes her unstable. And yet her awareness makes her the most stable person on this planet.

Today she uses everyone and everything to figure out what is the reality of the realities? Let it linger on her own thoughts, she knows what you would think. You have spewed same as she has flung it back with her own venom added. This is about her. She . She using she to relate to we.

Now. . . breathe.