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The BrokenThe beauty of the broken
Was what she loved
Seeing the fragments
Of all that he was
She glued them together
Held them close to her heart
Did not see the edges
Of each individual shard
So they cut her open
And tore her apart
Now she too is broken
'Cause fixing is hard.
Poetry: Too Damn LazyThis poem and others may be found at the following link:
Warning: Fuck it
So damn lazy I shouldn't be a poet
Over here like damn I know it
Writing this just to write
Teach me I only write well at night
It's the fucking AM
I can barely even begin
Pray to the Lord Amen
Scratch that let's start over again
Monday isn't fun
One day I might be done
Sit back and watch Doctor Who
Just like the Doctor I know what to do
I feel so lazy
And I feel hazy
And I feel crazy
Scratch my ass like a Pokemon
My friend reading like "It's Tolkien Mahn"
Lord of the Rings is my jam
Treants tearing down that dam
I'm a pretty big fan
I watched the movie
Like The Mystery van
Scooby and the gang got me feeling groovy
Groovy Dubie snacks
Chilling and feeling lax
Scruffy's spraying the axe
Watching Mad Max
Mad cause it's filled with talentless hacks
The Poetry PotFirst we start with some words that rhyme,
And add an amount of alliterations.
Then we set the cooking time,
Add ingredients of different rations.
Now we personify,
The pencil dances across the page.
Bam! Onamonapia identified,
Words of emotion like rage.
And then the haiku,
The first line, five syllables,
And so is this one.
Internal rhymes such as this are hard to miss,
The skill to rhyme gracefully is added with bliss.
Stir the words together with a wooden spoon,
Then let the stew sit in the light of the moon.
Imagery is added, so picture it now,
The sweat gleaming on the chef's brow.
Words, like ingredients for the mix,
The poem is almost ready, one more stanza for kicks.
Then that special something is added,
What makes every poem unique.
[Insert your own lines of ballad]
The poetry stew is ready now, let's eat.
Voodoo NightmaresShe walks through the quarter and is given a wide berth. A Voodoo priestess is what they call her and most of them are petrified of her wrath.
The tourists consider her an attraction; a freakish side-show they must see. Some giggling, some hesitant as they clamor into her shop.
"Look but do not touch," she warns in a deep, foreign accent. They eye her warily and she eyes them right back with a grin all but one of them thinks is pure evil.
"We want to learn Voodoo," says a the boy in the back. Stepping forward he smirks and leans over, resting his elbow on her desk. He's the only one who does't think she's evil at all. He thinks she's just putting on a show with her gris gris bags and her shop filled with useless trinkets.
"I can not teach those who do not believe," she replies, her grin gone.
"Then make me believe."
She represses a sigh at his challenge. She knows his type- a non-believer in the power of magic. She drags a finger across the skin of his arm and she sees in
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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