SAMlways the Thief

I like to do things,
take things,
right under people's noses.

Cause that's what happened to me,
something stolen, something broken,
right in broad daylight.

I wore my curse home,
like a child carries their lunch bag
or a girl clutches to her doll.

A crime that left no evidence for the cops,
cept my cunt and his cock,
no cuts, no crime-scene,
he did sex with me all over the whole house.
Where's there to look?
What am I looking for?
I know I'm missing,
 the absence of something undefinable.


Too faithful to ever fail,
Too fearful to ever feel,
a fighter
but still fucked before five.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I steal
to still feel guilty.

I lie
to still feel hollow.

I anger at their lies,
all too many reasons
to never give them a second chance.

On the fly...
I steal because I know I'll get away with it.
Just like he got away.

Just like that,
I've always been sin-filled
stained burgundy too young,
but no one seemed to notice.
so I just bit my tongue.
I still bite my nails, my toes, my lover's tits.

oh you're just so sweet,
and sensitive.
and soft spoken.

Am I a sinner or am I a saint?
If I'm neither should I just paint,
lie after lie
until one's so captivating it seems believable?

I've become a master at 'the game,'
the one no one talks about,
an invisible wound festering on far too many.
You see,
I've been feigning innocence for quite some time now
and I forget to ask 'Why I do the things I do?'
I just do them,
and try to forget them.

Gone Home..

How can we go home if we're still so high?
I was there,
But I wasn't aware
Of what I was doing or feeling.

Best call home before things get
Badder, nastier, go farther.
No excuses, No prayers;
Heads too high to get help,
Too far gone to feel anything but
Fear and a fire burning within.

All that's in me,
Shakes in sight of you
White as chalk
Skin paper thin
Paler than the ghost I feel like I've become
Fractures that failed to mend
My hands and feet did things
Became someone else's
So bold, doing things
I could of, would of, should of
Never of done.

Being is believing.
What you see is a deception
People dreaming of answers,
Too big too far off to make any sense.

We believe in a greater being
So that all these tiny tragedies will have meaning;
Heaven doesn't fall from the sky,
The sun circles around earth.
The sun sets, the sun rises
Some come, some go.
We know there's always more
But that never lessens that hurt we feel.

What are we lying, spying, crying, trying for??
Jesus what are we even trying for,
Why are we trying to be anything at all?
How can you forgive what you can't forget?
Where is our god when the innocent meet their end all too soon,
Suffering in pain and solitude
Do you smile down counting sins?
Or do you weep as we seek answers to our survival?

I made one best friend in college

~An Atypical Love Poem~

I want to know more,
spend a moment or a million
immersed in you,
mothering you
and loving you.
And all that grows and flourishes in you,
in the love and the light of the Lord.

You're light on your feet.
You love to dance,
you'd let anyone know.
You don't care who's looking,
and I couldn't stop looking even if I tried.

Your smile flirts with those parts of me that still feel soft.
You've become like a fairy who flits and flutters
in and out of my dreams as she pleases.
I'm always trying to get closer
to the clone I create in my dreams,
who I try to kiss and run amiss with,
naked, wild and free.

You're a creator,
and I honor all that you choose to create.
I'm getting caught up in my conscious
that can't let go of these high hopes my dreams bring up.

I just want to show you,
how out of this world being connected can be.
That woman to woman,
that connection is no less brilliant or deep
as a man to his woman.
I don't expect you to be anything you're not,
or feel anything you don't.
I just want to lie beside you,
lock eyes with you,
lock lips with you,
and even if it's just for a little
I hope I can make this world seem a little sweeter.

PROCESSING THROUGH POETICS

It is part of the therapeutic technique, Cognitive Processing therapy, to have the patient write a narrative,  a descriptive account of their most traumatic event.
My trauma predates my ability to write descriptively, so it has been the challenge to find a way to channel these memories creatively.
I am utilizing poetry and art therapy as resources to address and process my trauma triggers.

My source of creativity is no longer a source of discontent.
Turn your pain into passions.
Don't drown in the darkness.

I. Play Pretend

How can your birthday be the worst day of your life?

How do you grow older when every year you wish to grow thinner?

How do you forget something that doesn’t fit in?

How do you go about coming out?

When you never really had a choice about what was cumming?

You used to say I and me, 

I used to mean the things I said 

and say what i mean

never get lost in-between

who’s going up or down

who’s straight or coming out

pushed up on your shoulders

flip me over

turn me up

put me down

turn me around

push me over

pull me up

flip me over

stand me up 

beat me down

yours to play with and pretend

we all play with knives.

II. Remembering//A Series of Haikus

it’s a sin if you say something

your dick was my death

stuck in time floating

i almost hear me

too drunk to dictate a thing

fumbling around

only silence, shame

(i only wanted to play)

hate me, a hostage

what i saw was ugly

i went home and it still hurt

what i saw was gross

what i felt was fear

i need more than hope alone

anything to hold

feel like a basket

Light, you could see through my cracks 

All empty inside

You choose to know me

Before I could even know me 

You saw within me

Kaleidoscope eyes

i under the microscope 

all that within me

its dark and dingy 

never a place to hide me

too scary to hold

i could never hide

what you put in front of me

it took hold of me

I stand tall and clear

He will live in avoidance

no longer scared; free

III. Call Girl

you’ll never go home

when home becomes a headache, 

a heart rush rather than a heart throb.

a street walker to a call girl. 

but i never called.

my elbow ow i mean my shoulder my wrist

my words, my notes, my cup

he just drank me up then spit me out.

i’m told, but no one knows, that god is good &

god is great.

but i’ve seen a thing or two or four or five that say otherwise

god is love, hate consumed love.

there’s a darkness lifted by fate.

the chance of knowing somehow, somewhere

things will be better and they’ll treat you better and you’ll know better

be better be bold

be a babe & bring me the soap