THUG

THUG  (Ever notice that the word PARENTHOOD has the word ‘hood’ in it?)

I wish I was a raging blackout alcoholic

for then I’d have an excuse.

I wish I was severely mentally deranged

because then I’d have a reason.

I wish I was a psychopathic killer,

who stalked victims under the cover of darkness,

because then I could say it wasn’t my fault,

plus it would be easier.

Instead

                            I’m a parent,

and I chose to be one.

What kind of lunatic am I????

Why didn’t I want to grow up and become

a homicidal maniac,

a drug-addicted murderous prostitute,

a maladjusted narcissistic rapist

………………something with some meaning to it! 

Noooooooooo, I wanted to become a MOTHER.

Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Oh, the shame of it all.

Now, I’ll never be a role model.

Instead, I chose to be forgotten on my birthday,

(I’ll bet no one ever misses little Charlie Manson’s birthday),

I chose to be disrespected,

(I’ll bet no one disrespects Freddy Krueger),

I chose to be dismissed as someone who doesn’t count

(Oh, it’s just Mom)

(Can you imagine someone saying that to Jason Voorhees?)

Yes, instead, I chose to become synonymous with

Nobody, nothing, no one.

Insignificant.

Forgotten.

Useless.

I have become….

                            Dust.

Advertisements

Unreal Reality

“Honestly, don’t you think it’s better that we’re aren’t real?”

“Could I trace my fingertips down your spine if I were real?  No.  Could I kiss that little hollow space on your neck and trail my lips down to your breasts, gently teasing each nipple, if I were real?  No.  Could I flick my tongue across your lips if I were real?  No.  Could I gently tug on your bottom lip with my teeth until I could taste the slightest trace of blood if I were real?  No.  Could I pick you up in my arms and hold your naked body tightly against mine as we kiss passionately, deeply, sensually, if you were real?  No.  So, let’s don’t spoil it.  Let’s don’t be real.  Could I could feel your hands in my hair, gripping my head firmly in your grasp if I were real?  No.  Could I taste your wetness on my lips if you were real?  No.  Could you feel my tongue licking you if I were real?  No.  Could I hear your voice whisper in my ear of all the things you want me to do to you if you were real?  No.  Could I lie awake with you sleeping soundly, wrapped up in my arms with your head cradled on my shoulder, your soft hair trailing across my arm and my pillow, while I tenderly kiss your forehead, if you were real?  No. “

“Then, dear sweet, sexy you, let’s don’t be real.  Okay?  I’m fine.  You’re fine.  That’s all we need to know about each other.  You can’t save me.  haha  Please don’t try….life is short, doll, let’s enjoy what we do have.  What we have is simple, uncomplicated by life, and so very, very much fun.  More fun than I believe I have ever had in my entire life.  And I have had some damn good times in my life.  But, you, my sweetness, my dear sweet, wonderful, beautiful, sexy you, you are the most fun of all.  You are the Scarecrow to my Dorothy.  Because I like you most of all.  Please, let’s don’t ever be real!”

“Reality is bills, and appointments, and work, and fights, and arguments, and all the pettiness that goes along with real life…you and I will never be petty!  You and I will never argue or fight.  You and I will never have to worry about the bills.  You and I will never have to work.  You and I can make love every day because you and I will never have a period or cramps or a headache.  hahahaha  You and I will have a fine life together.  You and I will always be happy, our sex life will always be thrilling and fun, and we will always be young and desirable and HAPPY together. “

“CAN YOU LIVE WITH THAT?  Then kiss me, beautiful!  Yeah, just like that….ah…do it again, again, again.   Love it.  Love you.  xo”

Blasphemy.

John:  I just saw a pic of Jesus holding a child. But if that photograph were taken today it would be just an older bearded man, in a robe, holding your child, and he would catch a beating or worse.
John:  I’m not saying Jesus was a pedophile.  And please do not forward this to the proper authorities.  I’m just pointing out facts.
Mary:  Unless he’s Santa.
John:  Christ, do you think they were a team?
Mary:  Think?
John:  It makes sense now – Jesus’ birthday / the only day Santa ‘works’.  Millions of kids revering them both.  God, it’s so obvious now.
Mary:  Odd. I need coffee.
John:  “Candy, little girl?”  “Who wants a toy?  Come sit on my lap”.  Holy crap!  I’ll get us both a cup.  *sigh*

{Boy, I’m gonna catch Hell for this one, huh? wink-wink…get it? Catch Hell?  hahahahahahahahahahaha}

Still

Still.

…And I looked up and there you were.  And I wondered if you knew.

…And I wondered if you could hear my mind racing from across the room, so loud were my thoughts, like the hoof-beats of a thousand frightened mustangs.

…And I wondered if you could see my pulse quicken beneath my skin, so erratic was my heart beating in my chest.

…And I wondered if you could taste my emotions, so strong they were, like the copper tartness a penny leaves when you’ve held it in your hand for too long.

…And I wondered if you could smell my fear, crowding up in my throat, struggling for a breath of you.

…And I wondered if you could feel my longing, for surely it must be visible, dripping maddeningly, dizzyingly, across my face like a water-soaked canvas caught in a sudden downpour.

…And I wondered if you knew how drawn to you I feel, much like the proverbial moth to the eternal open flame at twilight.

And then you turned around,

the moment passed,

and still….

I wondered if you knew.

Mirrored Eyes.

I don’t know why
you are so very literal.
Oh? Excuse me,
I exaggerate.
You’re consistent.
I can be so explicit.
I slept alone before you.
Look at you,
you’re flawless.
Half the time I feel like fleeing
because beside you I must look like Hell.
I was thriving before
I plucked you with plump fingers
fresh from the web.
and I thrive still,
as an illusion,
of sorts.
You are the perfect sonnet,
a solid straight line,
and it makes me sad
when you tell me you like me
and I know I am nothing
but something lost.

Once.

Her pale skin glowed in the light from my monitor

and I wanted nothing more

than to dig myself down inside her,

hold her close, and feel her murmur.

I felt her grow wetter under my touch,

and the things I wanted to do

had nothing to do

with who we were in the daylight.

I didn’t want to fuck her;

I wanted to make love to her,

again, and again, and again.

Snack Time

I want your Pusssee

full of Vitamin-C

sex you up, throw you down

Fuck that pussy, without a sound

You can scream when I tell you to,

not before, and not too soon

I’m the bitch in charge of you,

I know you like it; it’s what I do.

Pull your hair, put you on your knees,

look up at me, and just say please.

Crawl across the bed to me

Let your titties be nice and free

I know right now you’re soaking wet

It ain’t spit, and it ain’t sweat

It’s that sweet cum –

layers thick upon my tongue.

I’ll lick it good so your juices run….

SNACK TIME!