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As there will be some new eyes peeking into this profile, I thought I'd give you a little welcome....

Enjoy the show.
passion
n. A powerful emotion, such as love, joy, hatred, or anger. Ardent love. Strong sexual desire; lust.


I guess then it's anger.
without Google.

"if you want to be rich
you got to be a bitch..."
Is it strength, my darling, that allows us to change into what we know others can accept?  Or is it true strength to be who you are, no matter the company?

I find that changing into what others can accept is putting forth the representative, not the reality.  And when you put forth the representative, you attract things.  People who are attracted to the representative for some reason or another.

But what do we know?

The reality will always get the best of the representative.

I'm tired of representin', yo.

Remember when we used to make fun like that?  It's all too damn serious.
That which fed your desire

now employs your indifference

This will be strange speaking now

when before you saw the poetry
Isn't funny how you said that you appreciate strength

When all I ever see you do is applaud and coddle weakness

But lovers, they are so different.

You stole my line, bucko.
it was a secret to everyone back then...

Your personal definition of fun.
I thought if anyone, something or someplace new would enthuse you.  But I guess "new" applies only to within the city limits.

Remember when you enjoyed when I went home and wrote something bitter with want for you?
Why love, if losing hurts so much?

I have no answers anymore: only the life I have lived.

Twice in that life I've been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chooses suffering.

The pain now is part of the happiness then.

That's the deal.
listen to your first instinct.

Unfortunately when you're born on a cusp, you have two.

Whichever one then should you listen to?

Even in twin birth there is a firstborn.
colloquially used
Great title no?

I heard you, Edna.  The art is dead.

Or for at least this one miniscule moment in that dream named Time.
People who deliberately try to get more out of you than you are being paid for make me want to scream obscenities at them until they drop dead from the sheer vulgar karma spewing back at them.

People who drop you all of the sudden for the cooler scene make me desire to create scenes of untold behaviours until I am looked upon as a madwoman.

People who must be the constant correctors and know all things in heaven and earth make me want to repeatedly smack them on their knuckles with a a three foot long teacher's ruler.  Yeah, you know the kind.  I'm talking baaaad.

People who will lie to your fucking face repeatedly about something that you not only *know* isn't true, but have proof of such that would stand up in a court of law or the trial-by-burning-tongue test in India, should be delivered to a cold dank room where they are bound to a metal slab with a tape recorder playing "You are going to die.  There is no life for you here.  You will die in this room" over and over and over, until finally.... they believe the lie.

People who reprimand others for the same behaviour they themselves put into action on an almost daily basis should be made to sit in a room and watch hours of hidden video clips of themselves doing the exact thing they shake their finger at you about.

People who have no courage to admit to themselves that the path they are on is not the right one make me want to show them a looking glass....a projectory into what will be....the sad end to a fear-ridden life where they cry out..."What have I not done?!"

Oh for who we are, people.
If I've tried to run from the hills, I don't think I've made it too far.  The stigma agitates my vision.  No high class joints on a dirt road.
This question was posed to me recently, and I've been pondering on it intensely.

It's actually not the first time this has come up in my life as a discontent with a lover.

All of my life has held one creative path or another, be it my mother's crafts or wood working, or Easter Eggs or art class or writing purple prose in my purple room at 16 and now again at 28.  It's come through me in dance, in performing.

When it's allowed to be, it simply is.  The role I most naturally take is that of artist.  In all mediums, I must be creating something at all times.  I feel fruitless if I do not.

Some people have regarded this feeling as some sort of negative need, a pompous or put-on state for whatever their reason that day.

It's very simple - It is me.  Before society, before fear and long after these and many more obstacles, my heart will be most satisfied with the creation of those things I feel most passionate about.

I hope that somewhere along the way, I will find the other half of that boat, acceptance.  And it is then that I will truly sail away with pure elation.

Now did I change a word or two to add some flair?  Well hell yes I did.  After all, it's all for the art.
I've neglected you all for so long.  In the spotlight of that neglect - myself.  A new astrology book expressed that I would experience crisis this 28th year of life.  Crisis, indeed.

Crisis in the wake of loss, loss, more loss and the fear of loss.  I'm not crying here, simply reflecting on what has been.

I've been told to "get over it" repeatedly by friends and lovers alike.  Get over what?  Do they know - or do they have a concept in their heads - a subjective perspective that does not reach my objective?  Oh yeah, and by the way, HOW?

How do all these prophets of relief propose I go about this "getting over it"?

"It's easier said than done."

"Everyone has their own path."

"I don't know what will do it for ya."

Alas, getting over it seems perplexing to all.

I've been trying and sometimes not.  I've been living and thinking and believing in the face of disbelief...

and I still sleep too late.

Tonight I wish for all dreams of all dreamers to come true.

From the very depths of my soul do I wish this.
One reason the dog has so many friends: He wags his tail instead of his tongue.
hear that?
"I was bruised and battered and I couldn't
tell What I felt
I was
unrecognizable to myself
I saw
my reflection in a window and didn't know
My own face
Oh brother
are you
gonna leave me wastin´away
On the streets of philadelphia

I walked the avenue
till my legs
felt like stone
I heard
the voices of friends
vanished and gone
At night I
could hear the blood
in my veins
Just as black and whispering
as the rain
On the streets of philadelphia

Ain't no angel gonna greet me
It's just you and I my friend
My clothes don't fit me no more
I walked a thousand miles
Just to slip the skin

The night has fallen
and I'm
lyin'awake
I can
feel myself
fading away
So receive me brother
with your
faithless kiss
Or will we leave
each other
alone like this
On the streets of philadelphia."

Bruce Springsteen


Today I realized Bruce must have been peeking the last 5 years.
piper play that song again
i need to feel it move muscles
direct the flow of these blocked passions

ask me, probe me, make me tell