Hate Male

I am so not into you-

I think your a weirdo.

I throw up in my mouth a bit

Each time I have to see you.

Your a part timer

Your an outright fucking fraud.

Your the stalker in my hedges 

Your such a fucking knob.

I need something better, 

In a world that’s half alive, 

You are such a gear box-

Your conjectures half applied. 

You’re the peeper in the pine trees-

You’re the gum stuck to my shoe.

A vulture who can barely fly, 

(Bitch!) I never wanted you.




My Terrible I’s

My demon eyes.

My unruly ‘fro,”.  Unsex

The lacquered, (black) sky.

(Relieving it’s arrogance). 

My own (will be glaring,) 

Among shining stars,  bright 

and oblivious-Unscathed 

by haters-

and I’m laughing  

In the face 

of contempt and 

Her novelties.




Rapture holds
passion, not
(You have become
my forsaken

Ravish me.

The heat (is nearly
I’m kissing,
your neck, (when)
my tongue finds the
sharp definition of your
Adam’s apple…Tastes-
so sweet, (and
so wonderful),
beneath the stubble
on (your neck),
your sculpted jaw,
and the other
delectable parts of you.
The salt of
sweat, leaves a hint,
in my mouth. Testosterone,
magnetic pheromones,
(fill up my sinuses,
head, and my throat).
And this divinity, almost
makes me forget, about
the pleasure I feel, every time
you move your hips.

Ravish me,

And slippery high moments,
that pale me-(just).
Pierce me.
Impale me, again and again.
It’s the flesh in my body, and
the ice in my soul.


Frustration: (Enter Stage Left)

I’m gonna give it up,
because, “I likes you”, but…
I don’t . I love the
things that you, could do, to me:
but-won’t. There’s not
enough, (of you), to come
around my (back-ward,
dirt-road, no-excuse-for-a)

Upon the knee
of optimism: “it’s
more colourful
than I thought”…
these township roads Continue reading “Frustration: (Enter Stage Left)”


I was so happy to
see you. I’d been,
thinking about you-
(but, had no way
to reach you).
So I waited.
it was worth it.

I’d love to romance,
about the things,
that we did-(but,
I fear that
my kids, will
stumble upon it…). And
you just don’t seem
like the romantic-type.
(I see you more as), a
hardcore, (sweet),
sexy, delicious-
type…(that would be
MY type). What a savoury
coincidence. And since,
I’m baring all of
my self-
ish, soulful thoughts…
I think I might
adore you.
Your strength, and,
your bad habits…But, mostly,
it’s the rest of you…
that gets me so
(But, you already knew that).

My thoughts of you,
are filthy.
Filthy, deviant,
and base.
Far too lewd to pass,
through my

(The irony, of course,is

that you will probably never


see this).








Beyond acts of nature,
past acts of no god, my
Daddys Hands,
were calloused and stained.
Typical of the cold hard,
manner, that possessed him.

The night a stranger beat me
up and raped me, my clothing was torn-(in an attempt to complete,
the sickening task).
Afterward, I was discovered-
hiding, in the apartment of
my best friend, (and his room-mate).
I was still hysterical when my
Daddys’ hands,
appeared, out-of-nowhere, (for the
first time, ever). My Daddy,
my Papa, the king of my-Dystopia;
didn’t tolerate tears. Especially
hysterical ones). But, I was
unable to hold them back.
I tried, to mop
the saline pool, from the
kitchen table, with my sleeve.
(It would have been rude
not to). Apparently
that night, the delicate matter
of wiping the tears, from my cheek,
was left to my father.The whole time, staring, at my face, in absolute
silence. He looked as though he
would murder, the pitiful-excuse-for-a-“man”. The “man”, who indulged
On the violent defile, of a fifteen
year old girl.

It was my Daddys’,
fifteen year old girl.

(A well practiced deviant; the
monster still wore the scent of
his other young victims,
when he was brought into the police station). The creeps paper trail was revealed and enlivened, in the wake
of my own tragedy.

I stared at my
Daddys’ hands;
unable to lift my head, for
the shame. Mechanical, yet thick, and
unyielding to challenge, his
knuckles were enormous-
toughened by, the elements, and
actions, fueled by rage, personal
insult and drunkenness. Both my
Daddy, and his hands were
perfectly suited to tasks,
born of necessity, (unspoken), deeds of un-notoriety. His old school model of honor, was uncompromising and
Stained with age, and strengthened
by years of laborious past times, my father was inured to hardships, far
worse, than poverty. His
thick skinned flesh, was
barely visible, through the permanence of grease, tar, and nicotine. These
top layers, (coupled with an angry
demeanor), made an impression on
everyone who met him. But,
it was the mystery-the morbid
curiosity, of what lay underneath;(what grandiose, disturbing deeds could cradle those stains on the surface)? It was this
uncertainty, that dispensed
fear and intimidation, to people
who deserved to know, his
exacting inclinations.

By the time I finished
evaluating the strength, within my Daddys’ hands,
my personal sense of safety, had returned. (As much
as it ever would).
My aspirations toward revenge,
and punishment, distracted me,
and slowed my heart. And, when
I finally looked up, I saw my fathers’ face. He had been transformed, into
a sympathetic and approachable
person. If I didn’t know better,
I would have thought ‘he felt
my pain’. With the calm, it was
only natural to be anxious-
nervous of the storm to come. Still,
I had never felt so safe, perhaps,
even loved.

To be conclusive, but
sadly, matter of fact; the love
and gentility lasted
(approximately), three days.

My childish delusions of justice, were
worsened by insult, when my
was rewarded, for my
escape, before full penetration. He laughed in the face of my best friend, as he walked out of the courtroom.
I don’t know if
he ever paid
the $150 fine.
That was his penance,
for damaging….,
for sullying….,
(my soul,
my heart,
my grace)…
For taking the “little”,
From my “Daddys little girl”.

There isn’t a day that has gone by,
that I haven’t wished; my
Daddys’ hands
had got to him first.