It's good to be alive sometimes especially after stormy days & nights for the moment when the sun does shine makes it worthwhile fighting for a breath.
Author: hotsurf
Like to travel, read, play cello etc.
Sleep.
A hug.
Hotstuf – the Mold.
Last poem blaming the mother.
When I smiled at her to show some affection, she asked, "how come you have more wrinkles than me?" Always with the criticism, none of the loving. You may think it's implied, but I'm waiting waiting & waiting. It's not enough, Mom, it's too late, and will never be enough. But your words are wise, cutting but wise, maybe that's why I'm so divided? You afforded no love cause you received none. A child is just a tool, a competitor, a variable that has to be evaluated. The den is lined with hidden barbs. The rule shifts with no logic only chaos. I can see now how I peeled away my flesh. You did all you can, so your counsel I will cherish. But I shall always be on guard.
New Year, the Same.
I think & think that's all I ever do. Now I have to consider the likelihood that I'm sane, y'all are crazy. What's wrong with dreams? I'm sick of leaving a door open to let doubt in and your lives that are not even authentic. It's the same chorus, the same faces, I don't know what you want from me. Maybe nothing, I'm just self-important. I'm tired, I'm worthless, but I'm on the solid ground, a piece of land that I found. Maybe I shouldn't turn away so quick. You are there for back up, I appreciate it. But I have to say no to something. Delay after delay, thinking after thinking. So wrapped up, nothing wrong with criticism keeping you on the balance. Think, you. Think!
20-2077.
The right pillow.
I lay there waiting for the bed to relinquish its hold. I fondle my breast. It's warm & happy, unmolested by anyone, but me.
A lost poem.
What is love but a deep chill that you can't help reliving. What is love but a vertical cut that will never ever heal. What is love but a sweet sweet dream that entraps the soul.
A bruised ass.
