His voice speaks from a different peaceful place
Of the individual, an actor that creates himself
Oceans of privilege and beauty, beaches of success
Jungled in the brain of the addicted, is kenopsia
a feeling that the mansion is empty and you are dead
This guy just sent me a message
“I am not looking for the youngest most beautiful woman”
She hates men and I waste my breath
People are People
Then it becomes evident that
Males were told they are supreme
Despite our humanity women are for taking
That is scary
My daughter read about women enslaved for reproduction
I can’t get into the feminist paranoia and I ain’t one
The lesbian suggested a novel and
I said no thank you, choice is wonderful
Humans in my world are so neurotic
I can’t breath around them anymore
Laugh my rearview mirror sign suggests
AT WHAT? You all are not funny
Dead Beat parent
Psychological Abandoner
Narcissistic Monster
Cold Hearted Pig
Emotional Terrorist
Can’t you even write a coherent response
What am I looking for? A severed ear?
Instead of my social evening, a pool party of a few women poets,
on the couch writing about 3 random words from a hat, a workshop:
Jesus, abuse, mystical, which was my name tag Biologist/Mystic.
The young beautiful Poet Laureate flashed her teeth and slammed
about 100’s of Juarez women murdered and mutilated by corrupt men.
A mythical woman who donned a blonde wig and shot to death two rapists.
She said she was Queer and I went to fill my paper cup with more beer.
You must be right, meaning I am broken and still must be there,.
In the field, visible to anyone who needs a lesson in brokenness.
biochicklet 