Is what loss upon loss upon loss does to the human mind, body, and soul.

There are so many grieving people out there who need love or, at a minimum, a kind word.

Be nice to someone today.

Urge Surfing

Urges are where I write my poems.
Once the Urge is conceived and birthed verbally,
The wave of Distress passes and I’m free again.
Poetry is my favorite form of Urge Surfing.
So I like to make my art at The Edge.

Then again, I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie!
Call me out of practice at having fun!



OK With It.
Sparkle Most Radiantly When Blended and/or Paired.
Individually Stronger Than Originally Thought.
Capable of Incredibly Courageous Acts.
Welcome Home!
Welcome Back!
I’ve Missed You So Much!
Dream Architects.
Lifelong Learners of Both and Each.
Seek Wholeness in Self.
Seek Greatest Potential in Relationship.
Great Times.
Mediocre Times.
Tough Times.
Life-Threatening Times.
Devotion, Dedication, and Commitment in All Times.
Don’t Take Pain Out On Others.
If Pain Taken Out On Others, Sincerely Apologize for Any Pain Inflicted.
Put Both Loves First.
Sacrifice One for the Other to Become a Best Both & Each.
Capable of True Love.
SOLE Home of True Love.

P.S. Convicted by my own damn poem! I NEVER post my poems on Facebook, but my poem compelled me. It’s why Poetry makes me a Better Lover of He & She❣️



At a very young age (around aged 3), I developed an “insecure attachment style.”

Then the pattern repeated itself.

Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.

Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.

Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.
Then the pattern repeated itself.

10,000, 000 hours of therapy and “self-help practices” later,

The pattern is repeating itself.

The only difference is I’m aware The pattern is repeating itself.

It’s a GREAT START, though! It makes me feel more “sane and secure” when I’m aware History is trying to repeat itself.

The patterns color my history, but my awareness of them shows ME how strong I’ve been the entire time.

I’m not shooting for “happily ever after,” but rather “hopefully-awareful-and-content.”

SCARS IN THE SKY: Beauty Incarnate

Photo location: Home

For record-keeps, my scars
Were formed in response to
Surgical knives with scathing scalpels
Hiding under surgical sleeves
Rather than a purgical need to
Purge Contained Pain
In order to pain-relieve.
(I’m not blaming or shaming;
I’ve known Pain and understand
You simply want Pain to leave).

But Scars all look the same to me,
Therefore, their source isn’t
Significantly significant to me.
So I can be fully free
To neglectfully and insignificantly,
Ignore scar-sources and
Scarce resources because
The WHY of our afflictions
Though it Greatly costed me,
Now matters snot to me.

Clouded by the stars in my eyes,
I STILL consider Scars
Beauty’s heaviest of hitters,
And why I personally believe
Scars rock, roll and rule, too.
In fact and in fiction, I’m SO moved
Each and and every Time I Take
And use to contemplate the issue,
I have to break out a box of Scar Tissue.

THE HELLO KITTY MURDER: Remembering Fan Man-Yee

They said you were nobody; we say you’re the Biggest Somebody Ever


I’ve been hearing true stories of crime for many years and long times, and this case raises and enrages more tears and fears than most others.

If I had my druthers, I’d say it bothers me and collars me HOT because of the Punch-in-the-Gutter Terror that Gutted, Tore Her, and refused to STOP.

And remember: Fan Man-Yee was young, not even remotely old (like me, you see). Yet her equally-young, highly-strung murderers were bone-cold; they stole her dignity and life, but no sleep when deleting and feasting on her agonized, terrified soul.

This hate whisks me to my can as fast as I possibly can to regurgitate each moment I contemplate such rageful acts of violence. Why? Because Pain for Pain’s sake makes no sense and makes me sick with slick bloodshed fed for kicks and disgusting tricks.

It forces in me a physical rise: I want to scream, cry, horizon-drive, forever hide, close my ears, squeeze tightly my eyes, and set myself apart from Humanity’s Reckless Indecency.

Yet similar reactions prove tear duct action requires a Heart, and that’s why it stings, scares, and smarts to see Evil lurking in plain sight.

It’s Everywhere to the left and All Places to the right, occupying humans whose intentions seem clear, even dear; who often appear moralistic, nice and kind.

But that’s just a lie seen Outside; they’re sadistic, narcissistic, vile, and corrosively bile Inside.

Sadly, Heads are Home to Plans Hatched to attack and kill. It’s credibly tragic, not incredibly magic, that The Mind is the Moral Pigsty where Hideous, Putrid, Hate-Deriving and Goodness-Deriding NASTY INSECTS play, toy, and coarsely, coyly thrive.

The only worse scenario I’d lay claim to foreshadow? When Evil seeks, locates, and finds Highly Evil and Like Minds. They assist, don’t desist, the depraved wretch and “unfazed-enough-to-never retch” barely-human Slime called Evil with his crimes.



Stating that I have been in Protracted Emotional Pain and can’t camouflage It anymore has cost me Everything.
Nobody wants to be around tears.
So I cry BY myself and TO myself, going out of my way to avoid Cold Shoulders.
Their “comfort” deletes rather than restores me to Joy. Cold Shoulders don’t know that laughter is purchased with tears, so I no longer share my Joy with them, either.
That’s the saddest part: the Loneliness.
But 0 is better than minus, at least in MY math book.

How Much is Too Much?

What sucks about being empathetic is you get jerked in a million different directions, depending on who’s doing the Yanking at the time. This even includes Yankers and Toyers like movies and books. The effect is particularly pronounced when I’m in midst of or on the tail-end of one of my “Protracted Painic Attacks.”

A PPA Cycle requires a Massive Confluence of Multiple Maddening Encounters With People whose opinions aren’t worth caring about, Pain, and a Profound Awareness that nobody hears me or gives half a shit: basically a Cluster of Fuckups and Fuckovers in a relatively short time.

This is a Disastrous Combination for me in the absence of a support system, except for my Mom, but she only visits to bring me junk mail, empty my trash (full of the junk mail she just brought me) and tell me which of her Church Ladies are praying for me. Please forgive me that The Only Person Who Still Loves Me’s most well-intended comfort doesn’t clot when I’m exsanguinating.

To Survive, I’ve evolved into a paranoid and overly-defensive person (at least during these times). If I didn’t, people would, have, and constantly attempt to take advantage of my Easily-Approachable, Easily-Appealable, Easily-Appeasable, Usually-Unsqueaky Nature.

So while I feel like my body is literally wasting from lack of External Comfort, I can’t find anyone I trust with the Job. When that happens, my next course of action is Isolation, which only serves to waste and starve me more.

I think certain parts of me never learned to fish. Maybe THAT’S why I have No Appetite? Maybe a psychologist would know? My Psychiatrist doesn’t know my name, and he doesn’t like it when I ask annoying, superfluous questions.

What does a hungry, bleeding, cyclically-self-agoraphobic do to keep safe in Cyclonic, Typhonic, Emotionally Cataclysmic Clusters of Ominous Weather and Even More Ominous People, waiting to feast on what’s left of her leathery, petrified sinew?

Honestly, I think 3 Chicago-style hotdogs and a giant milkshake, literally and literally, would do the trick. Too bad I’m begging for fuel but can’t stomach the liverworst vending machine sandwiches from the neighborhood gas station.

Enneagram 4 Personality

4s tend to be creative people. Honestly, who can create ANYTHING if not aware we ALL leak little drops of Soul in our wake?

And I feel more whole knowing my soul leaks out than I EVER did when I actually thought I was already whole & complete.

I was insufferable then; at least I’m tolerable now.

ARCHETYPAL: Loathing in Humanity

I wrote a more traditional poem called “For Gabby in April or May.


In the Stark Realities witnessed when visiting The True Crime Cybercommunity, the case of Gabby Petito hits Home for many people.

In addition to literally occurring in real time, virtually in front of our eyes, it also represents everything the Average Homo Sapien collectively loathes in our species:

A Friendly Foe
Deliberately Inflicting Pain
On Someone Weaker.

The Betrayed Party was
Overpowered by the Trusted Party
When Defenseless Against Attack;
Armed-Robbing Innocence of
Its Most Fundamental Right,
The Inviolable Right to Life,
Extinguishing her Flame
During her Prime;
Denying future Rites of Passage,
Snuffing Them Out
And attempting to defame the Public
By claiming There Was No Fire even while it was still smoking,
Through Post-Accessory Deception and
Attempts to conceal the ashes of
The Sadistic Crimes of Violence
Through Incestral Collusion
With the Family Lawyer.

Forgive me if I hope the Laundrie family burns in hell.

At least until they’re HIGHLY toasty.

Even then I don’t think they’d be decent for s’mores during that family camping trip where they Hatched their Plans to take Family Secrets to the grave.

The Salt From Tears


Tears are important, too.

When I travel down a deep dark tunnel into a fathomless black hole of despair, I rely on my tears to remind me
I’m still a soul,
sitting in a body,
feeling sad right now.

Tears anchor and tether me; both are equally salvationary.

The Tragic Life of a Leaf 🍃 🍁

The Tragic Life of a Leaf

You start out green and new, as a brand new shoot, nurtured by a Loving Mother Tree, and surrounded by lush, growing sibling leaves all
In relative, naive Harmony.
You mature and grow into The Most Beautiful Version of Yourself, peaking a little too early, given the length of your Life Cycle.

After you’ve served Your Purpose (you were never told what it was), your kindly mother turns on you;
Once she nurtured you, watered you, and warmed you by sunlight.
You were whole and thriving and complete.
Now, She cuts off these vital nutrients.
All of a sudden, you’re given no light, no food, no water.
And no answers about WHY.
Your sibling leaves are going through a similar situation,
So they are of very little use to you.
Frankly, they’re every bit as confused as you.
You slowly starve and dry up until you’re officially “desiccated.”
Then, the Mother Tree drops you.
The winds of change blow you onto a completely random path,
forcing you to intermingle with leaves you don’t even know,
Making one last splash as “fall foliage,”
Which you don’t even enjoy because you look so differently than you did in your prime , you barely recognize yourself anymore.

The next thing you know, you’re 5 miles down the road, in a Stranger’s yard (not even a nice one),
Being raked into giant piles and stuffed into suffocating black garbage bags,
Kicked to the curb to ferment a little while, and then
Carted off by some rather grubby-looking men to be burned and cremated.

By that point, you welcome it.

YouTrue Crime Poetry, Exhibit 41

Guilty of showing off my quick digestion skills again…


(They have some convincing costumes,
so please don’t start “Poet-Blaming”
for “Victim-Shaming”;
I wrote a poem to honor her,
Which honors more than empty words)

I’m so sorry The Freshest Rosie
Was Bound and Married into a useless posey,
But because she poked so slowly,
She identified her murderer,
And indexed Death’s
Most Pointed Finger
At Her useless excuse of
A lame-ass husband;
He poisoned her with cyanide
And never cared about
The Cars Nearby,
Driving on Ways both
Motored and High.

He might’ve been a Husband, true,
But in my always-humble opinion,
Yazeed’s Phylum is more
Rat than Human.
This isn’t fact nor scarcely truth,
Though I’ll be glad to school
Anyone with less than
Half a clue.
My lessons are so free,
You’ll think they’re a
In fact versus fiction
(Yes, I’m aware of the
Inherent contradiction),
I can only offer a special
Priced at so low a Price
And at CooCoo Crazy Costs
Because I actually talk This Way.
Oh, how it drives me so insane!
But what can I do?
And what can I say?
It Always comes out Rhyming
Any and Either way,
Every nano-momentary passing
Of Every Single Day.

Which Antidote might you advise
To under-dose Demise-by-Rhyme?


No dessert today; too much time sweating in a hot kitchen.


I’ve fought in many wars
And I’m deeply scarred;
I’m always decked and hurt
And don’t possess Night Vision
Sharp enough to see nighttime stars.

Yet I Won’t Go Down
Without a Fght;
I’ll be carted off dead
Or walk away with my life.

But should I die and You decide
To take MY Life into YOUR Hands,
Just to later hand It back to Me
(Generous YOU, but Ownership ME),

Should I be Grateful?
Or should I be Hateful?
YOU tell ME what I should be.

I am Both,
Wholly and Equally.
My battle’s were hard,
And so are my scars,
But it’s Magic versus Tragic
When Scars turn to Stars.



Chances are, Most People who feel sorry for Themselves aren’t doing so out of pathological Self-absorption.

Rather, most are probably doing it because Nobody felt sorry for Them when They needed Someone to.

And/Or They didn’t extend the appropriate sorrow to Themselves when They needed Someone to.

HAVE A GIANT PITY PARTY if that’s what you Need to do.

Somebody probably needs to cry for a very reasonable, Age-Appropriate Reason.



Anyone who says
“You shouldn’t Cry for Yourself”
Is a big fat liar.

You should cry for all ages of Yourself if you need to.
I know it sounds hokey, but it’s actually very freeing once you get past the embarrassment of it.

The thing is: there’s nothing to be embarrassed about!

Welled-but-unshed tears are painful energy with no place to go.

If you don’t allow your body it’s natural response,

Your Body will cry for YOU!
Your soul will weep for you,
People will gnash their teeth at you,
And ultimately,
Your heart won’t beat for you.

I should know;
First-hand experience,
Multiple times,
All counts.

Not Much In Common: Am I Dead inside?


The people I have the least in common with are the ones who have no sense of their own mortality.

They always think there’s a better time and place for everything, never realizing they could be dead in an hour.

This realization, once realized, can’t NOT alter one’s entire perspective on life – as well as death.

Sometimes I over-correct with Karaoke, but that’s all it is: Overcorrecting.

Like buying a cheap goldfish
to repopulate the waters of Nagasaki.

Does that mean I’m a zombie?
If so, watch out… because I’ll eat you!
I’m highly opportunistic; as hardy and resourceful as a cockroach!

How do you think I’ve Survived this entire time?