The Truth I Hate to Admit

Some humans possess no virtue.

The world would have been better had they never been born. Ted Bundy professed to feel sorry for people restrained by remorse.

No good acts could ever make up for some people’s evil ones. The ones who don’t spare a thought about their own good:evil ratio are the ones I’m talking about.

Sadly, they’re a waste of perfectly good stem cells and they bear no distinguishing marks.

But if you live your life worrying what will happen if you encounter one, you’re forfeiting it either way.

Also:

Remorse for violent acts eventually evolves into a More Civilized Society, absent of the traits to perpetrate said acts.

However, there will always be Aberrations.

The more complicated the formula (in this case, “humanity”), the more transcription errors.

Just a lesson from a scraped up old cat who never had any kittens.

Take it for the refuse pile that it is.

TOO MUCH TIME ON TRUE CRIME: Regarding Daughters & Sons

TOO MUCH TIME
ON TRUE CRIME:
Regarding Daughters & Sons

The Laundries say Gabby was “like a daughter,”
But if they had treated Her like a daughter
The same way they treated their son,
Blood could’ve been spared from being shed
And this current civil case could never be won.
But as it stands, the Parent Laundries’
Highly Callous Disregard
Proved beyond all reasonable doubt
Their Intentions and Actions
Were, while child-protective,
Nonetheless equally dark.

YouTrue Crime Poetry, Exhibit 41

Guilty of showing off my quick digestion skills again…

A CAUTIONARY TALE: DON’T MARRY ASSHOLES IN DISGUISE

(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
Dream-come-true.
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?

ALTERED STATE: “Don’t Mess With Texas or We’ll Shoot You.”

Yet we litter our highways with “Drive Friendly” signs. The irony!


I guess I’ve been on another planet the last few days, and it’s probably a good thing because I’ve been pretty emotionally fragile.

So, unlike everyone else in America, I just heard about the senseless, mind-blowing, tiny-body-blowing Absurd /Inexcusable / NAUSEATINGLY DISGUSTING VIOLENCE that took place an hours’ drive from me 4 days ago.

I watched our governor’s speech, given shortly after 19 people (most of them very small people incapable of defending themselves in any way against an assault rifle) were murdered in this Pornographic Explosion of Hatred and Killing of Our Future.

He spoke about “securing crime scenes to prevent similar future tragedies” but didn’t mention increasing restrictions on guns or assault rifles IN ANY WAY.

I’m an 8th Generation Texan on both sides, but you’re welcome to my Texas Citizen card if you want it. Students at UT Austin (my undergraduate alma mater) are allowed to carry heat on campus ANY TIME THEY WANT. And we all know how infrequently late teenagers and young adults experience surges of difficult and uncomfortable emotions when away from home for the first time!

Basically, I want to leave Texas because of the Constant Heat, which makes it a very dangerous place to live. THIS cowgirl has begun making plans to seek out Greener, Safer Pastures.

Don’t worry, Texas: I won’t MESS with you! I’m clearly outnumbered and definitely out-GUNNED!

FOR GABBY

Don’t Cry Mom, I’m still Alive;
I live in many Hearts Inside.
Hearts that beat with love for me,
Souls who sing in harmony:
A song of Love and Sympathy,
As Cam’ras caught my Tragedy.

Don’t worry, Dad, it’s not in vain
For I’ll live on in many ways:
I know you only feel My Absence,
Close your eyes and feel My Presence.
Feel it, see it, please believe;
Be happy when you think of me.

No man steals My Light from Me,
My Soul lives on Eternally;
It’s Always lived, will always be.
My name is Gabby; She’s Still Me.

Scared of the Dark

I’m a big blusterer.
I pretend I’m willing to GO DARK.
But the truth is:
The Only Darkness in which I can See
Is a Darkness
Where I’m the only Victim.
To Imagine
A Darkness that
Devours the Weak
Shatters my heart,
Already quashed and tattered,
And thoroughly disgusts me.

Ode to Rhyme

I carry a soft spot
For the sing-song of rhyme
It appeals to Inner Cadence
And lulls you in straight lines.
You’re introduced to violence
A little at a time.
I abduct you from the Shallows;
In the Depths,
You ass is Mine.

Promise Me You’ll Promise Me

Promise Me you’ll promise me
That you will keep me safe and free,
Aborting opportunities
For those who choose punch-drunkenly,
High on shattered, scattered glee,
To deftly and painstakingly,
Once/ Twice/ then Repeatedly,
Spit angry globs of hate on me.

My silent eyes will never see
Their plans to re-write history;
They’ll make a villain out of me,
Plunder all my luxuries,
Then live quite contentedly
While feasting on my property.

Ladies, Gents: please do come meet
Your brand new aristocracy,
Who raped us of our dignity,
Shot us dead for all to see,
Squeals resounding mirthfully.

First they watched us leak and bleed,
Then carved us up for all to eat
With relish, thirst, and victory.

I warned you once, I will repeat:
Keep yourself both safe and free
By building Anonymity.
It’s all that hides one’s face, you see.

When stripped of all that made me Me,
And robbed of my Identity,
I also seized the chance to flee,
Fought and scraped most valiantly,
But captured Me soon bent her knee.

So promise me you’ll promise me:
Forsake this stupid, childish dream
To be Yourself, to be unique,
To make your mark indelibly.

Promise me you’ll promise me:
You will quench immediately
All embers known to fuel and feed
These freeing flights of fantasy.

Return at once to Gravity,
Joy’s not yours to crave or seek.
Return, I need you here with me
Where we will spend Eternity,
Avalanched in Misery.

(Thanks @hayespotter for the photo).

I’d Never



If given the choice
I’d never know your voice

If I should get my way
I wouldn’t let you stay

If granted to me much
I’d erase your every touch

If nothing went amiss
I’d reject your lying kiss

Issued from hard lips
While yanking at my hips

If dreams should come true
I’d cleanse all thoughts of you

Eject you from my mind;
Leave your corpse behind

The tears, the prayers

The tears?

The ones on my knees, when I was pleading with you to let the baby stay?

The prayers?

The relentless, always-in-pursuit-but-unable-to-escape guilt?

The kind I couldn’t exorcise, no matter how I tried?

The feeling like less than a slug for decades?

I think it was “dirty menstrual rags” you equated my beauty to?

The believing I had only to speak the words and have the faith of a child to make my dreams come to pass?

The dreams which never, EVER came to pass?

Even when I was a child (therefore having the “faith of a child”)?

If it was in your sovereign will for me?

Without ever telling me what your sovereign will for me was in the first place?

Well, it never did me an ounce of good.

So, thanks for that kindness, too.

If you’d been a plain old debased human, I would’ve cut you off years ago.

Then again, I happen to have a fondness for brokenness.

I don’t get all mad and wrathful trying to beat the sin out of the sinners you so brilliantly and beautifully designed.

So: your goodness and mercy never cease to let me down.

If you’re as omniscient as you claim, I’ll assume you picked up on the sarcasm in my last sentence.

If not: go ahead and insert dark, jaded, broken-down, angry, disappointed, soul-crushed sarcasm all throughout the fabric of my last 3 posts.

It’s intentional.

I think it’s obvious, but:

I’m pretty sure, if you even do exist, you stopped caring about what we humans had to say centuries ago.

We haven’t killed enough people in your name lately, so I guess you moved on to angrier people.

That was your mistake.

Because I’m probably the Angriest Bitch you’ll come across for a long time.

In fact, I’m so angry, if you had the guts to face me:

I’d probably kill you myself.

If you weren’t already dead.

[At least to me]

Sexual Molestation at Your Local Neighborhood K-Mart

“I frigging love this❣️ I don’t know why we insist on only using “lovely” and “lavish” language in poetry. Poetry should reflect life, an observation you and only you are equipped to make. So if I didn’t already say it: I love it!”

This was the comment I made on the poem Your Design by Kait King. I’m linking it, not because I have any exposure to offer Kait [she’s a professional, and I’m not], but because I obviously like what she wrote. I can guarantee you that if you like anything I’ve written, you’ll feel the taut determination of justice in this piece. It’s also important for you to read it for us to move forward. So please, 30 seconds:

https://kaitkingthewriter.blog/2021/11/15/your-design/

Okay, you’ve read it. I want to link a poem I wrote about a murdered child after binge-watching true crime videos on YouTube. Please do me the honor of reading it. I believe it honors predated children by shining a light on their predators. And again, it’s necessary to proceed with this.

https://comewordplaywithme.com/2021/09/23/a-child-cries-unheard/

I know: it’s not a light read. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m starting to realize that my more imaginative writings have a way of amplifying my inner voice. I don’t know if that requires elaboration (which is a bad sign at this point), but I’ll try:

The week I wrote that poem, my first-ever (of 2) based on lyrical patterns in songs I particularly like, I was thinking a lot about the time I was “sexually molested” (I don’t even know the term for it anymore) as a 6-year-old in a K-Mart in Atlanta, Georgia.

Those were different times and I don’t blame my mom that this happened. She didn’t even know about it until I told her years later. It was during the summer, and every time we went to the store, my mom had to “struggle” all five of us “summer siblings” into an impossibly-small car. Seriously, there were no Tahoes in the ‘70s! I don’t even know how we got to the store in the first place, I just…don’t. I only know that as soon as the car officially came to a stop, children and adults had dispersed and were on their ways to their own favorite dark corners of the store.

Of course, I was the child who made a bee-line for the Toy Section…because that’s where the Barbies were. And I adored Barbie, Skipper, PJ, Ken, and their “Malibu” cousins. All I wanted whenever I had a birthday was a Barbie. And if I didn’t have enough birthday money saved, I’d buy barbies clothes instead. I had a large vinyl box that held all of my barbies and all of their clothes and accessories. I had a mental inventory of every single item in that box.

So I didn’t see the old man near the toy section until I was next to him, separated by an aisle that was about 3 feet high (I’m not very good with height and depth perception). I just remember looking (up?) to see an old (because he’s bald, like my Grandaddy), nice (because again, he looks like my Grandaddy, and Grandaddy loves me) Man standing there.

Who looked DOWN at me and said Come Here, Little Girl.”

He must need my help, because Grandaddy only ever tells me to do something in that mean kind of way if it’s an emergency. So he must need my help. And you’re not supposed to not mind your parents or grandparents, especially when you and your mommy and sister used to live with your grandparents. Since your Daddy didn’t live with you anymore.

Now you only know that your new Daddy Mike says it’s very important to mind grownups, and you’re a good girl. Maybe your older sister Stephanie isn’t, but you are.

So you go to help, and the nice old man tells you he has an emergency (good thing you listened!). He describes his emergency as this:

“I have a “pin” stuck in my [this is one thing I don’t remember: the term he used for it] __________,” but it really didn’t matter because he was busy demonstrating with what he was holding in his hand.

He said he needed me to help get the pin out.

I remember I sucked in my breath very quickly, because immediately I knew I was seeing something that I shouldn’t see.

And there wasn’t a “pin” in it, either.

That man, positioned right in front of the toy section, proceeded to shake his grown man’s penis in front of my little girl’s face. Why? Because he got a thrill from trying to crush the Innocence out of a

Little.

Tiny.

Baby.

Girl.

Well, guess what, Cocksucker (because I’m sure if you’re not dead, you’re professionally sucking cock in prison right now):

You’re a sick pedo fuck and you and the rest of your kind with your disgusting shriveled cocks can rot in your own level of hell for ten eternities, alone and with no one to keep you company but each other.

P.S. You didn’t succeed. I refused to let you steal my Innocence.

P.P.S. I know you sick pervs get off on reading shit like this, but as does Kait’s character in Your Design, I want to expose you for the cowardly, crude, contaminated criminal you are.

Why I Don’t Feel Guilty for Watching True Crime stories

I used to feel guilty about watching true crime stories on TV or listening to true crime podcasts. I think it came down to the idea I was receiving recreational entertainment from the suffering of others.

Then I had an epiphany that upended my views on the topic, and it’s this:

In society we honor the bravery of our survivors, but we do very little to honor the suffering of those who perished.

By the time we read the salacious headlines or hear the horrific details of a mass shooting, child abduction, or [violent, sadistic, evil; all redundant terms] murder, someone has already endured an agonizing death. Alone and Afraid.

I know it sounds weird but I honestly think it honors the victims’ memories when other people listen to how they suffered and feel an infinitesimal amount of their pain.

It’s the closest thing we can do now to holding their hands as they died then. It’s not a religious thing, it’s a “compassion for the victims and their families” thing.

So I never feel guilty for watching true crime shows: it helps me do my humanitarian duty to the souls who were forced to depart early.

#RIP, Heaven’s Favorites.

A Child Cries, Unheard

If Grown-Up You met Little me,
Would you seize Opportunity
To Spend some Time Alone with me?
So you could have your way with me?
When Grown-Up You met Little me.

If Cunning You met First-Grade me,
And no adults were there to see,
You’d whisper that You dream of me,
Embarrassed, I would blush and freeze.
When Cunning You met First-Grade me.

If Evil You met Trusting me,
You’d kill the innocence in me.
You’d carve Your wounds of Pain on me,
And strip me of my dignity.
When Evil You met Trusting me.

Tell it, Sir, Please tell it true.
I pray there’s still some Good in You.

Please Mister, What’s Your Rationale;
What Made You Steal a Little Child?


You Swear that there’s a Voice to Blame,
A Voice Who Wears Your Face and Name.
This Voice Who Bound me to the Floor,
Is this the Voice You Can’t Ignore?

You think You’ve Gotten Rid of me,
But I’ll Haunt You Relentlessly
Expose the Hell Behind Your Eyes.
They’re all I saw before I died.

Revised 9/26/21