To think the pain that comes is felt to learn
To stand the pain I bare the truth of hurt
To know the hurt I learn to take its truth
To break the threat of hurt I check my pain
To void the hurt I know before it comes
I learn to track the signs of hurt in time
I break its press before it writes the hurt
I think I know the signs although I’m blind
I look to read the pain of thoughts inside
I lose the train of thought when pain arrives

Awakening into this,
the body's bliss
fine-tuning the vibration
into early-morning's baby-breath....

Damn, Sam! It's so freakin' cold, stepping
barefoot into the air, down-comforter warm.
Our bodies still sleeping in its natural heat
did not know what happened to the furnace,
why it died overnight.

the blue glare that drives you crazy is almost welcome now;

but only when you must get something down

to show the usernames you've come to trust

in almost anonymous Neoland.

In that particular place,

you can stretch your babybat wings and fly off

to find someone else with ink running through their veins.

there you found a few fingers to

grasp in your tiny beginners hand;

one aged with meter and syllable count and all that boring stuff.

someone who is also a dancing monkey for their own words

whom drew your blade
and slipped that lock
let light fall again
in the dark
where I pushed thoughts
like a rock

"whadda yah want from me"
(how I was surly and mean)
and in the same breath
would comb your hair
and through rain run
to get you a share
of this and that

"Its a trick" I spoke
that many use to buy your
trust
be always wary of the ruse
when they turn
and your blade has grown rust