Omg, Lol, J/k, Ttyl

I can be scathing.

or, like, you know – totally savage.

Don’t, “bitch please,” me, because I might make you cry.

Although despite the fuck you exterior I’m quite soft.

and I often make myself cry for no other reason then wanting to know what it feels like to cry.
Of course, sometimes, it’s someone else’s fault and I can’t remember what it was like to not feel these tears down my cheeks.

and I really hate it when my nose gets all sniffling.

I’m fun though.
At least I think I am.
I try to be.

Some people don’t think so.
But what can I do about that right?
Even though I really want them to like me,
and it makes me try too hard at times.
If only they could see inside my head.
That hamster running on a wheel with their name on it.
I’m not that bad, am I?
I hope not.
I mean, it’s me so I really hope not.
I don’t know how to be anyone else.

Millennials ruin everything right?

Take a minute, Grandpa, and think of what horror the next generation is going to cause.
Poor you.
I’d almost feel bad if you didn’t give us so much shit to fix in the first place.

This is my inner voice talking.
My inside.
My inner self.
I often wonder if I was born about two decades too early the way things are shaking out.
I wonder a few other things about that as well sometimes, lol.

Do we have to have just one voice?
One side of us that continues to be our front that everyone sees?
I’d like to think not.
That maybe we can drift between the realms of this and that.
Snaking up the double helix and fucking with its code.
I’m not me all the time.
And if often depends on who you are on who I am.

I’m comfortable with who I am, whichever me that I’m being at that moment.

I listen to myself and hear what I’m saying.
It’s kind of hard for people to do that sometimes I think.

How awful to not be in tune with who you are
and struggle
I guess that’s why so many have such issues.
I should be thankful I guess.

I’m here, geeking out.

I’m here, being me.

No, not him.  The other me.
Probably not that me either!


Nice to meet you again.
Be gentle, I bruise easily.
Even if I get over it eventually.


Can We Just Stay In Bed Today?

It’s Sunday again.  That seems to happen every week.  Funny how that works.

But it is Sunday.  I don’t ever wake up before you.  Not usually anyways.  I even caught the alarm and shut it down before it squawked.  I just want to lay in that hazy, start the week off right feeling under warm sheets and blankets with you.  I hope you won’t mind.

Can we just lay here?  You and I?  I don’t think the world needs us today and even if it does I think it can get along without us.
If you know magic, can you cast a spell?  Some hocus pocus, make us disappear out of focus.  I think we can slip through the cracks of reality and hide out in the in between.

You’re asleep still.  I think I fell asleep before you last night.  You sent me off right.  Now I’m here in the morning waiting for your eyes to open wondering if that smile’s going to flash when you’re finally awoken.
I love those teeth.  When I see them something good is going to happen.  Even if its in the morning, unbrushed and with overnight breath.  I don’t care.  Give me some of that dragon fire down my neck.

You know I can’t resist you.  Sometimes I wish you didn’t.  Maybe you don’t?  If you ever did fully realize you’d know that you can get me to do anything you want.  I’d be your puppet without any power just trying to get that smile to show up again.  Those perfect teeth in that flawless smile.

My fingers never could wait that long.  Soon they’ll be on you.  Starting with a trace along your shoulder.  The exposed skin out from the sheets.  They’ll trickle along their way to your neck and to the other side.  If I’m lucky I’ll get a shiver out of you.  That’s always the goal, to make your body quake uncontrollably and send vibrations down to your toes.
I’m selfish.  I’m only doing it to wake you up.  To cause you to stir and stretch, and when that first long stretch is out of the way I’ll envelope you with my arms and pull your naked skin against mine.  We’ll wrap up like a pretzel and go on with our morning in bed.  Holding out hope that the real world can’t pick locks or see through dimensions.

If only it would last another minute longer.  Every minute in bed with you is like a battery charge.  Every time we wrap up together in limbs and lips I can go on again until the next time.
So throw your leg over my waist.  Rest your head on my shoulder.  Put your hair in my face, while my hands move a bit bolder.  I’m not letting you out of bed so easily this Sunday morning, babe.

Eliot & Thomas

Reading beauty makes me want to rage into the morning and through the afternoon.

The words so eloquently displayed across my eyes.

Travel through another’s mind and another’s time and I abide by their message.

I feel the words inside and let them swim along the outskirts of my vision

and control my breath while my heart beats in rhythm.

The blood flows through beauty and pumps because of it.

A set of life so precious that it might birth a split lip and boiled through the heat of my gaze.

I want destruction.
I want abyss.
I want chaos.
Reign down upon this world.

But the words remain of beauty that were once in their own tumult.

Spawned against a dropped curtain in their own time by those willing to scream into the night.

The voices have gone silent now, have they.

The mouths have been covered,
or told what to say instead of saying what needs to be told.

The hollow men have marched
and the dying light is all but faded
the rage has been smothered to a whimper.
What will finally kill it,
or spark a blaze again in fury?


The way words can sting worse than cuts and blows from blunt objects is such an odd thing.  How they can hurt so deep without a physical presence, yet you can still feel it slicing you inside is a marvelous feat.  The psychology of it is fascinating.

I don’t know you and you call me an asshole and its nothing.  Not a drop of sweat or second thought.
Say the same thing and reference a sore point and I wince in pain, shut down and hide.

Words can be venomous when spit from the right mouth.
Words can be poison when kissed from the right lips.

Is it lack of acceptance?  Shame?
Are the pointed words towards little bubbles hovering over a persons head so sharp they stick in like thistles?  Burrowing into your skin and as hard to remove as a porcupine quill.

The words won’t ever not hurt because they weren’t supposed to happen.  It wasn’t supposed to go this way and you were supposed to still be here.  We should have been going on and even though that was an impossible dream it didn’t need to end like that.  Even though you came back around yesterday, the words still hurt and they always will.

Toxic Masculinity

I’m not a real man.

I don’t know cars,
I don’t fix stuff,
or work with my hands,
and make my skin rough.

I don’t do manly things.

I’m not into NASCAR.
I’m not into beer.
I don’t make fun of girly things,
and call them all queer.

I don’t understand guy talk.

When they say things like, “hey bro,”
then make fun for a group laugh
like a pack of hyenas
all in backwards hats.

I’m not sure what’s up with violence.

I don’t get why they think guns are so cool,
and peace is a weakness.
Or why mixed martial arts is a thing,
while they beat each other senseless.

What I really don’t get is the way they treat women.

Like they’re property to own.
As if their bodies are strictly for fun,
and when a contradiction to that point comes up
then equality is done.

I’m not a real man.

I’ve never been that way,
and it wasn’t something I planned.
Everything they stand for is against what I believe.
Everything they believe isn’t for what I stand.




I wasn’t going to add this but I thought I should just because a lot of people can’t separate “hey I like that!” from the idea that just because you fit a description doesn’t mean you are exactly what’s being described.  Just because someone likes MMA or NASCAR or whatever doesn’t mean they are a horrible person.  It doesn’t mean they are a part of toxic masculinity, just that generally a toxic male likes all of those things and follows all of those ideals.  So, yeah.  Don’t yell at me.

Women Wednesday

I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up because my memory is garbage but I thought I would like to dedicate an entire day to celebrating women in whatever way I can think of whenever I can think of it.  Of course most of my rambling writings are about women and me pining for them, but that’s different.  This isn’t going to be going on about lost love or potential romance but positively embracing a culture that includes women as equals and not merely sex objects and baby makers.


It’s funny how a male-centric society twists everything.  It really isn’t funny, it makes sense.  Most things that are female oriented are seen as less than or second rate.  Cute.  Quaint.

Women’s sports, for example.  Growing up in a sports-loving household we only really watched baseball and football.  Every sport has its own female offshoot that isn’t as popular for a myriad of reasons but nobody ever thinks as to why.  The main reason given is simply because men are better at sports then women.  It’s science, right?  Man is strong, woman is weak.  Grunt.

Perhaps it could be because society funnels millions upon millions of dollars into training these male athletes to perform at the top of their ability while women athletes get the bottom scrapes of the barrel.  Boys are shown from a young age that their heroes can be sports stars while women have had few athletes in the past to look up to, and those they did have either had to go through hell to get to where they were or were physical marvels that had a physique that not every girl could reach.

Men are just better at sports, right?  If this were true then offshoot leagues of baseball and football and basketball that start up and fail, or are highly diminished in quality of play, shouldn’t happen.  There should be an endless supply of amazing athletes to feed these leagues.  But that isn’t the case because what happens is the trove of dollars set aside to scout, train and develop these athletes is mainly spent on men and in some cases twice as much.

If the dollars were spent more equally by college sports and professional perhaps the quality of play that is seen as less than would be improved?  Or does it even need to be?

Think of the best tennis player you can think of right now.  My first thought always goes to Serena Williams.  She is incredible, to put it lightly.
I don’t watch soccer but I will never forget the 1999 FIFA Women’s Cup Final with Brandy Chastain’s winning kick.  Not because of her reaction afterwards but because of the intensity of the game and how much of an amazing match it was.  Outside of that I can’t recall a single soccer game aside from the one where the French player head butted the guy in the chest like a psychopath.

So, again, maybe it’s all just false beliefs we’re believing that we were told as children that women’s sports isn’t as good as men’s sports.  Maybe, with a little more support, they can be just as entertaining.  Perhaps not in the form of raw power across the board but as an equally entertaining event.

There are a lot of false or errant beliefs I was fed when I was younger.  Parents often end up doing that to their children.  Political views.  Religious views.  Societal views.  When we get old enough to ask questions a lot of the time we still accept some of what we were shown as being fact when we really don’t know.  During the civil rights movement people didn’t accept that non-whites and women shouldn’t have a voice even if they were told those lies as they were growing up.  We should continue to question our own lies, no matter how trivial seeming because they always lead deeper.

Nighttime Rituals

You always think I let you go to bed first because I’m too engrossed in what I’m watching.
Or I’m doing something that’s more important than you
But the truth is I just like to look at you when you’re in the middle of something.
When you’re not watching me.
When you’re not aware I’m there.
And I can admire you from the doorway.
The way you slip your clothes off and into something much less.
It makes me want to help you off with the rest.
Serenity can be captured in a picture
and its the sight of you when I crack the door open and the light spills in
You’re asleep
or at least pretending to be
and either way when I slip in next to you all i want to be is against you
and feel the warmth of your skin
and that soft moan of comfort as our limbs find their home until morning