Shall I find thee all in ice ensnared,
the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,
trapped in a wet and wintry grave -
the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?
They brought you here, their souls enslaved.
The altar where your minions prayed -
a brilliant diadem of ice,
the offering that your cold heart craved.
They linger here whilst you entice
their frozen limbs as sacrifice.
Their wizened hands by you declared
the chosen few who paid your price
Must breatheMust breathe
His eyes pierce me
They see into my soul
I can barely think at all now
Bore into me
They draw me in deeper
As I long to be part of him
I crave their taste
Their soft sweet touch
Wishing for lingering kisses
A soft whisper
Into my very soul
His touches elicit loves hope
A deep timbre
Calling me to his side
Whispering wanton desires
Be Thankful for everythingPretend you could take everything you dont like about yourself, every experience that pains you and peel it away like dried paint. Now place it in a box, an old shoe box from a pair of shoes you wore once and will probably never wear again. Seal the box, with duct tape, super glue anything to keep it shut, anything that will lock it away. Wander into the woods, a field, a place no one goes and dig; dig till you disturb the worms and the bugs, dig till you see the water break through the mud. Now throw the box in, cover it up and walk away. Don't look back.
Five years later you return, youre older, wiser and yet you still have come back here. You dig, dig back into the earth you cast yourself away in so long ago. The box is there, its worn and wet, almost not a box but something living. Open it.
You find yourself back at the beginning with the things you hated most. Yet, now you wonder why you did such a thing. Inside that box are not traits and memories that disgu
Love, Hate, Want, NeedSometimes I love you like a child.
Breathing in your every word.
I couldnt fault you
Even if I tried.
Sometimes I hate you like a cynic.
Despairing in the silences.
I convince myself
I dont need you.
Sometimes I like you as a friend.
Jokes and taunts are all in good fun.
I dance with you
And have the time of my life.
Sometimes I want you like a whore.
Ripping at clothes,
Letting that heady feeling win me over.
Your kisses and touches
Take me away.
Sometimes I need you like a newborn.
Paralysed in the dark.
Im alone and unworthy
But I know you'll have me as I am.
A child, a cynic, a friend
When Im as fragile as an infant
Or when my desire turns to flames.
I know youll love me just for me
And thats the only thing I need,
For instead of falling backwards,
I fall safe into your arms.
His very touch makes her shake
She thought she was dreaming but feels awake
Whe he runs his hands run down her thighs
She gasps and leans up to open her eyes
He starts to turn her over on her back
She realizes it's her love and starts to relax
They stare each other in the eyes
He gets on top of her and she sighs
She thinks of how this very moment makes her feel
And how every breathe she makes he seems to steal
She grips onto his back and pulls him against her
She prepares herself physically for whats about to occur
Breathing harder and harder staring him in the eyes
She brings her legs up and encloses him in between her thighs
His body feels soft against her chest
She arches her back and longs to rest
Waiting for the very moment she longs for
She cries out to tell him more
The breathing grows heavier and begins to die
She relaxes and here's him give a big sigh
He kisses her gently and whispers his love
They part once again and wait for another moment
When they can again make love.
Gender Identity Disorder
Gender identity disorder is distressing to those who have it. It is especially difficult to cope with because it remains unresolved until gender reassignment surgery has been performed. Most people with this disorder grow up feeling rejected and out of place. Suicide attempts and substance abuse are common. Most adolescents and adults with the disorder eventually attempt to pass or live as members of the opposite sex.
Gender identity disorder may be as old as humanity. Cultural anthropologists and other scientists have observed a number of cross-gender behaviours in classical and Hindu mythology, Western and Asian classical history, and in many late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century pre-literate cultures. This consistent record across cultures and time lends support to the notion that the disorder may be, at least in part, biological in origin. Not all behavioural scientists share this conclusion, however.
Most experts agree that such temporary or episodic adopting of behaviours
I will never know, but I wouldTRANSMEN
I will never know how painful it is to get caught in my zipper. I would take the chance, if it meant I had a penis and I could pee standing up
I will never know how embarrassing it is to get an erection in public. I would happily hide my visible arousal, if it meant I could get an erection.
I will never know the disgust of having to go to the doctor for a prostate exam. I would go and get an exam every week, if it meant I had a prostate.
I will never know the agony of being kicked in the balls. I wouldn't curse or scream about it, if it meant I had balls that could be injured.
I will never need to use a condom for the reason "I don't want my partner to get pregnant". I'd never gripe about having to use a condom, if it meant I had the ability to get someone pregnant.
I will never know the moodiness, bloating, and cramps of having PMS. I would not complain and I would try to deal with the agony, if it meant I got a period.
I will never know the dread of going to a g
Time for some blind, fuming RAGEI've been storing this one up for a while. I realize here, I'm probably preaching to the choir but if I don't say this, I'm going to explode. I've been bottling this for way too long. If anything, you people, the appreciators of art, can print this up and hand it to someone when you hear them say shit like this.
(Note: "Asshole" is not just one person but a number of people who have said these things to me and other artists I know.)
Asshole: Art is NOT a job. It's just not. It doesn't involve manual labor, you get to sit on your ass all day, and most of you are even your own bosses! You don't have to deal with HALF the shit WE (who have REAL jobs) do. I bet you work like three hours a week, maybe. Don't even get me started on the idiots who sell those blank canvases and glued together furniture BS for like A JIZZLLION DOLLARS. You want to know what a real job is? Stand on your feet for twelve hours straight listening to people complain day in and day out. THAT is a job. Or how about sa
Runnig From, To MeWith a blank portrait for my face, I wait for the train,
It doesnt seem to come quick enought as im running from my pain,
When it finally arrives, the people rush in,
Acting as though the first one sitting will win,
I dont know where its heading, but I go with the flow,
I start my journey without having to go,
I sit silently, not speaking a word,
Not knowing the people around me are from the same herd,
As time passes, teh faces disappear,
Taking with them my ability to fight fear,
We get to the end of the line, i sit on my seat,
I try to take one step but cant move my feet,
Take just one step, the a few more,
Why cant I move? I have the need to walk out that door,
The door closes quickly, the train takes off,
Why didnt I move? I was almost at the top,
I ran from my painful life, but am now back at the start,
The train doors opens, where I see my soul, my heart.
The Biased Help Wanted SignOnce again, the Help Wanted sign had been set up in the shop window. It sat between a teddy bear with short brown fur and a doll with Snow White's hair and green glass eyes, looking out at the street and the people passing by Leo's Toyshop.
The shop was very old; the name on it's signboard was fading slowly, and it's owner's face showed some new wrinkles every day. Supported by his wooden walking stick Leo stood behind the window display and looked out with a worried expression. Nine years the last boy had stayed with him, until he had to leave town to live with his new wife. It would be difficult to replace him.
"What about this one? She looks nice," said the doll one afternoon.
"She looks a bit like you," grumbled the bear.
"And she is useless," replied the sign.
A middle-aged woman stopped in front of the shop window to look at them. She had dark black hair and green eyes edged with lines of sorrow and short nights. "That doll looks acceptable. I think I will buy her for my niece's