bacondog

“Differently” They love to use that word, those doctors and teachers. “You learn differently.” “You think differently.” “Your mind works differently.” That’s fine when you’re grown and complacent. It’s fine for doctors who use it to keep from admitting they don’t understand it either. It’s fine for teachers who only have to follow instructions on a note from a doctor or parent. When you’re a kid though, it’s never enough, and it never will be. It makes as much sense as “Because I said so.” You’re a child. You want to know. You want to u

Look at my hands. Don't glance, but look. These hands tell far greater a tale than any book, just look. The cuts, calluses, and stains are proof of my pains, And the holes for a figurative nail, my grief, explains. Figurative, but still somehow litteral. For my woes can be biblical. For my woes are the worst I have felt, and have made me cynical. My unforgivable sins. They haunt me, those misdeeds. My creed is to you God, and in this world of wants and needs I need you. I need forgiveness, for I have sinned and I know I shall sin. I will sin again, As the storm follows the wind so too does my weakness lead my sin. Sin loves me God. And help m

How cruel, the teases she so callously sends to my doorstep; caressing my heart with lustering pulchritude, till all my sense and reason render impotent. And in those miserable spaces where my intellect recompense I ask, “Did she ever truly love me?” My wit does chant its antiphon clearly into my ear. “She is lies, and she is beautiful.” And what is more beautiful than a lie? From the time man rose from all the creatures and gained soul and sentience, he has lied. Once a child learns to commune, so too does it learn to lie. It is the unique trait of man to ask others what he does not understand; and the first question

I confess, my love is dying out Because all you want is someone cuss you out. "Love? What's that?" You ask like I have the answer, But when I do answer you get mad like I diagnosed you with cancer. Your a hot mess, and I'm addicted to that I guess. Want someone to treat you like shit at best? Fine, here goes my brutal truth, Your acting like a youth I tell you sweet words till I have tooth decay But all you wanna do is play. You don't want a man, you want a bully And you start blaming me when you can't get that from me. I'm not your type. Clickity click type type, writing you love letters through Skype. And you say you want something better,

Bruises on pale, throb and assail against a broken mind and a broken soul while she stares through the bullet hole. A painting of pink and red grace the kitchen walls and the crack of the gun still echoes down the halls. He falls. The thud to her is louder than the powder, and will ring in her head for hours. Next comes waves of nausea and dizzy spells, while she wonders if she's been damned to hell. Denial attempts to drive her senile and all the while she shouts to God for miles and miles. The fault she places and blame she denies. She screams her prayers like battle cries. Then come pleas of mercy, to revive him anew; she shakes his corpse

Who, you ask, am I? Such a question is so unfair! It's a question we all must bare. We never learn who we truly are The answer near, simultaneously far Now "what", you ask? What am I? That question is so unkind! For man knows not what he is inside And knows not why he lives or dies. Yet I do, it's true, I know it all I know each rise and minor fall So man I am not, but what I am I know not I knew it once, but since then I forgot So why not a fly? Yes, I think I'd like that. Or, perhaps not. I can't be swat and go "splat" Not a man. Not a fly. Maybe a ghost? Perhaps. Perhaps not; since I require no host. Not a man, not a fly. Not a ghost am I