Grey – A peek from under the wet blanket

“It’s an art to live with pain… mix the light into gray.” – Eddie Vedder

late-on-time

Listen, while I tell you a story of grey. The grey wraps around my soul in a haze of unwanted anxiety, a watered down black, like dark swirls in spoiled milk. These streaks of deteriorated joy cover my lens, my warm blanket soaked with fruitless tears. Feelings are sharp and cutting, nothing is gained by the sorrow. My grey love backfires, I point it toward her but the pain is set loose on my soul. This grey soaks me, in vain I try to keep myself warm in the breeze of cool emotion. Grey is my elixir of madness. I drink deep from the drought of darkness gone bad. Stormy clouds gather, a condensation of holiness evaporated from the lake of my soul, leaving it a lifeless puddle of unfathomable sorrow. Now you know of my affliction my curious companion, my lifelong condition of grey. Pray that you escape its mesmerizing effects and that you with the brightness of healthy hope, avoid this quicksand of a tortured mind.

For help with depression: Symptoms, Warnings, Solutions

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The Waiting Vengeance

“Some justice, though did not deal with kindheartedness or good feeling toward others. No, justice had a darker side, a gray area where it mingled alongside vengeance, and only the wise and pure of heart were able to tell the two apart. That kind of justice was swift. It was only called upon after mercy and morals fail. It was the darkest form of goodness known to anyone, even the gods, and required only the strongest, most daring men to bring about.” ― Evan Meekins, The Black Banner

theextravagantbum

The problem is when I’m hurt, especially publicly hurt, there is pressure, both inside and out to exact revenge and “take care of your business”, and generally, the quicker, the better. To the regular guy, this is real, but to those whose mental condition, or whose social position, puts them at more precarious odds with vengeance, it is crucial to examine the actions considered before acting them out. It is expected by both violent subcultures and societal inputs, movies and books, that with great aggression and extreme guile a man should strike back at that evil which caused the hurt. To not strike back causes a loss of credibility within those cultures as well as a strike against the ego. The names that are given to those who do not strike back with the same or more violence than what is done to them, are not pleasant nor easy to bear. But wait! There is an element in warfare that waiting is part of the plan. It indicates wisdom and provides opportunity for an element of surprise to those who refuse to be provoked by the poking and prodding of careless violent predators. If I am easily provoked, then I am easily controlled. To ruin me only requires irritation, and the rest I’ll do on my own. There is a time and a place, to hold back a temper, put that gun down, knowing that the triggers of violence are controlled by the one waiting. More can be served by waiting and letting the violators of my life turn on themselves than by acting on an out of control violent spree that may end up hurting people other than the intended perpetrator(s), and may hurt the vigilante by the confinement of jail, institutions, or death, or the burden of never being able to speak of that which is done. There is a better way than to be violent immediately. Know myself, then my enemy. Hold my peace, the opportunity will come. When my defense is sure, then my victory is absolute.

Trickbag – Setting me up

“Men are so simple and yield so readily to the desires of the moment that he who will trick will always find another who will suffer to be tricked.” – Niccolo Machiavelli 

Thinking you would catch me in a *trickbag of a players game

Pushed to limits of civil thought, left with a criminal’s way

Laughing thinking that never the gun would flash and knife bleed

Lay down the weapons of flesh for the attack that brings to seed

A falcon’s wings now serve me better than a dragons breath

These three ends you chose for me: jails, institutions, and death

Homicidal fantasies I would loath to create a reality

I shun the sad you see I can never be your patsy

Flying high above the fray, killers killing each other to despise

I gather rising winds of peace beneath my tattered wings to rise

They almost had me, looking for a vulnerable spot with hate

Finding my weakness, a harbinger of danger to reveal my strength

They came against me as one, now they run in divided derision

I enjoy the meal now, prepared in the presence of their incursion

Freedom is mine once again, in spite of me, in spite of them

Caught away by spirits leading, the world of success my diadem

*trick bag – setting someone up to do things they would normally never do using peer pressure, elicit substances, alcohol, women, or whatever means to manipulate.

Crackhead – A day in the life

Be advised that this post may trigger those who are prone to addictions. This post is written, not to glorify drug use with “war stories”, but to show the futility and danger faced daily by those addicted. Take time and patience with the addicts, you may the next one that needs the help. 

“Click, click”, the metallic voice of the AK told me all I needed to know. I sat down, quickly, in the darkened room. Behind me, open doors, black holes of doom in my mind, I had no idea what or who was waiting there. Two of them stood in front of me, one with the barrel pointed at my eye. “Grandma”, as they reverently referred to her, sat at the table in the kitchen, one bare light bulb lighting the table and a few baggies in front of her. Two more thugs stood by her side, armed, their expression disinterested, just another night to them. To me however, it was an epiphany. I was looking down the barrel of my life. The man with his gun on me shouted, “smoke it!”. I guess my frequent trips to their house that night inspired some paranoia, or perhaps the doses of high grade crack fueled their suspicions. It didn’t matter which, now, the paranoia was going to be mine. I took the pipe, hazed with brownish yellow on the inside, and balanced the large rock on the end. It was the size of my pinky nail. There was no choice, no option, it was smoke it or die. 

I held the flame to the pipe, melted the crack in place, and with my held tilted way back, lit it up. I heard the crackle of my mind as I took a deep breath of rock. I couldn’t finish it, I slumped back, my ears ringing loudly, vision growing narrow, my heart leaping furiously to catch up to an unnatural rhythm that would have killed most men. I slumped back in the chair, my eyes wide, my ears attuned to a supernatural level of hearing. Every creak, whisper, and movement was amplified to startling levels. A mind gripping fear took hold, all those dark rooms, all these guns, everything geared to annihilate me. Satisfied, the goon took the gun away from my eye, and smiled a knowing smile. I was not a cop, I was a rock star without a guitar. “Leave now”, he said, throwing the eight-ball I came for, “and don’t come back tonight”. 

You didn’t need to tell me twice, I left with my feet traveling faster than my mind, driving without knowing where I was going. I just wanted away. Away from there, and away from all that tormented me. Away from the loneliness, the pain, the rejection, the failure of my life. Away to a room, where all that waited was fear and my little rocks. No love there, no hope, only hours of torment, compounded by days of depression and sadness as I recovered from my 5 day binge. Sad life, sad time, another night in the life of a crack head.

The Meat Grinder – Making it through the abuse

“[Referring to rape] It already is bigger than everything else. It lives in front of me, behind me, next to me, inside me every single day. My schedule is dictated by it, my habits by it, my music by it.” – Daisy Whitney, The Mockingbirds 

The following is a graphic and personal account of rape. It is not for the faint of heart nor is it written for editorial criticism. It is written to help people that have fallen victim to rape to be encouraged and to seek help. I know, I understand, don’t give up your fight to live life happy again.

Innocent. Walking home from school after getting in trouble, I saw him, my skin crawled, I knew already, something was wrong. He grabbed me by the neck and whispered, “Let’s go see a bird’s nest little boy, it’s over here in the woods.” A small path leading the way through the corner of the forest from the school to another road, became my gateway to hell. I knew he was dangerous, but how, that I wasn’t aware of, yet. Fear gripped me, for years I fought the people in my neighborhood and school, I thought this time they got me. The memories blur at this point but in a few words without any embellishment, I was raped. During the rape, I only feared for my life, I didn’t care what he did, only what he might do, what he said he was going to do. A kind of shock set in, a surreal reality, where pain seemed distant but terror omnipresent. The damage to my body was of small consequence compared to the ravaging of my mind. His words echoed, “If you move, I will kill you.” I heard him scurry off through the woods.

I was still bent over, holding on to a log for support. I managed to find a few leaves to wipe what was left of him off of me. I was to young to really know what it was that I was wiping off, but the knowledge was coming together in a maelstrom of feelings in my mind. It was agony, not the pain of my body, but, deciding to move. I knew he was serious about killing me, and the thought held me stationary for a long while, how long I don’t remember. The shock was merciful, a strange numbness surrounded my body and mind, the only thing I could feel was fear.

I had to decide to move, that meant that I, at 10 years old, made a life or death decision. I had to move, I don’t care if he kills me. That was the beginning of a long mental degradation of my love of life. I stood up, and crept out of the woods, every twig crack and leaf crunch making the most unbearable noise, driving the spike of terror straight through my mind, through my soul, and deep into my heart. I made it out of the woods, but into a long journey of recovery from pain that would take me through untold nightmares and fears. Fear was now my closest friend, my enemy, and my lover. My mind now my worst enemy. Only a few can know the pain of facing death and terror, walking through that gauntlet with numb courage, pressing on to live whatever of life is left for the broken and wounded.

Without going through all the gruesome facts, what happened to me left me broken in way I could never imagine, the worst being an incredible fear that he was out there still, waiting to kill me. Constant paranoia now pursued my little mind, evil forebodings, a foreshortened future, I will not live to see tomorrow, my will to live a flash in the pan. I had nightmares and flashbacks now, to escort me on my journey. I would be constantly on high alert, looking not just for him, but for others that would hurt me as well. It seemed that everyone was out to get me, and to this day, I struggle with trust, knowing how quickly my peace and security, or what shreds of it were left, can be taken. It’s hard to keep living knowing how quickly someone else can ruin your life, at times I think myself better off dead. 

I press on though, with a passion to live and fight against the evil that would destroy me, whether a physical embodiment of it, or a mental shadow. Homicidal fantasies now run rampant through my mind, I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun a few times, finger on the trigger, thoughts racing. He shot me, wounding me far beyond physical pain, I now wanted to kill him, to eradicate his vile semen from the world of the living. He never was caught, still roaming about I imagine, destroying other lives.

Within a few years, I found a misguided and passionate faith, that although I practiced it wrong, gave me hope to press forward. Whenever the tears blinded my eyes, the way blurry and painful, I began to feel a power greater than me, greater than my fear, pressing me onward and upward. I will not succumb to the destructive vices that call for my attention. I talked to counselors innumerable, psychiatrists by the handful, and doctors by the dozen, trying to find a way through the vast wilderness of brokenness. Addictions formed rapidly toward anything that gave me pleasure, anything to take me away from the constant and pressing pain and awkwardness of being me, a scared little boy, trying just to survive. I write these things to give you hope. You may have never told anyone what happened to you. Or, you could, like me, have admitted it but quickly moved on thinking that nothing is wrong, ignoring the warnings that you are critically injured inside. Pray to your God, that he would give you grace to overcome that moment and its repercussions. Talk to someone professionally, a pastor or counselor. 

Do not ignore the bleeding that is happening in your soul. It’s not your fault, you were wounded by another’s vice and selfish pursuit. I know this one thing, and listen to me my dear friends and strangers to my life, you can live and be happy after falling prey to an attacker(s). After losing your innocence and trust, you can recover and be a strength to others that like us, have gone through the meat grinder of rape, and have our revenge in a life well lived as a victor and not a victim.

The Meat Grinder – Making it through the abuse

“[Referring to rape] It already is bigger than everything else. It lives in front of me, behind me, next to me, inside me every single day. My schedule is dictated by it, my habits by it, my music by it.” – Daisy Whitney, The Mockingbirds 

The following is a graphic and personal account of rape. It is not for the faint of heart nor is it written for editorial criticism. It is written to help people that have fallen victim to rape to be encouraged and to seek help. I know, I understand, don’t give up your fight to live life happy again.

Innocent. Walking home from school after getting in trouble, I saw him, my skin crawled, I knew already, something was wrong. He grabbed me by the neck and whispered, “Let’s go see a bird’s nest little boy, it’s over here in the woods.” A small path leading the way through the corner of the forest from the school to another road, became my gateway to hell. I knew he was dangerous, but how, that I wasn’t aware of, yet. Fear gripped me, for years I fought the people in my neighborhood and school, I thought this time they got me. The memories blur at this point but in a few words without any embellishment, I was raped. During the rape, I only feared for my life, I didn’t care what he did, only what he might do, what he said he was going to do. A kind of shock set in, a surreal reality, where pain seemed distant but terror omnipresent. The damage to my body was of small consequence compared to the ravaging of my mind. His words echoed, “If you move, I will kill you.” I heard him scurry off through the woods.

I was still bent over, holding on to a log for support. I managed to find a few leaves to wipe what was left of him off of me. I was to young to really know what it was that I was wiping off, but the knowledge was coming together in a maelstrom of feelings in my mind. It was agony, not the pain of my body, but, deciding to move. I knew he was serious about killing me, and the thought held me stationary for a long while, how long I don’t remember. The shock was merciful, a strange numbness surrounded my body and mind, the only thing I could feel was fear.

I had to decide to move, that meant that I, at 10 years old, made a life or death decision. I had to move, I don’t care if he kills me. That was the beginning of a long mental degradation of my love of life. I stood up, and crept out of the woods, every twig crack and leaf crunch making the most unbearable noise, driving the spike of terror straight through my mind, through my soul, and deep into my heart. I made it out of the woods, but into a long journey of recovery from pain that would take me through untold nightmares and fears. Fear was now my closest friend, my enemy, and my lover. My mind now my worst enemy. Only a few can know the pain of facing death and terror, walking through that gauntlet with numb courage, pressing on to live whatever of life is left for the broken and wounded.

Without going through all the gruesome facts, what happened to me left me broken in way I could never imagine, the worst being an incredible fear that he was out there still, waiting to kill me. Constant paranoia now pursued my little mind, evil forebodings, a foreshortened future, I will not live to see tomorrow, my will to live a flash in the pan. I had nightmares and flashbacks now, to escort me on my journey. I would be constantly on high alert, looking not just for him, but for others that would hurt me as well. It seemed that everyone was out to get me, and to this day, I struggle with trust, knowing how quickly my peace and security, or what shreds of it were left, can be taken. It’s hard to keep living knowing how quickly someone else can ruin your life, at times I think myself better off dead. 

I press on though, with a passion to live and fight against the evil that would destroy me, whether a physical embodiment of it, or a mental shadow. Homicidal fantasies now run rampant through my mind, I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun a few times, finger on the trigger, thoughts racing. He shot me, wounding me far beyond physical pain, I now wanted to kill him, to eradicate his vile semen from the world of the living. He never was caught, still roaming about I imagine, destroying other lives.

Within a few years, I found a misguided and passionate faith, that although I practiced it wrong, gave me hope to press forward. Whenever the tears blinded my eyes, the way blurry and painful, I began to feel a power greater than me, greater than my fear, pressing me onward and upward. I will not succumb to the destructive vices that call for my attention. I talked to counselors innumerable, psychiatrists by the handful, and doctors by the dozen, trying to find a way through the vast wilderness of brokenness. Addictions formed rapidly toward anything that gave me pleasure, anything to take me away from the constant and pressing pain and awkwardness of being me, a scared little boy, trying just to survive. I write these things to give you hope. You may have never told anyone what happened to you. Or, you could, like me, have admitted it but quickly moved on thinking that nothing is wrong, ignoring the warnings that you are critically injured inside. Pray to your God, that he would give you grace to overcome that moment and its repercussions. Talk to someone professionally, a pastor or counselor. 

Do not ignore the bleeding that is happening in your soul. It’s not your fault, you were wounded by another’s vice and selfish pursuit. I know this one thing, and listen to me my dear friends and strangers to my life, you can live and be happy after falling prey to an attacker(s). After losing your innocence and trust, you can recover and be a strength to others that like us, have gone through the meat grinder of rape, and have our revenge in a life well lived as a victor and not a victim.

The Queen – Chapter 11 – Taking out the trash

The sting of the needle, inserted quickly out of necessity, brought me back to consciousness. The gray bearded, decrepit doc had me laying on the kitchen counter, working out of an old leather bag which resembled the texture of his skin. Evidently I was out for a while and as he busied himself cleaning up, I looked over my shoulder, seeing the body of our attacker wrapped in heavy plastic, red smears on the inside looking like a crazed water-color painting. My Queen was calm, her hands stroking the blood, my and his, from my body.  I noticed a strength in me, her strength, unafraid and capable of handling these situations, enabled me, giving me confidence and lifting me above fear. She was amazing, and I owed my life to her now, as she did me for had I not taken the hit, she surely would be the one in water colored plastic. I saw her reach under the counter, pressing something, the cabinet above the sink shuttered and then flipped into itself revealing a stash of items, the most prominent of which were stacks of green, fresh money, the counting straps still banding them together. Grabbing a couple of bundles she handed them to the doc, the street has its own health care system. Letting sleep claim me again, I dreamed of the nights with my queen, her body an escort into the galaxies of pleasure beyond my experience.

The doc left satisfied and we settled into an evening of wine and pills, my Queen drowning my pain and apprehension with kisses down my neck and chest, settling into a rhythm with her hair in my lap. Closing my eyes, I turned to see the body again, I inquired about how to handle the trash. “The cleaners would be here soon, don’t worry.” She went back to her self-imposed task of intimating sexual pleasure on her bodyguard. As I grew closer to the summit of my desire, I recalled that this was the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle.

NEXT CHAPTER

Related Posts: The Queen,  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11,, Part 12, Part 13

The Queen – Chapter 10 – The Resistance

image credit: nahom1

Whispering directions to her room, her voice was scant, forcing me to listen. Speaking softly, she could make others stop their routine to pay attention. Her eyes pulling them, me, closer as we leaned in to listen. She led me to her house, a loft in an unpretentious part of town. The door popped when she opened it, perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. My Queen had access to many places I’m sure, not to mention the access she gains so readily to the hearts of her subjects. The smell of incense, strong and lingering, permeated her sanctuary, adding an element of Eros to the sultry décor. I turned to put up my jacket, damp from the evening dew of our walk, and bending down to untie my boots, I noticed she was gone from the room. I knew where she went, a trail of garments, first her jacket, then more personal items, her black and lacy bra, her panties stretching out from tip of her high-heeled shoes, all led to the shower, now filling with steam.

Following this not so subtle trail was easy, and looking up I caught sight of her voluptuous body sliding behind the clear shower glass enclosure. My voyeurism was cut short by the steam of the shower rapidly filling the now heated bathroom, my body filled with heat of a different sort. The door was left open, in an invitation that I should join her. I quickly disrobed, the tiles giving a sharp crack of complaint when my pistol hit the floor, in my haste I forgot the gun was stuck in my waistband. I heard a giggle come from the shower, she called out, “I have something to handle that”. Meaning a holster, I thought, however, I was naked now and saw she had rubbed the mist off the glass to peek at my manhood. I responded almost immediately, grateful that she knows how to excite me beyond every threshold of passion I ever knew.

I watched her hands caress her body, her glistening skin a perfect canvas for the long streaks of soap trails. She knew how to touch herself, her mouth responding with open acclamation of passions’ triumph over her body. I reached out to touch the Queen, with one hand she took herself and the other took me. With a rhythm born from an ancient percussion of tribal hedonistic dance, we moved together. Every part of her taking me without reservation. I watched as her nipples swelled with anticipation, my tongue gathering the hot streams of water from their graceful tips. I pulled her leg up in the crook of my arm and proceeded to take deep her offerings of pleasure for my parched soul. She responded to my every move, not just receiving me, but giving me herself. We entwined over, around, under, our bodies desire facilitated by the hot water and the oil she poured on our tangle of lust. My Queen, my queen, you have taken me as I have you. I kissed her deep as I finished, only to hear the sharp break of glass and feel a hot sting drive itself deep in my shoulder. 

Blood spattered across my Queens cheek, the bullet passed through me and hit the tile, a few inches over from her head. With her eyes wide in fear, but hot with rage, she grabbed me tight and pushed me through the shattered shower door, I, even in shock, knew what she knew, my pistol was right by the shower, under my pants. With a huge shove that could only been born of adrenalin, she ran me into the intruder. As he and I stumbled in a frantic and fierce dance of death, she grabbed the pistol and with confident defiance placed it within inches of his ear, pulling the trigger, putting an emphatic resistance to the defilement of her palace. The shot deafened me, my ears were ringing, my mind was cloudy, my vision going blurry, my voice only asking if she was OK. She whispered, her voice strong and controlled, that she was fine but she needed to get help for me immediately. As I let her words lead me to hope, I recalled that this is the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle. 

NEXT CHAPTER

Related Posts: The Queen Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, 

Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11, Part 12, Part 13

Also published in Broowaha

The Queen – Chapter 10 – The Resistance

image credit: nahom1

Whispering directions to her room, her voice was scant, forcing me to listen. Speaking softly, she could make others stop their routine to pay attention. Her eyes pulling them, me, closer as we leaned in to listen. She led me to her house, a loft in an unpretentious part of town. The door popped when she opened it, perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. My Queen had access to many places I’m sure, not to mention the access she gains so readily to the hearts of her subjects. The smell of incense, strong and lingering, permeated her sanctuary, adding an element of Eros to the sultry décor. I turned to put up my jacket, damp from the evening dew of our walk, and bending down to untie my boots, I noticed she was gone from the room. I knew where she went, a trail of garments, first her jacket, then more personal items, her black and lacy bra, her panties stretching out from tip of her high-heeled shoes, all led to the shower, now filling with steam.

Following this not so subtle trail was easy, and looking up I caught sight of her voluptuous body sliding behind the clear shower glass enclosure. My voyeurism was cut short by the steam of the shower rapidly filling the now heated bathroom, my body filled with heat of a different sort. The door was left open, in an invitation that I should join her. I quickly disrobed, the tiles giving a sharp crack of complaint when my pistol hit the floor, in my haste I forgot the gun was stuck in my waistband. I heard a giggle come from the shower, she called out, “I have something to handle that”. Meaning a holster, I thought, however, I was naked now and saw she had rubbed the mist off the glass to peek at my manhood. I responded almost immediately, grateful that she knows how to excite me beyond every threshold of passion I ever knew.

I watched her hands caress her body, her glistening skin a perfect canvas for the long streaks of soap trails. She knew how to touch herself, her mouth responding with open acclamation of passions’ triumph over her body. I reached out to touch the Queen, with one hand she took herself and the other took me. With a rhythm born from an ancient percussion of tribal hedonistic dance, we moved together. Every part of her taking me without reservation. I watched as her nipples swelled with anticipation, my tongue gathering the hot streams of water from their graceful tips. I pulled her leg up in the crook of my arm and proceeded to take deep her offerings of pleasure for my parched soul. She responded to my every move, not just receiving me, but giving me herself. We entwined over, around, under, our bodies desire facilitated by the hot water and the oil she poured on our tangle of lust. My Queen, my queen, you have taken me as I have you. I kissed her deep as I finished, only to hear the sharp break of glass and feel a hot sting drive itself deep in my shoulder. 

Blood spattered across my Queens cheek, the bullet passed through me and hit the tile, a few inches over from her head. With her eyes wide in fear, but hot with rage, she grabbed me tight and pushed me through the shattered shower door, I, even in shock, knew what she knew, my pistol was right by the shower, under my pants. With a huge shove that could only been born of adrenalin, she ran me into the intruder. As he and I stumbled in a frantic and fierce dance of death, she grabbed the pistol and with confident defiance placed it within inches of his ear, pulling the trigger, putting an emphatic resistance to the defilement of her palace. The shot deafened me, my ears were ringing, my mind was cloudy, my vision going blurry, my voice only asking if she was OK. She whispered, her voice strong and controlled, that she was fine but she needed to get help for me immediately. As I let her words lead me to hope, I recalled that this is the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle. 

NEXT CHAPTER

Related Posts: The Queen Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, 

Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11, Part 12, Part 13

Also published in Broowaha

Secret Understanding

“I thought about how there are two types of secrets: the kind you want to keep in, and the kind you don’t dare to let out.” ― Ally Carter, Don’t Judge a Girl by Her Cover

“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.” ― André Malraux 

 

I see you hiding, thinking there is no one like you. Embarrassed by your fantasies and feeling guilty about your thoughts. No one that understands, no one that imagines what you imagine. Your mind takes trips, far, far away, demanding escalation and execution of your deviant fantasies. Listen to the tale of two dogs, one evil and one good, both fighting for survival inside of you. Which dog wins? The one you feed. The one you take care of.

Worrying about being found out, you hide those habits carefully. How many times have you come close to being discovered by those close to you? Scared out of your mind, thinking that they know, and then, the relief you found when they meant something else. Now that I have your attention, stop it! Stop it before it’s too late.

Don’t follow that impulse, that desire. It’s not that easy is it? The desire turns like snakes in your stomach, impulses to follow despised cravings that will rob your freedom and your life. The best defense is to not be there. Don’t put yourself anywhere near that hot spot. Stop calling her (him), stop hanging around them (it). Change your environment. Close that closet and never walk back.

But It’s not possible for you to stop is it? Then please, please, do not harm anyone…your fighting it, you want it. It’s easy to follow your urge, your lust. Please don’t do it. Put away that thing your holding. Your hate. Your rage. Your gun. Your shame. Your razor. Put them away. I’ve done it, you can to. There is a way out.

Also published in: Broowaha