Self Deceived –

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.”
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov  



Coming from nowhere, appearing within,
Came a thought born in weakness
It wore a disarming grin

Innocent at first, it seemed to be all true
I believed the thought as it was
There seemed nothing I could do

As in a wild fire, all the facts would burn
Self deception at its best

Makes it impossible to learn 


First published in



My Name Is Not Pain –

“If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you’ve made, if they don’t realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go.”
When as a child with innocent ears
I heard my name with violent tears
Then known as a child abused
My name whispered one being used
Older and with children of mine
My name was called all the time
Years went by and then I left home
My name became as one unknown
Later in life the blooming occurred
A name of mine was an addiction slur
An old man now an ancient in days
My name is what I make it say
In a bold unwavering voice I pray
My name will never again be pain


First published in


Hands – Abandoned to touch

“Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.” 
Hands, sensual, flowing, graceful.
Your hands dance with mine,
Flowing like a gentle stream, around the banks of me
The touch so slight, not holding, but grazing, delighting
Pleasure, not sexual, but pure, innocent,
Heat, energy, not forceful, but powerful
Your hands, so wonderful to watch, to feel, to know



“The boy is fragile, broken—broke himself—broke everything. I asked him why he did it. He said because the world was unlivable. He said it was unlovable, 
but I think he meant himself.” – Brenna Yovanoff

“Push, pull, shove me, to that end we both know is there
Cheat, steal, cut me, when we both know you don’t care
Lie, prey, vex me, the broken windshield will show
Anger, pain, crush me, glass in bloodied water glows” 

Love so strong and innocent dies betrayed, the broken windshield another victim of your lies. My knuckles are wounded from defending your evil intentions. The glass buried in them, kept there by darkened bloody scabs, seeps out, along with your memory, in tainted fluids of slow death. This windshield isn’t the first broken by fists of rage fueled with shattered feelings from your childish manipulations of my undefiled affection. A little grin of amusement decorates your facade, you’re entertained by the show you’ve created, and with that smirk, you settle back to wait. Playing the innocent, you set the trap for another Savior to ride in on his white horse, a chivalrous fool coming to your feigned rescue. Like you, the windshield is easily replaced, it’s easy to buy inanimate cold things.

Watching Porn – An intellectual assessment of the viewing

“Pornography is about dominance. Erotica is about mutuality.” – Gloria Steinem

It started when I was little, so little that my body scarcely knew what to do. Though guilt inflicted itself on me by nature and nurture, still I found solace in the pictures, a sense of peace and pleasure. The assuaging of my guilt, an advantage, as others commit that which intrigues me. The sordid interactions of the players on film and paper exempted me from the game of life. Watching removed me from the elements of rejection and worthlessness, instilling a pleasure that gave me sweet relief from the pain of this torturous childhood that cursed me.

The acts depicted were a reminder of those forced on me. By seeing those acts replayed by others, and gaining pleasure from the same, they gave me a sense of control over what had and would happen to me. Bodies flow and move and engage, bringing climax or a heightened sense of control as they guide their passions toward mysterious goals. Who can know what is in the heart of the one taking another sexually? Perverse and vile thoughts abound in that stormy atmosphere; refreshing rain on one hand, a lashing and punishing wind on the other. So I watch. 

Gaining a surreptitious sense of control over things done to me by the beautiful lewdness of naked and bound play things. Of great interest to me are the abnormal psychological patterns expressed in my thoughts as I see the engagement. A baton of deviation passed on from generation to generation by not so subtle players who leaving the film of their imagination, now commit those acts on the fledgling innocents, and not so innocents, in life’s journey.

The act of sex is not so much the goal, control is. Control and power. Control over those acts which I had no choice, power over those who have hurt me, the faces of those violators superimposed on the victim in the play. So I watch and pray that I will never commit those acts that run so vividly through my mind. So I watch. Is there a choice anymore? What drug will relieve me this way? What counseling will subdue the raging fire, the misguided but ever true passion?

None ever has, nor will any ever, keep these demons at bay but one, that is my God, strong and ready to hold me by the reigns and never let me go, giving me the gift of choice. I must choose wisely, the way is costly. The power of this thing is so strong, I don’t want to admit the choice. I want to give in and never whisper a prayer for forgiveness. Prayers are hard now, harder still, the choices.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine