Licking rotten guts,

Moist pus and mucus,

Farting in to cups,

Sicker then Lupus,

Kissing badger butts,

Covered in verrucas.

Never wipe or flush,

Washing in my sputum. 

I'm Gruesome.

Dearest Words,

I would like to use a few of you to convey my utmost appreciation for what you do. You have not only given me solace in using you, but now in sharing you with others. You have allowed me to look into the depths of my being, little spaces in myself I was too afraid to venture (much less soak my feet in) and helped me find comfort in knowing there are also others wading around themselves in places theyʼd rather not be.

With your presence, we are able to communicate freely and unshackled. We are able to bring ideas into a solid form and express things that are nothing more than gas and light and chemical firings in our neurons sending signals to our brains. You give us with your form the freedom to express in such a way that others can relate. Things that cannot be seen under any other circumstance can be seen with you, can be felt with your assistance, and can be heard loud and clear and leave an imprint on those who choose to listen.

You do come with your downfall, Words, but I wouldnʼt dare ask you to change. With every letter that is written, a tiny piece of your creator is laid upon the page, giving you your immediate role as middleman between Writer and Reader. You are the pipeline, the conductor, the homing pigeon. And once you land, you can be transformed into anything Reader would like. Sometimes you're misunderstood, strewn, and can be morphed from Writer into an entirely new entity with Reader.

But Words, I ask that you listen closely when I say that this is part of your magnificence. The beauty of you is your ability to plant and grow inside all that will consume you, and while you are essentially nothing but a mark on a blank piece of paper, your concept and impact reaches far beyond your physicality.

So Words, please – stay as you are. Let us continue living through you, painting your picture uniquely with every new eye scrolling over you. Continue to send and receive and allow us to love, abide with, hate, and abuse you.

With all my love,

(AmandaCary)

The "whole modern world" is on the DEATH ROW.

Mankind is bleeding.

Mother Nature is crying.

Weaker are oppressed and the lions are at rest.

Every one is at test, the world has a quest.

Drones are killing every second, even the air we breathe.

Children die in water and some on land beneath.

Innocence has been killed and betrayed every day.

Justice mocks the feeble and feed the powerful today.

Justice delayed is justice denied, screamed with my searching eyes.

In court room at that day, i saw the hollow souls and blind eyes.

Truth has been tortured and punished here.

We THE TOUCHABLES, and THE UNTOUCHABLES there.

"I AM INNOCENT "who cares?

So I will embrace my death, with COURAGE AND DIGNITY.

Make me hang, "100 TIMES" but fulfill my "LAST WISH".

All I ask from the conscious souls.

IS THAT.

No more INNOCENT will be killed.

Please tell me, it will be FULFILLED.

The look on my mother's face. Of all the terrible things that have happened, that's the worst. Do you know what it feels like for the person that gave birth to you, raised you, kissed your boo-boos and celebrated your accomplishments to look at you like that? For the woman who loved you unconditionally for 23 years to look at you like you are a stranger. Worse than a stranger. A strange piece of filth clinging to her shoes. That your own mother could believe you hurt those little girls? As I sit here, I can't think of anything else.

The crime doesn't matter. Not really. Not to me. What they say I did has absolutely no impact on the situation I'm in. I'm going to die, by electric chair, and I'm innocent. I know, I know; most every prisoner says they're innocent. Hell, some probably even are. I know I am. The only crime I'm guilty of is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That doesn't matter to me anymore either. During the trial I fought vehemently against the allegations. I was innocent God Damnit! Now though, as I sit in my cell waiting for the final walk, it doesn't matter. If a judge burst into my cell right now wearing nothing but a sparkly speedo and nipple tassels, and handed me a pardon granted by the Dalai Lama himself written on baby seal fur, my life would still be over. Because of my mom. That look doesn't ever go away. The second the judge banged his gavel and barked out, "guilty," my life was over.

What kind of life is there for a person convicted of a crime so heinous? I try to imagine sitting down to thanksgiving dinner. no one looks at me unless I speak directly to them. Even then its awkward and quick. "He was convicted," is on everyone's mind but never makes it to their lips. their smiles never quite reaching their eyes. No, once you've been convicted, there is no going back. No normal life.

It's funny, as I sit in this chair with my arms and legs strapped down, a conductive helmet strapped on my head; I thought my life would flash before my eyes. That's what always happens on the TV. Some sort of collage or montage. In subdued sepia tones I would see my first steps, my first words, my first day of school, my first kiss, the time we drove all night to get a look at the Aurora Borealis. None of that happened. No slideshow of my time here on earth. As my jailer grabbed the switch the only thing that passed before my eyes, burning into my retinas, was my mother's face. Tears slide down my cheeks. I died thirteen years ago when i was convicted. My body is just catching up.

Let me soar like a bird 

Do not cage me by your love.

Let me be a color of the canvas ,

Don't bottle me up by your promises.

Let me move with the cool breeze,

Don't tie me up with your insecurities.

Let me breathe my dreams my love,

Don't suffocate me with life without love.

What are words........

Words are 

expressions 

Suppressions

Extractions

Projections 

of our mind and soul.

Signs of our scars and dreams.

Signals of our fear and prayers.

Words create our hell.

Words return our heaven.

Words are BIBLE and words are KORAN. 

GOD taught the knowledge of WORDS to ADAM.

A WORLD OF WORDS indeed.

Where words are misunderstood and misused by children of Adam.

Letʼs not fucking reduce it to play it safe

the drink isnʼt the conduit or reason

or a fucking weak road to write the truth or

an excuse

to hate without disclaiming anything

burn the reasons why not

burn the fucking effigies of

centuries-long bullshit

tricks of the old page

manipulation of the weak and trusting

adulterers and thieves and con-men

working under the guise of loving

Christ,

of bullshit virtues

repeated forgiveness of sin

fuck each and every one of these

deficients

the still and nowhere dark of death

waits for them like everyone else

the earth will harvest them

as fast as the dead before them

and behind them is

the damage left for theirs

through which to sift and work

while honest men bleed

or give until they bleed and

and some of them need to

women misused and abused

and some of them need to be

the damage of all this infects the children

mass-connected and sprawled out

informed and dead and lost on risk

soft in the gut

soft in the instinct

all our lives 100 years left

at best

pigs rooting in greed

fat ass fucks

take at the trough

steal with smiles

our children raped

with ideals of

kneeling pigs

with one eye

on the door

the lack of grace and the forgotten

feel of cold sun at dawn

the first kiss

the first caress

the first sounds

of the water breaking shore

or the metallic taste of

stardust beneath the

panhandles of road

and dirt

extinction of travel,

of the hunt

the love of us relegated to

acceptance of anything

that stays out of the way

regardless of its size or stupid

recklessness

while outside the moon bears down

upon a tired old mother

polluted and disfigured

her oceans diseased

with the dream of pigs

but beyond this filth

the stars still shine

upon the artists

the blood from broken

calluses

the heat of

animal sex

the riffs of loud music

the clay of sweaty smocks

the stretching of new canvases

the words that run across the page

you know like I know

the truth

is ours

still

and the

true world

is here still

for us to dine

upon the

flesh

of

pigs.

Sleepless nights and you.

Keeps me awake.

Past haunts.

Future taunts.

Present ?

Riddle of the day.

Once peed in the snow

Twice shot an arrow

Thrice to Dublin did go

Four times stalked by a crow

Cried five days in a row