Drinking with My DemonsIts my own reflection that mocks me nowDrinking with My Demons1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Freed from control some how
Maybe its the vodka that loosens my hold
maybe its the vodka that makes it grow bold
I wonder if it hates me, as much as I it?
God how much did I drink, I well beyond lit
The Demon stares me down, and delivers most villainous grin
He watches me slip into madness, and knows he will win
I struggle to stand as the room begins spinning
All I can picture is that monster grinning
And just as I begin to get my composure back
I notice the mirror has developed a crack
I frantically search the mirror for my double
yet he is missing, this must truly be trouble
Worried and shaking I quickly turn around
but just as I do the mirror produces a cracking sound
A hand reaches from the mirror into me
gripping my soul, it screams "set me free"
I feel the pull its dragging me in
and through my eyes I view all past sin
These last moments of life held on by a thread
and with the scissors of Judgement I will surely be dead
Is this my fate, Is
boys will be boysi was thirteen when my healthboys will be boys1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
teacher shrugged and said: "it
happens" in regards to rape.
he was a gym coach with a coffee
mug that read "world's best dad."
they gave me the one-in-three
statistic on a business card
during the half hour we talked about
sexual assault in class.
that number has become a top-heavy
fraction, though not top-heavy
the way boys like to hear of.
and i have learned that absolutely
no man will bend at the knees,
fold the way i have been told
to fold - for i have a flower
between my legs, and he has a snake.
i was taught to be lusted after
for my innocence, only to be tattooed
as guilty by a trial of my peers
in my high school lunch room.
my heart howls at the moon of knowing
i've had my phone number removed from
the contacts of those who loved me
before they dared to remove my rapist's.
the world may forever know me as impure
without looking at the hands of the boy
who touched me, without realizing that
they have dirt caked on their glasses.
and my war cries can