Inspiration

I have brought forth coldness and hate.  I have made fear a cruel nest.

These fears were from the dream of creating many dreams.  I knew what it was to make the strong a light for its own peace.

These words indicate and disguise actions and moments and events that I need to be aware of.  I do not know whether to make you aware of them.

I am sure of the need to be one with my own freedom.  I do not know the reason that there is failure in peace.

Strength and beauty are loving with peace, and justice is alive.

Believe me that I am aware of contradictions that run through what I write.  A contradiction -- that which is "against saying," to attempt a literal translation is that I am alone but I try to be reasonable in my dreams.  These dreams are that there is happiness for anyone with peace.

There is a tension here also.  I do not know why I am good or strong or peaceful.  Perhaps I am not.


I have brought out these statements so that I can live without the race of my tastes (which are to be famous and kind).  There is no race to these tastes.  Perhaps there is no race anywhere.  Darkness is not race.  I cannot speak for anyone else.  It is irresponsible to write in this way about such an emotive subject in language that is not itself emotive, that does not draw upon all of humanity -- at least my own.  I do not know how to approach this other than in my life's own changes, perhaps in image and metaphor.  I am not a loud artist such as one with belief in life.

That has to change before I can write about this topic.

Thank you for knowing my theories of writing.  I must let go of worrying about this mess, and direct myself toward believing in hope.

Inside there is a moment that dreams of rest for words.

Open laughter:

Peace was the lover of its own veils.

I have breasted the issue of love; I am a woman of hopes and I need to let it be as a open life.

The words say I am where there is life.

Life says I am where there is art.

Art says I am where listening is taste.

Hope was a lie when I had towels.

Bright and dark
Dream and spark

Love was great
To be fate

I have loss
Illness toss.

Jekyll Hyde
Softness Glide

I go

Though there is little to know, I am weary of my own tests, change and fears.  I live to give this peace its own hope.  Pleasure with me is my taste for patience.

Marsha P. Johnson was a nice woman.

What the Dead King Wrought

Iron, Silver
Leather and Bronze

Rings and Pewter
Arrows and Sword

Passion for War
Revealed in Bones.

A robed one strode
Into the field

Calling with
Strident words,


Escape, Dear King;
This Painful Grave.

An Enemy
Is About.

The town prepares
To fight the land

The land gives up
Sorrow to sup.

Blood and anger
Poison the air.

Grief and Hatred
Change to Death's heir.

Your wand'ring day
Must end this morn

Ancient and new
Desire you here.

A skeleton
rising heavy

With an awful
Dreadful sneer

Dreams made sour
Rage brought near

Now stretches forth
From whitened soil

A murdering
Rod made of steel

The air rains foul
From old time weal

"The pow'r within
That you begin

Must climb the Tree
That all worlds be.

Evil and Pain
Driving your hate

I'll cleave in two
Without you abate.

I sought power
To rule this world

And learned to rue
All blood I shed

Was mine as well
I found when dead.

Lone pain is death
Announce with joy

That mark which you
bear:  before I fly.

"More for myself
I tried to bring

A narrow shelf
Is cast this spring."

The King now knew,
Her greed for rule

Brought a fever
And made slaughter.

Her mastery
Dying quickly

She stirred ashes
And cast wishes.

Off'ring herself
To the roast fishes.

Roaches

I can't read, because I don't know.

I'm not that good at worrying about women.

Naked without myself I am cruel.

Ignorance is making me fail.

I am ignorant of why I am a clam.

This is because I am running from my charges.

Running toward them, I am:

Open to loss.

My mother is my answer to the rain.

I have to let go of her as King.

Bruce Murray was an arrogant pig.

I am a lousy joke.

Ask yourself what is beauty?

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

Art is not safe.  Dreams are not beautiful.

If these statements are at least partly true, then, pushing their truth to ultimate limits as far as my understanding of "reality" goes,  I must be avoiding safety and beauty rather than embracing them.

I despise knowing freedom because there is no art in feeding openness (or is there?).

Analytical moments like this make me cruel to my mother in that they bring a sense of superiority.

That is repulsive.

Law and knowledge belong to a way of material existence that involves pain for those who are entrances to being.

These include all who bring people to self-understanding through receptiveness to their individuality.

I now feel I am bullshitting.

Subtext:  Guilt from being a woman instead of making life safe.  I know that it only works when there's "umpires."

That's a misconception and a self-serving lie.

I'm not that good at love.




Terrorism and inequality go hand in hand.


I borrowed a lot of money from people and now I have to pay it back by taking my life in my own hands, which I have to do anyway, and being a shack (raven -- justice -- life).

That goddess which believes in her own cruelty is the one that is rude.

I hate this openness.

Mammy.




Seriousness -- another way of making love the reason for hope.

How do you show the relatedness of all is in fact serious?  By making life its own home.

I am what I am.  I must read; I must read; I must live, meaning be good at listening.

I tell you that there is no anger in my openness, only dreams (of change, being that which strengthens peace).

Earlier today I hated peace.  Now I have come full circle again.  There is someone I delighted in, and that was my body. 

[I understand from reading this over that there is precious little of interest in it because there is no or little apparent unity, whether artistic or rational, that I provide.  I wish to bring this unity.  So, here it is:  Peace, art, understanding and rationality are all human ways of living out hope.  They are all related and interdependent.  I know for myself that part of life is to like the ones who care.  I belong with the ones who are imperialists in their troubles.  This is what is tragic to me.  And tragedy is a unity.]

I did not respect others' being.  That is where I am.  If I live I give you answers.

Answer:  history of math, the capitalist orgy of love.

Love under will equal transformation.

Charge with robes.

The upshot

many drugs create what is failure

I am what I am

Goddess died and that is my anger.

I do not understand the many.

This is my openness.

Anonymous brings back the Land

The hackers


I say that I can
Issue the
Peace.

She with her body
Shares
Peace.

I gave myself
No one
And a road to

Women.

War with the government
Is grief to
Art.

Levels are not life.

Mannequins crave
Reason.

I believe war is
Not good for
Hope.

This opinion derives from
Loose pain:
Life and beauty are

Staying here
As poem.

I remember the need to
Laugh.

I remember the hope of
Laughter.

I know the safety of
A moment
To not violate.

The prosecutors of
Aaron Swartz
Cried for poem.

I give them
mostly
freezing.

Anonymous likes

Flaws of my life
Are here.

Entropy was here
For its grief.

I always dreamed
that I was
Many.

To dismantle the government,
dismantle yourself.

Inside I have seen
Land.  (This is the first line)

Prepare to live
Without apparatus.

Land and roads to
Memory.  (This is the second)

Poems of Change
Are where

My need is for
Soaking in
Laughter.

Prevalence of
Effort is

Aggravation of
Thin craven lace.

I'm trying to hard
To make sex into God.

I am writing what is
A drain on my feelings.

These are:

Freak is dream of cleaving
to Moments.

I list this girlie naked
Goddess.

Man is dream of empire.

[Calling myself StupiddD!]

This world of waying the breeze is
Tossed.



I'm not art.

Change is open.

Close the jar.

Roaming the angels I feel messed over.

Saying what I am in order to get where I want to go,

Napping where there is life is the stake.

I cannot make you be roses.
I share banks.

Telll your lover, I am a cape of booms.

No one is needed where no one is messy.


Seeking power of writing
I write power.

Hacking my open dream is
Literature.

I was here for a moment.

I believe in Cunt to make a draft
Of Lace.

The Lace Curtain Irish, in other words.

I cannot write anymore without being a sinkhole for your dog.

Itch the Rich/Bitch/Snitch/Witch.

I don't want to change because life is not safe.

Peace to the players.

Additional lines for my blog/journal

I cannot make women love me.
I cannot be a friend to my lovers.

I am not the only crackhead that needs a place to be happy.

I am what is called a seeker of peace.

I never wanted to make anyone afraid of life.

I am sorry that I am writing anything that is my simplicity.

I confuse simplicity with visceral, even brutal expressions.

Death is not babying your life.

I know that when I have another ...

I have to understand that there is pain in my ...

You are you. I am what I am; and I am home because my mother is ...

I safely...

I am crying in order to understand the pain that I have made.

I do not like it when there is pain.

I have made pain because I was a f*****g ....

Laugh or not.

I know I am unable to complete sentences because I have feelings about everything I am writing that I am unable to express within the sentence at issue.

My concerns now:

I hate my grief because it is rude to be another lover of art. I say this because I do not like people who do not save themselves for the pain of being people. That pain is knowledge. That pain is loss.

I am opposing knowledge to life. Most people seem to be able to dispense of knowledge or any kind of abstraction whatsoever in accomplishing what they have to do. To me that is in part a choice to ignore a great deal of the universe, and in part an advisable practicality.

Law is no one's baby.

I do not seek what is creative. I seek what is creative in dreams, not possibility.

I have to add up the possibilities to find what will best suit me in this world where not only everything is changing, but choice is systematically being eliminated for everyone but those with enormous wealth.

I find this time in history to be scary and disgusting and inexcusable.

The great American middle class failed the workers and is now being failed itself. What a surprise!

I hope that you will understand that no one believes what is "entourage," i.e. failure.

Failure is my own.

What is New York??

What is a place where no one says what is beautiful?

I do not need somewhere that no one has beauty for themselves.

I am someone who has lost strength because I ceded beauty to the ... creative.

Concentrate, ms.

I wish that I was the only person who ever met cruelty and found dreams.

Dreams such as those include: what is necessary, what is cruel, what is imperial?

I am not that happy with this love of my entrance. This is because I am poor and not alive for peace.

Note the contradiction.

A*****a was the person I tried to bring for myself to her beauty. I have found that she is a feeling of lake and rap and pain.

No one will ever know what I mean unless I spell it out. I am cruel because I am a pagan.

This is the misconception of a Christian. And the lie.

I hope you will allow my grief to lessen enough that I have hope.

Yours,

Inanna's Teacup

Anniversary (an additional bloviation, of which even I am tiring.

Today I need to write down why I didn't allow love to be my strength.

I fear making others wonder why I'm alive.
I wonder what is my own being.  Do I have beauty?  Am I free?

Can I win the life of hope?

Is there winning?  Do I have to pursue it?  Can I like what I feel, which is that I am cold emotionally.

I hate it.  I do not want anyone to believe that there is reason to be a bitch.  Bitches have one thing:  life.  I can't have that because I would be a pig.  Pigs are those who make people like anger. 

I hate this feeling of being cruel because of my failings.

They begin with what is peaceful.

I was beautiful in being creepy.  Meaning alive.

When you are a creep, you can try many things to live for.  I was wrong to be rude to my friends.  I didn't like the fact that I was alone.

Now I'm beginning to believe that I am not the only person that doesn't like making feelings be the only way of teaching that wonder and creativity are strong.

I know that I feel like I'm poor in my belief in my friends.  They are wonderful and they are strong.  They cannot stay free with my grief in their lives.  My grief is for my body, which was alive for making hope.  Now I am here without believing in my own dreams.  I dream that there is good in life.  I dream that I have feelings that don't give me fear.  I dream that no one is afraid to give me beauty.  None of this seems like I have the beauty I need to give others in order to be happy.

Out of my life I understand that people give themselves what they need to be strong.  I feel that I am rowing my own person toward pain, the pain of cruel death.

Death is not the only being of this dream.

People are cruel when they have no being.  That is when I am a failure.  A failure is where money and love are free to become the desire of life.

I knew what I felt when I had money or the belief that I would have money.

I thought that everything was good in being mine.  That was a delusion that was very pleasant.

I wanted a way to grieve love without being poor.  I don't understand the kind of anger that makes people want me to be alive because I'm failing them.

I am angry at my life because I never wanted my money to involve anger against dreams that any one would give themselves for, such as peace and happiness.  The money I have is from my angeer against anyone who was a nothing to me.  I thought that no one was the same as I was, because I had been the only person that I knew who made anything that was ideal as a way to make freedom because it was the only knowledge that could make me alive, which was that I had been good.

I suppose this makes me a nothing to you.  I was good.  However, I did not consider that people would rather be nicer than I was.

Good to me was an expression of happiness that people have the power to act according to what I thought would make them happy:  giving others the benefit of a doubt, giving others the benefit of acting for themselves and acting out what was their own uniqueness which did NOT harm.  I believed that since my uniqueness obviously was not harmful to others that no one else would desire that either.

This is getting confused.  This is only part of the story of what made me act the way I did.

I made myself (in my mind) the only person that others could become free by loving me.

I did this because I was bordering on anger when I had the knowledge that I was foolish about love.

How unfair to be a fool.

Maybe you will begin to know that I am not an inexplicable person.  I had my thoughts and feelings, which may have been extreme and even "bizarre" but they were those of a human.

Now I need to make you know that when I am good to myself, when I treat myself with love and kindness, that I enjoy being happy.

And now for the universe to continue in its path...

Dear Goddess,

I am thankful for the ability and chance to write what may be meager and in some ways unsubstantiable, but what is something that reflects my reality enough so that someone may believe in the imperative for me of life, life that is worth living on the terms that you have allowed me to choose, or otherwise accept as part of what you have given me.

I love you.

Always in the way,  but maybe not so much as usual, JBM

This is sort of meager, but maybe it is a beginning of something better and easier if I allow it to "flourish".

Raw pain is fear of peace.
Fear of peace is from thinking that no one would be my woman.

Hahahahahahahaha.

I was grieving my grandmother and Shaida's departure when I came out.  Now I understand why there was so much fear that I would never be safe.

Never use even your most kind friends to be safe.  Stand on your own two feet, or everyone will regret it.

And there is happiness.

Since no one cares...

I will write whatever I want.

Obitch death of my own girlfriend.
Imake the knowledge that was stupid
Becomenaked with foolish inches.

Momentsof womenhood desire love as nations
Rollthe coldness to bottom war.

Ibet you were nothing for your inches.
Ibet you got nothing to be plowed as needed.

Iwas gotten for the empire that was reason.

Iam death to the cloud of my famous orgasmic aphid.

Okay I no no one veils are where papers say they like assholes.

I am not a writer.

A poem by raoul meek

Urchin deems dreams to read ogentle dear mike
Laughlaughlaugh
I was your book.

Mom, I'm going to sweep

Instead I'm sitting here, "writing."

I am sick of being bigoted and vindictive and narrow-minded.

If I have no art or craft, then perhaps I have the will to put one word after another to communicate my thoughts.

I think that anyone who deals with shame has to begin with the strength that taking friendships from themselves destroys.  I hate sentences like that (Just to let you know).

I am worth love.

I am no better than you.

I am no worse than you.

I am not you.

Keeping this rowdy cruel angry freak after I have been at odds with the many people who have liked the aspects of my presentation that involve freedom and good seems odd and perhaps stupid or useless.

I wish to move on.  Is that up to me or to something else?

I cannot keep making love the only freedom that I aspire to.  I cannot believe that no one will ever be loving.  I have my mother.  I have my brother.  I have a roof over my head.  I have food to eat and books to read.  I have this computer and a blog to write in.

Now:  Save me from this broken piece of pain.

I never needed that money.  I never needed that cruelty.  I never needed that mess.

Always know that I have what I need because I have been hopeful.

I will never know the love of the trees.  I will never know the freedom of the homes.

I know what is happiness.  This is my life.

Road to change is love.

Maker of beauty and maker of hope are the ones I was true to.

Change begins with a song:  

Lap frays laundry with lakes.

I believe the life of this woman is art.

I wish for a chick.

Queen

Latin:  Regina

I carry around a lot of anger.  I have just realized that it is not there to serve my needs. 

I cannot be for my own peace; I cannot make myself be happy; I cannot change; I cannot let go; I cannot be what  is strong; nor can I make myself hopeful with this anger seething inside like a bag full of lava in my chest.

There is no pain in being loving; there is no foolishness in being happy; there is no hatred in being free.  I simply cannot apply my energy in a satisfactory way with this anger there.

I hate my anger.  Maybe if you would help me not be stupid about it, I would be able to locate its source and be strong enough to make it a non-threatening presence so that I am not only an expression of its force.

Direction:  I must let people know that I did not make my anger part of my being.  I refuse to make it my reason to be.  I am here for the love that will emerge when I am able to put this anger in perspective.

This is not a question of any kind of constructive emotion.  It is not constructive in any way.  I am not Achilles, able to destroy my enemies -- whoever they may be -- because of it.  I am not George Patton, I am not any sort of military or political or spiritual or cultural leader as a result of this anger.  It is totally misplaced or displaced within me from some place I must treat as never having been properly noted or addressed.

Since I have this anger, I must believe that I have been scathed with some fire sometime in my life that I have not learned to remember fully enough to bring to the surface. 

There is cruelty in having to be the place this emotion rests. 

I used to believe this anger had something to do with me or my transsexuality.  Now I think it is something alien and destructive that I am not responsible for except to remove its power over me.

Please if you wish, I hope to allow this desperate attachment to dissipate and to be no more.

It has nothing to do with friends; it has nothing to do with being Julia; it has to do with a death of my own reasons for being happy.

I safely ask that I love myself and not be afraid to recognize the door to my liberation.

Laughter will be beautiful.

Poise is Drums: notes for a life storyrevision I

Openness was trite
Math was foolish

This need to teach was low

I wrote much for crack

Allah was feminine

I did too much roman trust (I made love to be a crook)

I was dreaming of my own feelings, which were a part that was emperial.

This girlfriend of fear wrought womanhood for neither love nor strength but for shame.

I (my) goal was elevating my life to be cruel so that I would be peaceful in my security at the expense of others.

Death was needed for its finality and its imperialist dreams.

I sought a way that was pain and fear so that I would become a rock of -- teach!-- change.

There is love and I know that I can make life beautiful in its creativity by asking for happiness (peace, love, strength, and change)

Ouch.  I am working like I'm a writer of family wishes and hopes.  Family is a word which pertains to those I loved and who loved me.  I know that not everyone will understand the beliefs in peace (life, safety, love) that I have had, but perhaps they will know that She is beautiful.

Continue reading this over time, and there will be more.

I feel like calling the above 1995.

Now it is 2013!

You see, what I could do is write a conventional narrative for one page and on the opposing page write passages full of the vocabulary and usages that have an inner source and resonance for me.  Nobody would read it.  It's okay.  I'm in charge of what I write until the brain police attach the requisite electrodes to keep me from writing what I want or alternatively writing anything at all.

Back to the notes ...

Empire:  Need to [margins: a lot of piggyness is part of needing good things like money and strong (free angry flow) (almonds) (glowing) (mustard)] believe in life for its (caving in on my freedom is a woman's need to be laugh/girlie/my roman image) teachers.  I am the one who knows that everyone has a possibility of being a (lot of rosiness here/cruel/murderous/cruel and peaceful) l(over(gruel interesting cruelty is boring as a way to sexualize itself as ... lamplight of roman death is crack))(estrogen) oner.

Clocks.  I was needed to like the production regime in which clocks/time/structure enveloped the subjects/inhabitants with anxiety/fear/expectation.  I now know that I did not and did not want to be a laborer.  By laborer I mean the opposite.  By the opposite I mean the polarity.  By the polarity I mean the relationship.  By the relationship I mean the freedom of being good to hope.  By hope I mean drastic anger toward everyone who was the only ... crack ... imperialist need for love. 

I certainly made someone try to help me.

As you know, when you are stupid because of money (and I mean the kind of money that is not from being free, but from being a legitimate poem of apparitions with need) there is more cruelty than there is freedom.

I dreamed that when I pursued my own goals (more at some other venue) I would become happy because of my own qualities of creativity and strength.  Little did I know how much those depended on the presence and good will of others in the triple I was a part of.  Now I am aware that my individuality is only the surface of an n-dimensional mess.

You who read this may in fact have already imagined and estimated the growth of these tendrils of description/examination that lead me back to my striking out in more ways than one on my own.

I gave people what I wanted to remember myself for:  a freewheeling yet often rigid because hyperfocused/obsessed template/example of individuality that was both a critique and a door to possibilities of expansion to the realms that inspired me, i.e., literature, philosophy and politics.  Little did I know or care to know, for it pained me, that others may have already absorbed and taken into account everything I offered, and that I needed as much or more from them in the way of making changes in myself that would allow myself to be tolerable as a human being in a tense and social environment that I made more tense and less social.

To be honest, I doubt that I will ever know the impact I had from the point of view of others.  Impact is a heterosexist goal anyway.  Perhaps if you ever read this over for what it is, you will find it to be (good enough) a lot of confused (say it, etc.) rhetoric concealing an emotional instability and an isolation that was in part a refusal to admit human commonality as present in me.

This urge to disrespect certainly was at the root of some fear.  The fear of being misapprehended by others also led me to not communicate the simple emotions I had of being out of place, of being afraid of my own dreams, of needing people with a lot of kindness and strength.  I suppose I wanted infinite understanding without offering it in return.  

And then there was trying to find someone to love.

Hahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!

I will begin this with an anecdote.  I paid myself with openness and with (aggression always present) interest in mentoring a fake (someone who would understand me for my grievances, my tastes, my needs, my infirmities).  With Sylvia I was myself, what others might perceive as a small, childish, needy fragment of a personality who needed comfort and protection to function.  As all may remember, I was the same person who gave myself (Julia) a lot of (clap) pressure to be a towering source of strength.

More soon.

Death is always there.
Beauteous and fair.

My life is folding.
In time for molding.

What is pain,
Driving slain?.

Illness is war.
Passion is door.

Will to  death,
Dream of breath.

Nature wants the Beast.
I do cry at least.

Memories to share:
Does argument care?

I tensed with pain.
Cloven in twain.



TO BE REVISED AND CONTINUED
FOR YOUR PLEASURE

Pain and Peace

I will not pass pain to those who have not earned my contempt.

I despise people who do not respect my needs.

I despise people who are foolish.

I am not the drunk who made life me.

I was a crook.

You and I are the only failures who believe that no one is roman.

This dream of making freedom the nature of life is making me foolish.

I wish that I could write something that would make you understand that I have been stupid.

I am trying to say that men were alive because they want people to be free.

This is the way of people who cannot like the only place that is hopeful:  life.

Many times it occurs to me that what I write about others equally applies to me.




I can work when there is thankfulness.  I can find thankfulness in love.

So, if you care, then I will be happy.



Yours,

Julia

Alma Mansion

I write to listen to the beauty of writing.

This circularity, this endless loop, needs peace.

Therefore I will every time be taped.

My mind tapes me for future reference.

I dislike that feeling.

It's time to elaborate on my maker.

She who works on being peaceful is also working on leaving pain to the faces of those with race and peace.

This makes me a racist.

I despise anger.  I despise taste.  I despise men.

All this is a way to utter, "sap!", which is what Sylvia called me, the sappiest of the sappy.

Laughter.

I now must feel that all which I make is a fearful mess that does not make me peaceful.

I must stop resenting those who took money from me without thanking me.

I chose to be lord of paganism.  I chose to be another pop.

This is the only freedom that means roman fascism.

I like money.  It makes me worry about that fake openness that is the hall mark of radical hate.

I now am classist.

I am a fool to write what makes me feel cruel and shit.

I am losing this anger because it is low and hateful.

Please be what is kind and strong.

I must let go of hate.  Now I am a moment for change.

Illness does not mean crack, or pain, or failure.  It is that which is fearful.

I never had love for my happiness.  My father was always watchful that happiness did not emerge near him as noise or playfulness or enjoyment.  My mother was a little closed to anything which was a failure.

I am so cruel.  I am so cruel.  I am cruel and foolish.

I thought of my mother as a failure because she didn't love her own pain.  I thought life was about loving pain.  That is how I was turned against myself.

She is what I believe is strength.

Today I give you my nasty orgasmic anger.  I am local for stupidity and crass piggish pain.

Within the pain, which is from being another human with fear, I am home as a lying creep.

Leap for dreams.

Julia

Sacking my life is due belief in love.

Moment of beauty.

To be grateful

My mother bought a ton of food yesterday, to which I contributed a hundred dollars.
I subscribed to Poetry magazine for twenty dollars for eleven issues.
I sent 50 dollars to the International Action Center for their 20th Anniv. Gala, and will receive a book in return.
I told Calvin that I would treat myself with respect.

I was able to eat way too much yesterday, but I did not collapse.

I have most of the day left to redistribute misplaced and "unclean" possessions.

I may be able to read a few pages of prose/poetry.

I feel free to choose what to do.

I am not afraid to be strong.

When I work I have hope.

Laughter is for me not against me.

I will be able to pay off some of my medical and computer debt this month.  My mother is paying nearly 1400 dollars toward a hospital bill I incurred in October.  That is "phenomenal."

I will be able to be peaceful and happy sufficiently for my needs.

I have the goal of publishing some of my poetry in the next year, which I told Carol, my friend in Wyoming.

There is a dream that when illness has its pain met with peace that it will be free of anger and poisonous foolishness.

I have been met with peace.

I am grateful.

Now to make a maverick -- me -- patient.

Free

Wild Arrogance. Failure. Loss.

I am what I am.

Poems that read needs create hate.

Love your needs?

How do you write a poem for that?

What I am full of --

Asa Buchanan
Tracy Quartermain

Efforts to be low because of empires for a change of age.
I.E., Escape from womanhood (flips and embers -- hairflips and hopeful lives)

I know what I tried as myself (Julia Murray) to accomplish.

That was a moment of estrogen. 

Now, I was dreaming faces.  They grated on me.  I was worried about this argument.  I now have a boss.  She knows angels.  I hate her trying to be  a nothing.

Slap is where I eke answers.

("eke" is Middle English for "also.")

Possibly I gave a lot of moments when that was apples.

I was Johnny Appleseed in my mind.
I was girlfriend.
I was a reason for simplicity.

That was good (to arrive at).

Home is where life is people.