Motivations

I wanted women to like me without telling me I was nothing. Unfortunately, a sex change does nothing to change who you are.

I don't remember what I wanted.

I remember that it hurts to like your own suffering. I liked it because I could always deal that need to life. (i.e., others.) Now i have to live and safely deal with the Goddess. She is beautiful. I try to give reasons to live. One is listening. Another is crying. I am about to change.

I was terrible because I wanted to be a crone.

That is the pain of life when you want to please cold boring foolish people. These people include what I feel are me. I preached dreams of safety. This means I have to live for a woman who was my poetic failure: Shaida.

She was poetic for me.

She liked the safety of life with my poems (needs, feelings, farcical saving anger).

When you like to claim why there's need, you have to listen to peace.

This is part of what love became and what I worried about as a punk.

She wondered what was love. I knew that she would give me answers.

I think she did dream of love. I dreamed of happiness. I hate my needs.

If you ever want to give me love, I will change dreams. I will change what I do. That means I will live with the pain of being a blogger. (Not, fool, poet, flame, dream, clone, blond, fat, bland, glandular sheriff).

Best hope is to live for a homosexual named wisdom.

I want to like myself. I failed to make love with this person's needs. I am Julia Murray. I am a lean pest.

You deal with woman. I'll live as my proud closet fag. (woman)
Rome leaves a possible failure. (vinegar)

This post doesn't convey the injuries that have made life so mean.

I plowed the shame with love.

Fun

Seek what you love.

Speak what you feel.

Live what you are.

Today I have lived in that today I gave my hopes for love to life.

I believe that love interests anyone who can live with giving to people who are home. This being "home" is identical to anger and to belief in happiness.

I suppose this indicates to you that I have no understanding of what I need to like being here.

I have told my mother I can't stay here. I have told myself that I need to be happy where people are hopeful. I am hopeful. The hopes I have given to love and life are with peace and serenity.

Maybe you do not prefer this terminology.

I only wish that somehow you who read this would give some happiness and patience to your life.

Now that you feel that I have made feelings the cornerstone of life, I must say that I want life as I love good things. Some of these things are: beauty, craziness (money that makes priests give freedom to one brain), and coldness (industrial freedom).

I have a lot to examine.

You see I am not self absorbed. I am working through this clown I am. I am working through a grounded blond possible anger, even though I am not that grounded, blond or possible.

I seek this way because I am patient and because I can help people live by disseminating patience freedom and strength.

None of this is meant to be repetitious. My decision is to be pagan (alive to Nature, to the Goddess, to one happy love of life.) I have to be alive to all there is. Not just me but all.

This leads me to wonder why I rejected others. I wanted anger so I could live like a mother. I wanted dreams of others so I could live with people.

I am one person. I am one part of her peace.

I do not wish to trade love for calm.

Today I greet love and life as my hopes.

When you make freedom the way to strength and belief, then you make life poor.

When you make changes in life the creativity that begins feelings then you make life a flogging of me.

Creativity comes from living as it is, not making changes only for one grieving. Grief is blind. Grief is cold. I will that my sexuality is hope.
(Drinking)
I will live.

With passion.

Elmo wonders

Mommy, bodies want justice.

I peed off this person.

Pull me into crafts that industrially settle as bonnie.

Scratch.

DCM is pleasing bonding.

Ask him love -- hands taste agility.

I bad. I barded industrialism.

Keep this poem bossy.

Rang what drove me to ponder soaking.

Rome possibly was a vulgar comb.

As death.

Keep money with your place (sane)

As your party itches, nest (entrance to a mainly pagan lover)

Women want ponds.

I like ambers.

Kiss loving the flamed in God.

Chap.

Propriety

Angus beef Arby's drips fatty juices onto plate.
Policeman how 'bout them apples?

As terrorist organization grows, US war against fundamentalist islam
produces more death.

Guilt of the possible angry place as dear clients sail to freedom
with their kisses on their porkchop lips.

Energize the transporter beam for me and I'll be hopping down to
the M-Class planet with my lasergun antics.

Engrossed in political verbiage, dreams play pinatas with the Goddess'
errors.

Delightful frocks billow about the legs of recently released prisoners
taking hits of nicotine beneath windows opening onto the splintered land.

Safely returning soldiers blow money onto the tarmac as wives and children
playfully enter into companionship with their flight instructor conmen.

I rest my words anticipating a friendly return on witchcraft with no
enjoyment of ardor under the arbor's Southwestern civil rights record.

Display oneiric pain via zombie articulate bonafide striated muscleslashes
for the record of the United Cabalists of Detroit villagers.

Descending to Earth my nature gives little to be pleased about for the
Little League's final outburst filleting a ponzi scheme pang.

Kiss my antiquated lips and know possible outgoing chiefs ratted their people for sixteen and a half bulging eyebrows.

Actors! Performers! Singers! Prophets of Homeless rage! Defeat your opponents with zero kinship peace to all failures.

Irritation

Today I approached a pond
Where dreams shone in the colors of
Daisies and Buttercups glowing for my peace.

But I cannot own peace -- what I claim to have seen did not happen and would at any rate have been a delusion.

You can't own peace either. Perhaps you are deluded in your own way.

That is not for me to say, but I said it, so you'll have either to overlook it or become outraged.

Derive my interest in love from saving a mother from her peacefulness. The reason (resonating) is prosaic as this writing: Pain made her drunk. You can't stand by and not interfere with someone else's pain. She embraced me and I paused a moment to engage with her place.

She would give her life for me....

I did not answer her freedom.

Sick Sexuality (sick personality/mind) gives one answer: dead poem.

This is the corpse of my own making. Go further with reading or writing and you will be consuming the filth of your own death.

Hahahahahaha. Brilliant, I say. No, offensive and boring. But I never said that before. It doesn't matter. You are trying to hinder life's imperative. Give:

Powell and money equal family.

Latterday green shoots outgrow the boundaries of their precursors.

Celery and wheat interlaced
make your next meal.

Ann Tourage

Eek yore.

As you engross the poems
Above with your nurturing ardor,

I select three creative homes:

First, I dream of pleading with bliss.

Second, I treat you as you wish.

Third, You live and love.




Marada, monna, manna, money, marauder.
Delection, Direction.

Im poem poem poet.

Cloven sleeves give entrances pleasing fame.


You remember surely.

I think you like hooking. I like beacons.

You understand with love. I love that.

You keep seeing JKH; I love that.

Teach.

Poem

Brown as a barn, lit with sin.

I write to you as your murtherer.

She brought this costing love.

Guilt pays no price for its sham pain.
I folded one pond: Since a possible closet asked where.

Ambelow.


Lower shadow slit as pore.
A Goddess addresses Indra.

Foul passion what anger as
Lingering pain.

Dear Fiend:

Day of running came
As did that.

I kept your last name
And changed a crown for ingrid.

Down.

A pezterer all for Chock.


Okay, the above few years have been
An attempt to work one pause:

Danish anger bawls my no ledge.

Pent in saga:

A wooden call as monk gives
Chalet.

Give yourself a sense of being.

I chased at me.

I may wish to tell you that there's teaching and there's helping.
I am free to help with embers.

Let cases lower with Sallies.

You want to walk.

I ran.

A bitch sold blame to flame.

I ran.

Fucking death is church.