The Weeknd Theory

This theory.....this equation that multiplies them as one, but subtracts the other

A theory that they could still continue to be illogically meant but rationally apart in the same

All in effect to them not understanding the variables

Not being able to decipher between the dependent and the independents

Just because in this term the coefficient and the operator are both one in the same

And this smooth conductor may never openly state or admit what it wants to do with the polynomial

"I want you here, but I like you there..."

He wants the constant, but isn't trying to be what's constantly needed

Yet he's still what the Con wants, though he could never be what it needs 

Still the Theory.....the equation will have had them solved too far along to let go

To let go… to let go, so let go?

Then the sweet poetic words from afar blinds this conversion of expression into attachment 

Just so that they can pretend that they're all they'll need in the end

For the lingering decimals will always remind them of a feeling they used to know

And the Con's beginning to feel so wrong, so wrong, she's so wrong

Because she's still trying to justify sensual passion accompanied by unrequited love

And starting to realize that this formula may have foiled out in the result of confusing possessive physicality with emotional connectivity 

Consistently trying to tell herself that the kisses roaming her body

Convincingly signal that he loves every bit of the Con

The fingertips caressing this angle and that circumference 

Channels the operator's undying desire for her heart

Well...that is… what the Con's masochistic mind leads it to believe

Though this Theory...this equation she never would have attempted were she aware

Aware that this coefficient would be using  their term so exponentially 

Living within sheets, love only between her knees 

Trying to figure out when their innocent bond transformed into trivial moments 

Late to the obvious correlation, she still struggles to give constant affection

Though this operator needs it not through words or small gestures anymore...but in occasional body clinging

Skip over the remaining devotion and friendship variables 

He'd rather be the enemy 

Adversaries formulating over an infinite quickie

Still the Theory.....the equation now presented has the Con clinging onto nothingness

Promising him that if he begged for it, he'd surely get it

It's just this Theory....this equation has the constant rechecking her solution of the interchanging coefficient and operator's terms 

Still this time...once it's been repeatedly verified....who's to say what the next theorem is?

1/27/13

1/1/13 (6, Maybe 7 P.M.)

His chest moves up…

While my own coincides against him.

The rhythmic dubstep beat I hear blaring within my eardrums,

I can also feel through the thrumming sensory receptors

Set in the fingertips I have laid upon his skin.

And this beat…this beat renames mine own and claims it

Into its coveted idiosyncrasy until it has waved into a synchronized routine.

 Therefore, our beats have become one…

One beat, but two hearts.

Then gusts of air falter as they leave our mouths,

Racing erratically, taking turns in the lead to breathe Life back into our lungs.

No need for words…

We just lay atop the other,

Letting our chests do a dance,

And our hearts sing a duo beat,

As our breaths sprint over hurdles.

All falling into effect after we've created Love.

My chest had collapsed above his own,

His that had moved up,

And I matched his challenge

Just so that this moment could be remembered as the night…

Our breaths raced erratically into a synchronized routine,

Until our hearts beat as one,

One beat…but two hearts.

1/2/13

"No More Time" Art

This is just a little sample of art I created to go along with a poem I wrote a while ago called "No More Time" ......I thought I'd share the drawing with you since I love it so much.

But...I Am...Not

But…I am not…The Mistress
Except, here I am still titled The Other Woman.
Though I can state with confidence that it is not I, 
It is She. 
For it was my kisses whom have staked their initial claim upon his heart.
Look! If you listen closely, one might say that you can still sense the engravings I've imprinted into his soul. 
But…I am not…am..The Mistress 
Because it is She who intertwines her fingers with his own as they lay their heads on coupled pillows every nigh’ and morn’, 
And it is my lips whom have remained untouched while we are subjected to speak through secret messages for twenty-four divided by the twelve of hours. 
I am NOT The Mistress! 
He is MINE! 
It was I that left footprints tracking along his ( I was here -there-) FIRST…love, 
While She defiles and falsifies passion that only I can unconditionally have for him. 
The Other, She is, disguised in my rightful shoes. 
Yet again, I stay passed by with crushed high hopes after our few exchanges, 
Because then I am confounded by the impending reality that… 
I am She still…both The Other Woman and…The Mistress.

12/5



Inspiration

Many constellations have come and gone,

For me to have held such delicacy,

Such fragility.

Attentively I had lend my ear,

Unconditionally shared my thoughts,

Desperately hoping to lessen the tears upon my shoulder.

Without dispute we were one

Possible solution of being twins – sibling- in a past life

Subtraction of one could only sum to the other

A genuine companionship, it was,

It could still be.

Understanding – questioningly – became mistaken for Passion

No second chances were given to correct this risk,

This misconceived notion that identical bruised souls,

Were meant to engage.

So as I explored the ins and outs of what the naked eye

Could not see,

It was not apparent to me that I was much more inspiring.

Just as any imperfectly perfect line,

Its secant broke.

Distance began to replace the security,

Cloudiness fog disabled the easy flow,

Admiration lost by contactless eyes,

Awkwardness had taken over Comfort,

And I yearned it.

If a time warp could be yielded,

I would jump back to save my kinship,

Change this neglect resulted from Fate.

To be a peer, I had forgotten

So I intensively struggle to once again meet Understanding,

To remember how to hold such delicacy,

But learning to piece together fragility,

Desperately hoping that one day

It will be apparent that I am inspired as well.

3/1/11

Shiney Metal

I smile at the shiny metal in my hand. Then my eyes close in pleasure as I slide my savior across my arm. A tear falls down my cheek; hating my addictive remedy. Glossy red begins to decorate my arm.
Ah, the euphoric feeling I get when my pain seeps from my body. The release is such a morbid relief, but worth the troubles. I frown at the purple and red rigged lines that take up every spot on my skin. Luckily, it’s wintertime; so long sleeves won’t be a question. I’ll have to hide my scars from everyone. No one would understand. Everything I deal with is just so overbearing. So overbearing that this self-inflicting art is my only key to freedom. When I do this...then I am able to manage, because I can’t take it all at once.

• Why must my life be so messed up like this?
• Why can’t I just be happy like everyone else?

Maybe if I cut the ugliness away things will get better. It feels so good to channel one pain into a more tolerable one. Doing this makes me feel like I can look at other problems with a straighter backbone. No more nerve wrecking tears, just slices. I've met Pain and I don't know how to address him. So I run to the medicine cabinet to gain some reflecting advice.
As I rinse the scarlet mutilation from my arm, I cry for two reasons. I cry for the pitiful person I come to as I do this misunderstood deed, and I cry in inexplicable joy. I clean my only friend, feeling its cool and smoothness. Then I place it back in its space, smiling. This is the only good feeling I get.


For: anyone who cuts his or her selves, or does any other form of self-mutilation.
Memo: Please talk to someone, or get help before it gets worse or it’s too late. There are other forms to coping with pain.
734-662-2222 This is the Crisis Line to the Ozone House in Ann Arbor, Michigan. They're a great place to go to about your personal problems. That's a personal recommendation. 

"I" am they, just as "She" is you

I always knew something was different about me, but never in my mind did I think I would be confessing to this.

• What will they think of me?
• Will they realize that I'm just plain old me?
• No matter what, I'm still me, right?
• Will they treat me any differently?
• Will my family still love me?

I tried to fix it; I tried to be "normal" like everyone else. I tried to fit my "role". But I can't change it, it is what i am, it's who I am.
I mean it's not like I woke up one day and decided to be this. I don't get what's so wrong about it anyway. I'm a human being just like everyone else.
They're all probably going to think something's wrong with me. I can hear them now.
"What made you change? Did something happen to you? You had such a bright future ahead of you."
Or like I'm nasty or something. I know I used to feel disgusting, gross, sickening even. I knew it wasn't "right". I would try to forget it, ignore it; pretend it wasn't even there. I thought it was just some phase all of us go through. But then....i noticed that, that phase was turning into reality.
The truth is I think deep down I've always been like this and I already knew. It's just who I am.

- "Mom? Dad?.......Meet my girlfriend."

For: all the girls who have problems with being a lesbian (and guys who have a problem with being gay).
Memo: there isn't anything wrong with who you are. Learn to accept it, and what others think doesnt matter one single bit. It may be hard, but you'll pull through it.