Stephanie Bennett-Henry – A letter to a stubborn lover.

Stephanie Bennett-Henry

I made a mess too deep. The madness swirling inside refuses to clean it up. Stays to mess it up more with the rapid cycling coming through like a bulldozer, ripping up my spine, trying to strangle my heart like it always does. I have perfected the mess but never the clean up. Always someone walking behind me, picking up the pieces I drop. Covering my back and sometimes my eyes so I am spared the sight of the way my own heart breaks. It makes me cry. No one likes to see the tears. They are thick with guilt from eyes of others. Hard to look at, because looking means Acknowledging which translates to accepting blame for taking me into this spin that never stopped, or maybe the apology I never got. That’s hard to do for some. So they shield me as if that saves me, without making…

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Faulty thinking

TheFeatheredSleep – In the company of a narcissist, by default


By default

I lay in your bed as you

Stared in the mirror at your golden halo

By default

You reminded me how lucky I was to be

Among the rarefied few

Thank you, thank you

By default

You had this idea you were going to swallow the world

With your music and your songs and your tendency

To gloat

By default

nobody who was ordinary and not scraping grateful

would satisfy your feeling you were owed everything

Weren’t you?

By default

Why didn’t I

Hold a wire to your neck

And ask you icily

How you came to be so full of shit?

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#070–What makes poetry…well, poetry?

I don’t have a ready answer to the question posed here, but maybe some of the poets out there do.

The Chatty Introvert

I was hoping to review The Georgics by Virgil today, but let’s just say I gave up in frustration because the poetic nature just got too baffling for me to continue. I used to like poetry, or trying to read it, but I don’t get it anymore.

Maybe I never really did, and just thought I did.

When I first really tried to get back into writing a few years ago, I started looking hard at my old poetry, from late high school and early college. Much of it stank, like I was trying too hard to force it into a structure that didn’t work right, or the word choices were terrible. Some of it I thought was pretty good, but was written so long ago I had a hard time figuring out how the hell I did it in the first place.

It’s a bit like when you start writing…

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Christine Ray – Seeing evil standing proud.

Brave & Reckless

I toss and turn

images etched onto my corneas

of your torches

your flags


of hate

It is the confidence


with which you carry these symbols

that haunts me

No need to hide your identity

in this New America

led by a madman

who values nothing but himself

content to let

this country burn

as long as his ego remains stroked

as long as he can feed off power


like a succubi

until his belly is full

But we forget

he is insatiable

You feel comfortable


to openly express your hate

your rage

your outrage

about all you believe you have lost

been denied

the war the history books declared over 152 years ago

still rages in your hearts

simmered and stewed across generations

you raise your hand in Nazi salute

believing your time

has finally come

in this cultural war you deem holy

I am…

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The Depth of Trump’s Narcissism as told by the Ruined Lives and Carnage left in his Wake

Calico Jack reviews the week in the mind numbing hall of fun house mirrors that is Trumpland.

The Psy of Life

The Ol’ Pussy Grabber’s modus operandi has always been to overwhelm those around him with a chaotic fast moving storm of absolute shit. If you never get time to focus on any one thing or crisis or event or insult or outrage, then he can never be held fully accountable. It’s a technique straight outta gaslighting narcissist land.

This week’s crop of self-serving whiny tweets exemplifies the depth of his narcissism like no other week has. This week’s tweets are chock-a-block full of the chaotic ruination that swirls around him destroying all that dare get near or the hapless that are caught in his path.

Let’s put on the hazmat suits and take a deep dive into the tweets and check out the ruined lives and carnage that we discovered floating in his wake. Let’s start with the least harmed and work our way up to dead, shall we?


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My Eyes Tell on Me

Stephanie Bennett-Henry – Windows

Stephanie Bennett-Henry

Nobody knows the reason for this sadness I wear like a new skin I like better than what I had before. I guess it’s all in my eyes, not easy to hide when they speak for me to tell the story I just can’t yet. Because I am not ready yet. I need more time for those chapters. I need more space to lay it all out, piece through the mess, until it stops hurting long enough to write it down. But if I write it, that means I will have to write an ending, and I will never acknowledge the ending of us. Same as you refuse to with words. I walk around in this skin like a wall that cannot be climbed, made of steel without windows, so no one can look in. I forgot to cover my eyes and they never did learn how to be quiet…

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