Illianna Wolfsong

Doh! And I have already placed the RonCo pocket breath extinguisher on order!

Sorciere, A beautiful way to capture such a hideous side of the human creature. *hugs*

I need to give you some background so that you understand the prose below. My youngest son has a disorder called "Intermittent Explosive Disorder". He is unable to "turn off" anger as other people do. To him, all events that cause anger have the potential to escalate into violent attacks. The majority of us have a chemical switch inside our brains that tells us how upset to become in any given circumstance. It tells us when we should react with a sigh, or when it is necessary to use deadly force. If someone were to spill hot coffee on you accidentally, you would react. It would be natural. Odds are, your reaction would be limited to an exclamation, perhaps a comment made too hastily, and maybe even a demand to pay your dry-cleaning bill. If someone were to break into your home and hold a family member at knife point, you would react. Your reaction would not be thought too extreme if you severely injured, or even killed the intruder. This is your switch. My son lacks that switch. Ryan He is but a small child. In stillness, he is pure beauty. His eyes luminous, His face angelic. He has the small round cheeks Reminiscent of his infancy. Soft blush-kissed skin and Tiny hands that look so vulnerable. How could you know to look at him? In his few years of life He has already mastered cruelty. Such violence, such rage. - - - - - - - - - - He is a battle being waged. A small heart of pure gold Wanting to love. He is pure charisma and life. He is a battle being waged. Unchecked fury That his mind can't stifle. He is harsh and hurtful. His mother's arms bundle him In loving embrace. Playfully, joyously Celebrating her treasure. His mother's arms bundle him Trying to stop him. Attempting to hold back The wild kicking legs and flying fists. He is intelligence beyond his years Telling stories with Tolstoyesque details. He builds elaborate cities In words and in children's toys. He is intelligence beyond his years Manipulating people as chess pawns. Designing elaborate schemes To injure and destroy. His mother's face intense With love and hope. She dreams of his future And see's unlimited potential to create. His mother's face intense With fearful dread. She winces at thoughts of his future And see's unlimited potential to abuse. - - - - - - - - - - How could you know to look at him? That he is as two people One infectious of spirit The other, terrifying in viciousness. He has the brawny muscularity Hinting at his future physique. Pure strength compounded With enormous will. He is but a small child. Freed by nurturing love Held captive by a burdened mind His future uncertain.

Wow... Thank you, Whynot. That was truly pleasurable to read. I had to savor it 3 times before pausing to reply. I'm going back to savor again. Your words are fluid, your imagery romantic, and the poem is as graceful as the leaves themselves. Thank you for painting such a vivid and beautiful picture.

Excellen Hopper! My thought... whatever revisions you may choose to make, the last stanza is perfect without any alteration. It could stand entirely alone and still have rich depth of meaning. *cheers*

My side hurts from laughing, Peredhil!!! In a not too far removed time in my life, I actually had hopes (and perhaps a shot) at being a published writer. I was adopted (figuratively) by an author/editor/publisher friend, and my letters to him would be my latest revisions and his replies would look like Perdhil's above example. I would read his chopped up version of my story, his suggestions, his comments, corrections, critisisms, and tangents... and my head would swim. Poor Peredhil, to have my friend in his head hopping in between each phrase. offers Peredhil some Dramamine

AH HA!!! The overlooked option! Eraser! Good ones are hard to find, worth buying in bulk once found, and a necessity to keep on hand. However, while writing in eraser tends to reduce paper consumption, it also leaves those fleeting thoughts free to drift on with the first breath to blow on the page.

To Anonymous, in recognition of your pain. It is so normal to hurt. The body and mind ache from time to time in ways we cannot ever fully understand. Although it would be wonderful to never have thoughts of how great a relief it must be to end such pain... I would imagine that to one degree or another, most people have had such thoughts. Your courage and bravery to reveal such thoughts and feelings is not lessened by absence of your identity. Your concern for those that these words might worry is well thought out, and touching. Are you some twist of the human creature? Flawed? Weak? Less equipped to facilitate change and growth in your life than most others? No. You are human, and as such, prone to errors in judgment, times of stress, and even varying degrees of productivity... and with them, blessed and cursed with the full spectrum of emotion that we are capable of feeling, from it's heights, to it's deepest chasms. Perhaps this soul we base ourselves upon is not a pristine and inexaustable energy, but a roiling melange of all possible aspects of self. I applaud you for sharing this before it's burial. Your words capture distress and helplessness exceptionally. I hope that in sharing them, you feel less burdened by the emotions that inspired them. ----------------- If beyond poetic melancholy, this is something you feel unable to overcome, please do confide in the comfort of someone who cares. Don't try to bear something too great alone.

Dear Diary, I've recently found a new home where I can ramble and read, laugh and cry, ache for people I have never met, and rejoice in the power of simple words. I find each new thing I read is more apt than not to pull upon my own experiences forcing me to re-evaluate, to re-live, to re-feel. This is the awesome might of writing... to evoke emotion... to arouse memory. -Til Soon, Diary Off topic: Moments ago, Zadown was reminding me that yes, I do need to at least attempt to sleep. Now, Salinye has reminded me of an old wound. Salinye, I am so very glad that you have the love and support that you do. You also appear to have great resilience and hope. I hope with such phenominal strengths to help ease your pain, that your heart won't bear too much weight for too long. Dear Diary, It is 9 years ago. I told my husband that I am pregnant. He said, "Oh, that's just great! Is < friend > interested in adopting it?" My heart sank. Why do I have to be happy alone? Why does my joy have to be trampled upon? -Til later, Diary. Dear Diary, It is 8 and a half years ago. I was induced today... two weeks late. I almost lost the baby in the delivery room. He is alive, and he is healthy (after basically being revived). We didn't know the gender of the baby before he was born. I have a son. My husband said to me, "Well, I should have guessed. I wanted a girl. You knew I wanted a girl." My heart sank. Why is a child any less a gift if it wasn't of the requested gender? Why am I being held at fault for something that should not matter anyway? I will just be happy alone. -Til another day, Diary Dear Diary, It is 7 and a half years ago. I flew home to visit my parents for the Christmas holidays. I told my mom first. "I'm pregnant." "Does < husband > know yet?" "No," I tell her. Later in the day, < husband > calls. I told him over the phone. He asked me not to tell anyone about it, "You can get an abortion." he tells me. -Til.... later I guess, Diary Dear Diary, It is almost 7 years ago. I was induced again. Two weeks overdue, again. I told the delivery room staff I didn't want my husband in the delivery room... I wanted my best friend... my son's godmother, my unborn child's godmother, to be there. They chose to break their "only one person allowed with the mother" rule and let < husband > come in as well. I didn't want that! I didn't want him there... I didn't want to be touched, I didn't want to have to look at him, I didn't want to include him! I was in pain... I didn't speak up. "Get away from her!" my best friend shouted at him as I pushed on cue. How could I not adore her? It was my friend who held my hand. It was my friend who held up my head. No complications this time. Son number two was born with nothing but perfect features and perfect health. "Shit, just what we need... another boy. At least he can wear hand-me-downs." Said < husband > "Get out of here now, or I will personally beat you within an inch of your life you f'ing bastard! You don't deserve her, and you don't deserve any more right to this child's life than the nothing that you give to the first one!" < friend > shouts at the top of her lungs. He left. My son is beautiful! I am beyond caring or feeling injury from what that man says to me or expects from me. -Til another day, Diary Dear Diary, It is 6 years ago. I didn't tell him I was pregnant. He didn't deserve to know. I figured in a few months, he'd realize it. Why didn't I realize I couldn't trust him for support? I slumped into < husband's > lap. "I had a miscarriage. I had a baby, and I've lost it." My whole body hurt. My soul hurt. I had dreaded telling him that I was pregnant but I had not dreaded this child. I had already played so many dreams of his or her lifetime... and so much pain knowing that lifetime was over, and I had never held my child in my arms. I had never even named my child. "We didn't need another one anyway." was his monotone reply. I crawled away, and haven't stopped crying. Why must I hurt alone? -Til, Diary Dear Diary, It is 5 years ago. I didn't bother to hand him the divorce papers. I left them on the floor where the piano had been, next to the porceline cake topper from our wedding cake (minus the head of the groom). By the time he finds them, my sons and I will be 300 miles away. I feel so free! Why did I wait so long to stop being alone? -Til soon, Diary Dear Diary, It is now. Life isn't easy. I have more on my plate than I think I can handle at times, but I have the love of 3 men. Two of them call me "mom" and the other is the man I plan to grow old with. -Til another day, Diary

And very appropriate to read at 3am. hehe Perfect imagery. Excellent, Z. -Just another insomniac

I stand before you Stripped of armor Barren of façade Utterly exposed. I have nothing to protect me But the faith that you are not cruel. I come to you Without refrain No hesitation Uninhibited. I come to you as one lover comes to another With nothing but the core of my self to offer. I wait for you Blindly assured Free of discomfort Serene and patient. It is not arrogance that makes me thus But belief that only if I am ready, shall I enter.

*sigh* My reputation preceeds me. I guess I might as well get out the whip since someone has blown my cover. Mwahahaha!

What is it to love and be loved? A question unanswered since the first star was born. How do I find it and will it last? Tis wiser to ask the ocean to hold back her tides. Man can love for the sake of thrill Or man can love for the sake of his beloved. Perhaps it is better to ask Why do I seek love, and what must it give me? If happiness is your sought flower Then romance will neither nourish nor seek it out. The cruelty of love is that it will come But only to one who is happy in it's absence. When love becomes woven into your soul's fabric When you do not need the admiration of another Then you become coveted to love But is it not easier to ask the ocean to hold back her tides?

Hiya Val. hehe I don't lurk for long before hoppin' on in. Thankya, Peredhil.

Another 3 AM, and as usual, I sit awake. I long to lie in your arms listening. You never knew did you? Of all those 3 AMs with you, few found me sleeping, But my troubles faded to nothing with the sound of your body. Oh, how I miss the smell of you. Just to breathe you in, to feel you flood my lungs, To taste the echo of your goodnight kiss on my lips. There is no place I would rather lie awake Than within the envelope of your body heat. As I sit here, alone, I can see the silhouette of your body Partially hidden by a loosely draped sheet. Every shadowed feature of your face, every tangle of your hair Etched forever in my mind To see again and again in the lonely hours before the dawn. I ache to feel the sweaty hotspots of your skin Pressed to mine, unmoving for hours. To start to drift into sleep and be awakened By the reflexive twitching of your fingers As you move through each new dream. My bed is a solemn and sorry substitute for yours. My pillow doesn't cradle my head The way the hollow below your collar bone does. One heartbeat does not dance in chaotic rhythm As yours and mine together do. I sit here, avoiding my lonely bed and I wonder, Do your twitching fingers dance around In search of my body as you dream? I would gladly slide beneath them Even if only for this 3 AM.