Tag Archives: love

Hot Fire

Friends come, friends go,
summer’s warm, winter’s cold.
In your heart where the winter’s warm
fires are burning hot
you find yourself standing under a starry sky at night
in the empty snow in an empty field, head up
looking at a million hot pinpricks and wondering:

if one of those pinpricks is looking down at you.

love’s desire.
from friendly fire
which takes place
behind enemy lines.

Madness I Am, for
friendly fire is not
if you’re in their aim
and you’ve gotten shot
by love’s betrayal of desire.

burning hot
like the bullet wounds
of my heart’s desire.
I want not
but the betrayal of the soul is the heart’s desire,
and betrayal of both sets the mind afire
with thoughts of what you want
but cannot have.

Peace be with you.


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The Comely Frog

“Ribbet. ribbet.”
Said the Frog.
“Kiss me babe.
I’ll be your Prince.”

And she did.

Later on she left him, saying, “You are such a Toad.”

He smiled sadly and softly said, “And to think: I was as such a handsome and comely frog when we first met!  And now I’m but a Toad.”

And she hopped away looking for another Prince to kiss, collecting alimony checks all the way.

croak. croak.

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The Machine


It was in Mr. Bell’s homeroom class.  He was both my ninth grade science teacher and homeroom class.

The school was an old one, or an ill-equipped one at that.  Built in the South, it lacked some modern features – like air-conditioning and modern desks.  Instead we had those old inkwell ones – I would find them greeting me in high school as well – with decades old graffiti scratched into their marred surfaces.  Your back and seat were the person’s desktop behind you; these heavy iron things with their intricate scrollwork were bolted to the floor – there was no disturbing them, as generations of students had learned.  You sat there – that blank old inkwell hole staring up at you like a forlorn eye; the cryptic messages from the past (and present! as well) scrawled across the surface.

The teacher was black, he was a preacher – and he taught science, so I automatically trusted him.  Science teachers were cool; they kept their head – that taught me something rational that never changed.  After all: truth is what it is, and facts don’t change – that was something life had taught me good.  Everything else is up for grabs; change is inevitable; I hate it and can’t fight it – we’ve ‘just moved’ into this new neighborhood; I’ve changed schools – this one’s a disaster, though not as bad as the last . . . I don’t know: each one is worse in it’s own way.

I had come into the first – the last one – in eighth grade.  Fresh from Germany – gone for four years – I come home to find my neighborhood has gone, everyone has deserted me.  Or rather, I deserted them – leaving at the crux and the apex of a long held decision; another disaster in the making that had affected my best friend (his father died.  On or near Halloween.  And it was the very worst Halloween in my entire life. But that’s another story; one that can only be told by the little one in me.)

Anyway, at this ‘new’ school they had assigned me (the one in eighth grade) – they put me in a remedial reading type of class – and an advanced algebra one.  This to a kid who has just scored Junior college level reading and comprehension skills, plus an outstanding vocabulary (though why he keeps silent all of the time seems a bit of a mystery . . . and he can be found standing alone, staring at the school from the grounds . . . or jotting notes in the little notebook he held.)

Anyway, that kinda screwed me up, in a polite parlance of the saying.

Now in this new school I am facing a dilemma.  And its a rather hard one.  To paraphrase something a singer would sing some decade or so later: “What’s love got to do with it?”  Or do with anything.  Especially in regards to being happy.  It doesn’t seem to succeed in getting happiness at all.  All it yields is pain.  That’s all it has ever yielded, all of my life.  Over and over again.  Starting with my ‘abuser’; the guy who would molest me – I loved him.  And I loved another one while I was overseas – but I was too shy, having been burned too bad by the first one’s massive betrayal.  I would have done anything for that guy, and I mean that quite literally.  Anything.  Gone to bed with him had he asked (but he didn’t) – and I was too afraid to try.  But god! how I loved him.  Closer than my mean and ‘we’re at war’ brother.  And to this day he has affected me.  He’s the reason I wear button up shirts – because of him.  He taught me to wear them after I showed up in a ragged worn tee-shirt one too many times.  I was a Southern boy, raised on the outskirts of town – quite literally right off a Southern road you might have heard of: Tobacco Road.  Just a stone or two throws away.  In the scrub and the sandhills on a small sandy hill lot – along with a lot of other kids in a little neighborhood we lived in . . .

But I ramble.  I go on.  I am avoiding building the machine.

There was a divorce in the air; a parental rumble; I knew it – I could smell it at home.  And Dr. Bell was my science teacher – and a preacher! – he would know what to do . . . at least have some words to advise me . . .

But he didn’t.  Instead he sent me to the gay counselor, who decided I was not to his liking nor taste (nor I to his) – end of line.  I hated him for that.  He frikkin’ bailed on me; one of his students – and one of his brightest – he recognized that in me – but just rolled me in with the rest . . . hands off approach, all of the time.  By everyone I met . . .

And I had had it, I was done with this thing called love.

So I built this thing called the Machine.

And I ran with it for many a year; it protecting me on the outside and within.  It was a good thing; tough and like metal; we fought many ‘wars’ with it – but sometimes things got in.

Armor gets rusty and love does it not good.  Love is like a corrosive to armor, you know what I mean?

It eats little holes in it; lets the world in.  And that’s a bad sort of thing.

I’d rather sit here in my darkness, feeling no pain.

ever again my friend.

(and here we will end . . . very sad, discomforted, and thinking this is a ‘part’ from which some of my suicidal thoughts (and sometimes impulses) come from . . . something I have to, once again, deal with on a daily basis.  But that’s okay; just a suicidal idealation complex built around failing at something – of that I can be quite sure.  And ‘we’ can heal this one in the end . . . given time, care, talking to ‘him’ and understanding . . . maybe we can even the score . . . giving him love when he had none – and making him understand it: It’s forever, my friend – “WE” are your love . . . if nothing and nobody else . . . and I think my wife can understand . . .)


It’s a problem.

Whutta bitch sometimes.

The End.

(signed: 13)  (sighing . . . this is a tough thing, isn’t it guys . . . feeling resigned)

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Filed under 13, child abuse survivor, DID, Love

13. Poem.

The wind streams, the moon howls darkness at the night.
The wind blows, the stars glow, and nothing is all right.
The terrors begun, there is no fun, there’s only dark and light
pushing in; pulling out, and I’m afraid to fight.

He comes to me, I to him; together we embrace
locking lips, eyes to nose, staring him in the face
I kiss him.
and I am young
I am thirteen
and yet just a child.
Possessed by knowledge beyond my means
in the darkness bodies pant and go wild.

He goes in, I go out; I am just thirteen
he says this, I say that, but I don’t know what it means.
“I love you,” he says to my face, but now he is behind me
how can that be
behind me.
what is he doing there?

The dick slides in; the dick slides out; I am in so much pain
and yet if he asks
I will do it again.
I am just thirteen
and I don’t know what it means
these words he calls ‘love’
and the things he does.

There’s blood on my lips; blood in my mouth, and it is my own,
my lips had to cover; protect him from the bone.
It was for him I bled; bled down all inside
Feeling him entering me
as a little child.

I don’t know what to do . . . nowhere left to run
the night has come
and I don’t know what to do
but loving you
loving you for what you’ve done
paying attention to me . . .

Acceptance, love and sex – are they not all one and the same?
And if I am the one who wanted it – am I not to blame?
He put it in me, this wall of shame
which I now must climb.
He is gone but I remain
Thirteen, trapped in time.

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Different Hearts

Different Hearts

Some hearts are like fertile fields —
you plant your love and reap the yields.
Some hearts are like piney slopes —
you plant a tree with prayers and hopes.

But hearts like mine are like a desert oasis
alone by itself in the most hostile of places.
The way you get there is an arduous trek
and when you get there, the place is a wreck.
Empty houses and dried up dates —
you arrive and think you have arrived much too late.

But give me time and I’ll set things right,
maybe today, maybe tonight.
Its been so long since someone came
that I’ve let things go, to my shame.
Give me time and then I know
the love you give me will begin to grow.

And then the oasis will spring to life.
The tree’s will bloom and the streets will sing
that you are my everything.
Just don’t leave and let me die
or poison the wells with a lie.
Just give me your love and I’ll give you mine
for now, forever, until the end of time.

~ Matt

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An Old Letter, An Old Friend

(This is from a true event.  We (or rather Matthew, “I” was still ’emerging’, being ‘born’, learning at this time – fighting with Matthew for my own ‘domain’) – well, we found this letter.  In it was a phone number.  It was our best friend ever over in Germany – the one we’d met, fell in love with – and then were ripped away from by time, circumstance, the Army – and my dad’s betrayal of this dearly beloved best friend’s father.  We lost him …. lost him forever.  And then we found this letter.  And then we found his (or rather, his parent’s) phone number . . . and we called him.  Only he was not there.  He had gone to join the Air Force.  However – get this! – it WAS HIS BIRTHDAY!!!  How odd is THAT? (1 in 365 chance).  But . . . we wrote to him – never got an answer back.  He was (and is) . . . gone forever.  (sad sad sad)  We should be used to having no friends by now – losing them …. life for us has been nothing but loss it seems, despite all we’ve gained – but that’s normal, right?
We don’t know . . . and perhaps never will . . . but I know that the loss of this friend affected me and us personally and terribly, for when we came back (here, Stateside) – we ‘holed up’.  It was this event (the loss of the friend, not the letter we found) which caused us to build “The Machine” – the teenager’s answer against the World – and his own emotions . . . by killing everything inside . . . hate, love, pain – et all.  Including some of ‘us’.
That Machine, by the way, lays on the Desert in my mind – I can see it there perfectly, just as it stood when Matthew crawled his way out of its ruined bulk . . . (crying, but no tears) . . . and started his trek across that mental plain . . . looking for love again . . . which he found in three kids (the family that adopted us) . . . and those who saved him …. you can learn a LOT more about our Life here: http://wp.me/p1t0dv-9D . . . didn’t realize we had wrote that, but it mentions this friend . . . and how the loss devastated us so much . . . “we” changed …. and NOT for the better …..)

The Letter

(written by Matthew sometime in 1984 – summer, I think .. …)


I found an old letter just the other day
from a friend who had moved far away.
It reminded me of happier times
and happier ways
and it seemed it had been
just the other day
that we'd been kids ready to play . . .

And in that letter I found
a telephone number written down
and I wondered, slightly bemused
if that friendship could be refused.
So I dialed most carefully
the number of that friend most precious to me . . .

As I sat and listened to the soft
burr, burr, burr
of a phone ringing
far off, somewhere . . . 
I wondered to myself if this could be
caused by coincidence quite naturally,
or something else
above and beyond me . . .

At last a voice answered me.
I stated my nae carefully.
'Who', he said, 'who do you say?
Is this my pal from yesterday?
Where have you been and what've you done?
Do you remember those days of happiness and fun?'

We talked awhile, then a bit more.
We reflected on what had been before.
We tried to cross that invisible line
that had been drawn by the Hand of Time.
But as we talked I realized
the Dreams were gone, the Ideas died,
and this old dear friend of mine
had slipped away into the annuals of Time.
Strangers now is what we were
the Friendship gone . . . forever more. ...m

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Filed under child abuse survivor, Matthew, The Lost Journals

The Hollow Man

(from Matthew’s Journals . . . sometime in 1984)

Hollow Man


I once knew a hollow man.
He was sad, as I am.
He told me that he was alone
and would stay so ’till he was bones.
He saw me, I saw him,
he was old and grey,
his sight gone dim.
Wrinkled hands and empty heart
he told me:

“If real men don’t cry – why do I
cry for a love that never came?
I have only myself to blame.
No one to say ‘I love you’.
No one to say it to.
No one to hold me tight
against the long winter’s night.
No one with which to go
No one to take away the pain I know
the pain of being alone . . .
the pain that cuts to the bone.”

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Filed under child abuse survivor, Matthew, Poetry, The Lost Journals