Internal War

For centuries people have fought for beliefs, religion or land, now a new battle line has been made, you need to divulge a plan to defeat the new threat, problem is, you can’t see it with the naked eye. An internal war within the micro organisms that make up a body, although we cant see the war, we feel it. Violent Guerilla tactics are deployed in a battle between a foreign invasion. The conflict between the forces that heal and grow our being. The struggle within your own body sometimes causes an unexpected and spontaneous combustion from within, an escalation of inside happenings causes the wheels and cogs to turn backwards, they loose control. The foreign intruder nests in the places where the cogs steadily grinded, there it has waited. The battles have just begun.

Making a castle in your temple of self worship, the invasion has reached maximum effect, tanks, guns and bullets echo off the walls of your once proud cavity. Inflicting pain and suffering within your home. The foreigners patrol the hallways, gate keep and watch and inflict torture on the captives they hold in their cages of emptiness.  The invaders kill their king and divide and spread, making new places to carry out their deeds. They hurt you deeper as the tunnel into your soul. Their fighting amongst each other causes them to barricade themselves into the carved and hollowed out spaces they once held in high esteem, now they cower, not afraid of themselves but the impending doom. The final hour is near, they wait. Bitter, they try hurting you to the full force of their capability, fight to the death, they say no white flag. Hearing the trumpets and horns of heavens army, their blades of renewal and goodness are coming. Hold on, the Armageddon for the enemy of the body is here, sounds of the white army killing the corrupted cells can be heard in every fibre of your human form.

One by one the soldiers perish, they are devoured by the sound of slaughter, cut from cavities they carved, removed from the places they called theirs, they are annihilated. With the sound of sweet silence, and stench of sterility, the holes start to mend, using hope as the thread and life as the needle. Sewn closed, the soul replenishes and gives birth to a new existence. With the invaders removed from the gaps that cogs once rotated, new wheels and cogs form, stronger and more resistant to intruders, now cogs do not roll over for foreign policies, they roll over them, crushing their envious, futile lives. You prevail. You succeed. You win.

With the battle won, you are the victor and conqueror of invasion. Hail the greatness and beauty you are, go on and prosper.

Alpha Barbie

Plastic, perfection and beautiful? The little, young minded girl, playing with her dollies, seeing the beauty the doll is, and never realising real people are not perfect until it is to late. Mis-guided fantasy to reality. Does the playing imagination, get shaped into a false perception of the ‘real’ world? Barbie, the must have toy for girls everywhere, behind the plastic see through box is the biggest liar in toy history.

Skinny, flat, toned and ‘natural’, some words to describe Barbie body, like a one faced army lying in wait to bought and played with. Who is playing with who? Making Barbie’s perfect world, cars, houses, Ken, all accessories to her existence, all objects. The little world absorbs the girls imagination, making it her place, as she is living through Barbie, basing all decisions on what the Barbie ranges carry. There is only a pink car, the girls new favourite colour is pink, Barbie has make up on, the little girl is 6, wearing make-up. Basing sanity and rational thought on a ‘toy’. Barbie has a variety of dolls, Theresa the Brunette doll, so the dark haired girls can find common ground with the doll and in essence see themselves in her when they are playing ‘House, House’. Making dolls in different races reaches every little girl. If they can afford it.

Barbie has its own idealization and standards, its all about status and having more. My Barbie has fifty eight outfits, three cars, two houses, three Kens…the more the girl has promotes and shows dominance and a sense of power over the girls with less, becoming the talked about ‘it girl’ or ‘queen bee’. In having the best and becoming the best does this come out in latter teenage life when talking behind backs and being jealous takes place. The quest to stand out and be noticed starts at a young age, when Barbie is being played with, or Barbie playing the girls strings like a puppet?

Shaping on Barbie, her beauty, perfection, the femme fatal. All the glam she stands for hits the girl’s reality when they see pimples, hair growth, body changes… normal reality is nothing like the Barbie said it would be. Thus the girls esteem is dented when the ‘it girl’ strides past all beautiful and lustful, as Barbie is. Barbie makes rivalry, if her range carried the fat friend or the spotted geek,  in society it would be ok, because in the girls shaping of the mind days, she would see a difference, and something’s are not perfect, thus it would be normal to see difference and parodies to beauty.

One of the riches brands in the world, a perfect woman made out of plastic. Older woman even shape themselves on the plastic notions of a toy. Barbie has small facial features, tight skin, and huge breasts, therefore I want that, so I can be noticed. Barbie makes everyone want attention, and to get it you must have the best weapon, to make someone stare. Paparazzi love celebs because they love attention, they stride for perfection and when not found the world see’s their true forms and flaws, and disregards them because media considers them to not be ‘it’ anymore.

The questions is, will the big lie of beauty ever be stopped, or will the brain washing continue, all told without words, without a voice. Just a smile through a pink plastic box. Mommy, can I have a Barbie, pretty please!

Beating an Angel.

A casual greeting at the entrance to an elegant home, an invite to grace the couches presence, the ambience is relaxed. The nanny nestles the toddler on her lap, braiding her long blonde angelic hair, she watches the brightly coloured animals dancing across the television screen. The care giver chatting to her ‘friend’, and then without warning chaos erupts like the Icelandic volcano. The home invader whose smile and friendliness was only a mask to gain access into the house forces himself forward off the couch, lunging at the unsuspecting nanny and child. He brutally attacks the nanny, punching her in the face, with the jolt the baby hits the floor. The caregiver flops back into the sofa, blood rushing from her bloating nose and eye, she is dazed and confused. She tries to focus and all she can see is a figure moving, dancing on the defenseless toddler. The cries and shrieks of the baby raining through the house, cries for help, the intruder beats on the child, kicking , hitting and damaging the powerless angel. Satisfied, he walks back to the nanny, wails on her for abit. Ties her up, has a last kick at the now unconscious baby. And begins to rummage through the house.

Hearing a knock at the door, he invites his friends for a quick free sale of stealing. They walk past the nanny who is crying, and they politely step over the toddler, giggling. The home invaders who are alien to the house examine every inch of where the valuables could be stored or hidden. Pulling out draws, throwing the objects they don’t suffice as being worthy enough for them to take. Breaking glasses like the bones of the child who is battling to breathe on the soft green carpet. Laptops, money in the draws and the television they were all watching earlier is unplugged and carried out by the intruder’s friends. They have completed their mission of hatred and crime. They bid farewell to their ‘friend’ who remains shocked and disfigured on the one seater couch. They aren’t without manners you know.

Now alone in the house, she tries to untie herself but is unsuccessful. She watches the lifeless body at her feet drift in and out of consciousness, she sheds more tears, this is her fault, she invited in the assault. Trust is earned not based on a casual hello. A little while later she hears the door unlock, fearing it is the criminals coming to do further damage she lets out a boisterous scream for help. It’s the little girls mother, she runs into the lounge to find destruction, blood and a dwindling soul. Frantic she phones the ambulance, the police and her husband. She is mortified and distraught at the situation, she helps the beaten caregiver, and holds her baby who is bleeding and blue, but thankfully still breathing and fighting for life. She is rushed to the hospital, the nanny accompanies.

In intensive care the life force of a courageous fighter continues to grasp at her yet unlived life that has been dented by criminals. A few days on, the nanny admits defeat and reveals the truth. They never broke in, they were invited in. A toddler is fighting for life due to someone else’s negligence. It is time for South Africa to stop these death dealers, bolt them into a dirty, cold cell and leave them to rot. That’s the easy way out, they should be beaten until they cry and bleed, they should be dealt what they give out, pain. This little fragile angel was defenseless and powerless, and they still wailed on with the full force of a thousand suns. Now she lies in a sterile bed instead of playing with toys and smiling. They have now influenced the whole course of her life, she will never be the same. And neither should these humans, and I use the term ‘humans’ loosely, as they are not worth the oxygen provided by the earth. Now suspects have been arrested, who turns out are foreigners from one of our neighbouring countries, did they only come to South Africa to commit horrendous acts of violence? The law must back hand them with a sentence worth the suffering of bloody battle of war. Let’s hope and pray this baby lives and gets better. It is time for us too take the land back, take the criminals by their dirty paws, and string them up like cattle, and impose sentences that are worth their devious and demented crimes. They must suffer the full force of the law, and then some. No mercy, no easy way out. The only place they are going is best described as the ‘hard house’, for many reasons…

 The question, do we need the death penalty? Or is that not humane, well neither is beating a toddler.

Night with Edward Cullen the Rapist

The smell of antique pine and the soothe smell of aged leather filled the nostrils of the flustered onlookers. The heat in the room soared to the catacombs of the suns fiery pits, the sweat dripped from the faces; they politely wiped the intrusion of the unplanned lactation of the forehead, they then continued their irreverent conversation. The cautious prowl, the sound of footsteps, the soft breeze caresses your soft skin as someone passes by, the glance to see who it was that changed the air. A mysterious, dark person gazed into your eyes, stealing a moment. Your heart began to beat like a marching bands drum, the vibrations as the wooden floor boards shuddered at the presence walking across the Persian rugs, roaming through the crowded drawing room.

A boisterous voice bellowed from the stranger, they greeted your ambience. Anxious, you replied with an honest, warm gesture of appreciation. The conversation was guarded, mature and deep. Through the misty mumblings protruding from the mouths, subtle eyes wandered, examining the clothing, the hand movements, the masked smiles and laughs. The empty void that protected the strangers disappeared as the chat became fluffy, cheeky and humorous. The chemistry flowed like the words from a history book that nestled in the dust on the cherry oak wood bookcase that towered above the two caught up souls.

 The sound of the coming storm bustled in the distance, wise cracks of thunder and powerful bolts of lightning sexed the landscape. The two captured people continued their conversation, reluctant to stop talking, they wanted to explore the vast playground that imploded in the other’s mind. Eager to fish for truth, extract the past and pierce any hint of emotion. Yet the mysterious fellow did not express any sign of emotion, bordering on absent. Why was I so captured by this person’s aura?

 As the days pasted, the truth I longed for was juiced out onto a canvas, in all shades and demeanors, this mystery was art. This being was built like a sculpture, pure clayed perfection. Their mind rained from the eras, expressing a vast amount of knowledge and ideas, showing the history that passioned them, exploring the mind was as if he was reading the pages off that reflected off their soulful eyes. I was glamoured.

 Amidst the happiness, I found myself being drawn like a stick figure next to the Mona Lisa. My thoughts were not mine, they were shared, the way I dressed was styled by the lovers ensemble of servants in the decadent Victorian castle where a portrayed my life. I had fell victim to an entity that was like no other.

So I began to watch, they would never enter into a place without being asked in, they were very pale and in some instances glowed like diamonds, they never shared dinner time. Were they just private, or too chivalrous and courteous to enter ones home, did they have thick skin and did not burn and when did they eat to keep in such pristine condition.

I then felt a cold chill down my spine, and a warm body behind my back, I turned around only to be met by the face, the beautiful face of the mystery miracle.I wanted to express my heartfelt need for the truth, so I poured out my soul. Taken back they stepped back into the shadows, stood there, heavy breathing. And in an instant they were right next to me, breathing on my neck, their strength and power could be felt as they smelled my soft clean skin, I wanted to scream. But, I was strangely captivated. I glanced back into their eyes, they opened their mouth, and two fangs relaxed into their jaws. My heart sank, my body collapsed, my mind was left wandering.

I woke up the next day in my king sized bed, met with the greeting sun’s hello, I was dazed and confused, was it all a dream? Then a warm hand expelled itself from the sheets, caressing my lower back as the tiny hairs began to stand at attention, Goosebumps railed and brailed my skin. Our eyes caught, raw animalistic love was bound in the cris crossed stare, I felt one, I felt connected, I felt free and immortal. They grinned and those two little fangs made an appearance, yet I smiled and rubbed the healing bite marks in my hot laced neck, I truly was now bound to another, drawn as an equal and sexed like a demon, I could not wait to spend another night with a vampire…

Huma[phobia]

A phobia, an extreme irrational fear or an aversion to something. A dislike for a specific group or thing. Someone who has the fear is met with horror, terror and neurosis. They are scared of the different and the unwritten, they fear change and the out of the ordinary. Huma[phobia] – a misunderstanding of individuals lifestyles.

To the people who are not considered as ‘normal’ by society, the ‘trans-gendered’, the ‘gays’, the ‘transvestites’, the ‘nudists’, the ‘fetishist’s’. They suffer from a condition called Humaphobia, the fear of the people who are different to themselves, the majority of society. The people, who judge them, point and stare, the bullies of the minorities. Not all people hate the ‘expressionists’ of society, they try and understand it without being judgmental. Life through the magnifying glass is not an easy cross to bare, but these ‘colourful’ people can’t be anything else except for themselves, so why ridicule and crush their spirits? It all stems back to those seven ‘deadly’ sins, although we all have them, people who suffer from insecurities are more prone to them.

Pride, the addiction and desire to be more important and superior to another, they achieve this by either physical or verbal abuse, this transpires into the eventual emotional abuse, as the ‘colourful’ person will be left in the shadows, bludgeoned, bleeding and crying. Envy, the resentment of another person who has something they perceive themselves as lacking. If a trans-gendered person drives the latest BMW, and has the best house and perfect lawn, an envious person will look on in jealousy and may often act out. Wrath, the destructiveness, violence and hate that explodes. Looking at the current, take a club that has been cut in half, half straight, half gay, when someone who is consumed by wrath moves into the ‘gays’ designated area, he may explode in a fit of anger and rage and hurt someone because of his lack of understanding and hatred for a group.

Greed, the pursuit of wealth, status and power. The person will stand on anyone to get to the top, and stay there. Whether it is by spreading rumours, exposing secrets and threatening blackmail. For example, knowing someone as the hardcore businessman by day and the floating Bella Bella Dona by night, laced in pearls and dowsed in glitter and makeup. The person, who lusts for greed, will use this information to get a foot up. Pouncing on someone’s alternative lifestyle is a huge flaw in the human character. Sloth,

The failure to use ones gifts and talents, if a person is lazy and has no ambition, they will sponge off others to feel part of something. They go through life like a tortoise, expecting people to just give. They use minorities to do their work, they are good at manipulating and will work someone over because they make them feel inferior because of a particular orientation. Lust, excessive love of others. If a straight guy sleeps with a few girls over weekend he is the ‘man’, if a girl does it she is a slut. If a gay does it, it’s like the ‘oh well’ effect, because through stereotypical views it is considered part of the lifestyle, to sleep with every tom dick and dick. This perception of the alterative lifestyle is frowned upon by main stream society and therefore an intense dislike for that minority manifests, yet in ‘straight’ life, it still ok. Just because its two men, or two woman makes the majority uncomfortable. But, after the thought of hate for the alternatives, they get on the phone and call their swing buddies for a F***fest.

Unfortunately, this is how the world works, the world is not balanced between the ‘normal’ and the ‘alternative’ lifestyles. It is either right or wrong. So there is a sense of Homophobia and a new kind of phobia, Humaphobia, the fear of mainstream society hurling bricks into their faces. To make it clear, everyone has phobias, but people who take certain phobias to the extreme where they act out verbally, physically or emotionally, they are what is wrong with society, not people who are ‘different’. If you don’t understand something and are not willing to try find out, shut your pie hole and just look on. There is no point in someone getting angry at someone because they like being naked in public, or they like the same sex, just let it be. If this mindset of just letting people be was in all members of society brains, the world would be a better place. So whether you are gay, straight, bisexual, transgendered, just live your life to the full and let others do the same. Free yourself, free your mind and free your heart. 

 Like I said, it is just a fear, not a reality in all.

Lonely Crystal

Inside, within and enveloped, your mind knows best, yet your heart lingers on banter and crumbs of obsession. Hanging on the words of a dream, a twisted reality, you beg and pine for them to end your crush, yet they spin webs. Webs spun from silk and happiness, your body sewn, entombed. Warm and cozy your soul lays and dwindles, feeding off tossed hope and pieces of you. Your darkness talk comes from a place that you keep at bay and to yourself, you store yourself within yourself, to hide from your own insecurities. Like a crystal you are born from the depths, the bowls of a foreign existence.

The heart of a crystal is jaded, edgy and hard, and like its heart, yours mirrors a crystal only it’s encased in cages, sealed with muscles, lined with tissue and opening valves only at the right instances, filtering what you deem inappropriate to help you live. You filtered me out, made me part of the monotone colours that cover your canvas that you call the life. Born from earth, yet like a rock from distant galaxies, your mystery, your uniqueness captivates us. You crash into our soil with no respect for where you land or for who you land on, your crash took us by surprise and blinded me with your illusion and intrigue.

Sparks deter our vision and thoughts, your crystal blinds the mere mortal rocks, we lie around your crash sight, charred and burnt, yet not broken or faded. We heal ourselves by having happiness and support in our mortal mass, you stand alone, defiant and beautiful. As the tears of rain fall, water moves the crystal and stones together, like a blender we wash, rub and cut the crystal, deep, long and often painful cuts along the circumference of your body, yet, we still can’t penetrate the cages that guard your icy core. Unable to cut to change you, we cut to shape your fragile existence.

Through it all our journey was good, only deceit and strings pulled me away and got the better of me. The new carver is amazing, may they clean up your sharpness, abrasiveness and roughness, you need a strong steady hand to move your marble covered emotion. Play hard little crystal, you will end up wrapped around some body’s finger, an aesthetic, an object, a thing.


Sparkle, shine and gleam, self love, self hate, you are the perfect stone. Cold!

Love Everyday

The thought that if you are alone during this ‘festive, loving’ day there is something wrong with you. The Truth is, since my first Valentine when I was 13, I have not had one. Instead, I have spent this day with friends who love me, unconditionally, not just because it the 14 of February. Seeing a teddy bear mouth and mime those three little words, or a flower dressed in designer wrappers made your knee’s buckle and seductive sensual chocolates made your mouth smirk and water. The likely rationalization is the teddy bear, who is warm and fuzzy made you time travel back to that feeling you had as a child when you got things for free, the flower picked from the masses, dowsed in insecticide punctures your finger and you bleed, and the chocolates… simple… your mouth secrets salvia with the temptation of appetizing goodies and that makes your mouth water, not love.


Cave men dragged their lovers by their hair into a cave and had at them, we say animalistic, maybe that’s how they showed love, I mean they couldn’t mouth those three little words, so huffs, puffs and groans were adequate as expressionism of their affection for each other. Here I killed this Mammoth for you my dear, here is its left fibula bone, you like? Your cave or mine? Love?


Then time pasted on, we evolved into tactful, respectful human beings. Clothing dressed, lined and shaped us, therefore, a loop hole had to be created to get past materials, hidden depths, and into the heart. Would you like to go for coffee or dinner? A Date? Two nervous people sitting at a table, watching what they say, controlling how they eat and throwing subtle yet effective hints too find out more, the purpose, to get into each others head, finding out how they think, trying to pin point the physical attributes they like, the emotions they pick up on and they deepness of their mind. Finding mutual grounds to work on and move towards a path of happiness. When it’s easy between two people, those butterflies that were exploding and crashing into each other subside and its becomes comfortable, either that, or the fine wine and exquisite food trumped their anxiety. If there is a chance of more, the sparks connect the souls, the cosmic chemistry guides them in their endeavors, and if love bitch slapped lust and won, they would show each other affection in many ways, tokens of spontaneous love combustions, in hugs, kisses and smiles, not just, its that day that saint Valentine designated, here is a gift, take it!


Generation xoxo, hugs and kisses and I luv you’s. Media and television and music have made the word love as common as peeing in public. The lovelust love has conquered the young, blinded the youthful and baffled the ageing. Reading between the lines of love and luv, do u love me OE or U? Simple don’t say ‘it’ if you don’t mean it. Many single valentines’ days under my belt, the glorified heart shaped piss up is soon? Are you alone? Or, surrounded by pockets of happiness and love right now, in seven hours or even six days from now, you are not alone, ever! Proud, Happy and Loved, everyday-


So…

Here is a teddy, just because,
Here is a rose, just because it’s Tuesday,
Here is a chocolate, just because I thought of you,
Here is my heart, just because…

Paper For Life

Drunken bamboozled men crowded around the stage, their taste buds being tickled at the thought of a woman taking off her clothing and fulfilling their deepest fantasies. The smell of a dirty floor dipped in tequila and served with a side of beer rapes your tense nostrils. The inebriated faces stare loosely, as the lady of the night slides down the pole in glittering and shimmering garments that mask her scared bare skeletal skin, the primal mans face begins to distort as he howls out to the thought of her full moon, cat calls, whistles and lewd gestures rain down on her like acid stained rain. The pack of profanities glare with hungry eyes, they are ready for the show, she on the other hand, needs the money.

The music begins, the sound bellows and surrounds the dancer, pushing her perfect body up against the pole, playing her like a puppet, moving her around like a soulless, missing mannequin, she begins to dance. The madam looks on at her selected item, as she ascends the glamorous, cold piece of metal, gracefully moving her frame to the beats of the music. The exotic ballerina performs her artistry, long, slow sensual movements, she is gripped in the deep dark vocals of the voices of the speaker, she guides her body to the emotion of the song, making it real, making it heartfelt.  She and her acquaintance called the pole, help each other through the motions, becoming one. Her ensemble radiates, it glows as the spotlight shades on and off of her, making her seem like a mystified illusion. The shining sparkles fade as the courtesan prances and flits across the floor as is she was dancing on hot coals, burning money into her feet with every frisky twinkle of the hips.

Like soft velvet falling from the Queens chariots, her clothes seem to disrobe themselves, the bra that protected her fragility is now tied to the chair, the atmosphere in the room elevates as the many hungry, desperate wolves pine to rub the skin of the beauty, but, she would rather a skin eating bacteria engulf her before one of their porky fingers poked her vulnerability. The tension of egos has inflamed the ambience, like marking territory they all believe she is theirs for the taking, all they need is an engorged wallet. The highly aroused crowd watch as the half dressed scarlet ballerina displays her soft skin, as she darts with elegance and grace across the famed stage. She is alone in a room of horny misguided ghosts tanked on substance. The music changes pitch and range and she adjusts to the emotion ringing from the sound system.

The superficial glances and winks at the hounds makes them reach springtime in their trousers which are now laced with stains from the alcohol soaring through their excited veins. She whirls and twirls, sheepishly gyrating to the rhythmic sound explosions, the remaining lacy pink underwear, waves like a white flag admitting surrender, she has surrendered to the crowd at the madam’s accord, they fall to the ground like her morals and ethics. A huge boisterous applause and jeers boycott the once silent pack of under sexed beasts, the are elated she lost her dignity and show her their appreciation but tossing notes onto the stage, paper for sadness and the need to survive.

The final performance as she cools her body with hardened ice blocks, a cool glaciate feeling attends to her exposed emotional wounds, she has completed her immorality act, the body opera is over, and like that visionary red curtain falls, so does her glossed, seductive lips, her plastic grin fades. The music that moulded her physic to the mood of the beats has now been cancelled out by men being men and showing their dominance. The men are ecstatic they have seen what they paid for, they leased and hired out her body for a ten minute jumping castle in their boxer briefs, without ever giving a thought, maybe that is a someone's young daughter or a single mother making ends meet, if they remain blind to the truth, they wont have to feel guilty about making her jump and beg like a eager jack russell begging for a ball.

They make her non human, so they can remain human and return to their reality and back to their wife and families, while she packs up her clothes, counts her money and leaves the luminous flickering 501 club. She has to dance to survive, she lives from hand to mouth and in run down flats all the while raising a child, she has courage and has the strength to face the new day, what do they have, a missing poster in the hallway of their home.

The Crash and Burn

The flesh rips from the ducts that make acid tears, the burning of acid dissolves the skin, making an unidentifiable feature, a face that was loved, known and accepted as normal. Scared, disfigured he sits, staring into the world with the perfect sky, sun and moon. Wanting to be whole, together not a sewed up scarecrow, made from straw, old clothes of past and a hand sewed face that resembles a smile, a crooked smile.

Straw replaces the things that made him human, his organs, his skin, his heart. He sits, speechless, alone and silent, the being faces a live of scarcity, avoidance and awkwardness. He feels like the elephant man, a thing, an item to be laughed at, ridiculed and exploited. The crooked smile, lights up at the sight of people of resemblance, the people who knew him then, and the people who are trying to know him now, wanting his own pain to die, to burn that straw inside, that straw that makes him sad, but he cannot be selective in what he wants to burn, or he will completely go up in flames. Deciding if the full inflammation was acceptable and a viable choice, could he be selfish and let his existence and family tree burn. When he was whole and new, he was selfish, he looked to the pretty suicide, the internal war between blood and pills, the relax that ends a life rather that the dramatic exit of slits, ropes and bullets. Pulling at the strings that extrude from the straw embedded in his sadness, he tugs hard, trying his hardest to be whole again, to expel this pain that encapsulates his entire being, then he realises, it is him he is tugging and tearing apart, he is making himself less of what he was or what he could be. He stops. To deal or not to deal is what he says to himself internally. A new life is beginning, with or without his dry insides.

The crooked smile becomes straight, a glow from the teeth blinds all around him, making them see the new him, the burn in their eyes was like giving birth, and they have, to acceptance of a new him. Drawn into the energy and spirit that he beams out, filling their lives with a new view of life, a new sense of direction and understanding.

The scarecrow has risen from the ashes, like a fiery phoenix. His reinvention, his rejuvenation is still in process, moving swiftly to a higher place. A place where he is he, and she is she, complete and utter understanding for the mutations of normal life. The atmosphere and ambience that extrudes from the shape in front of them, the straw that once was the centre for a mass extinction of internal parts, the heart that ran dry, the tears that burnt, this dry straw that enveloped him, was mending itself, moving up and down the body with the acceptance as the string and the understanding as the needle, the two working together and sewing up the holes of regret, judgement and denial. The holes that made him bleed, were now whole again, the muscles and skin grew around the scars, but did not let them disappear or be repaired to the extent of the scars not having meaning or loosing their consequence to judgement and recklessness of the emotional battle within a mind. Those scars are what he keeps in remembrance of things lost and things gained.

The scarecrow was now fully formed into the new soldier of self actualisation and acceptance from within, it was a hard, painful journey, one the soldier will keep forever, he has the marks internally and externally to prove his path of self balance. He is ready. Walking out of the place he called home during his turmoil, he turns, faces the building, thanks it, looks at the chair we he sat and thought for hours on end, a place where he came to deal with himself, and try understand and help the pain and suffering of the ones closest to him. This place was one of great sacrifice and self loathing of him mentally, physically and emotionally, yet his new life was beginning again, his rebirth into society was now.

Turning from this building, his back facing past, he front facing future, he walks, head up right and unashamed.