VIN 12- Women Are Killers (A Small Bit of Advice for Idiots)

A small bit of advice to idiots; Women are killers.

Think of the Lioness: a sleek, silent, and lethal predator that has evolved and adapted, honing itself into a perfect machine of hunting and rearing through the duality of huntress and mother, murderer and lover.

That result, compared to a male, whose role is largely to intimidate and maintain order, shows where real power lies.

Real power. The mental-kind– imagination-power.

Though this is not to say the males of the species are not also accomplished hunters, and thinkers, they lack the duality of the role nature has charged their females with. It is the Male’s mate, whom once he has frightened you into flight, closes for the kill. His mate who is lighter, stronger, faster, sleeker, and just as lethal– if not more, by virtue of motherhood. Her face is the last thing you see before your throat is gored.

Brutal. Visceral.

Now recognize she’s done infinitely more and worse to survive, to feed her cubs, Pride, and wards to ensure their total survival. She has likely seen death on equally as many faces.

Remember that fact.

Then recall this is ubiquitous to most females– mammals especially– and that predators most often prey upon the elderly, juvenile, weak, and wounded. Remember, most of all, this has been going on for millennia and has desensitized enough females to death to ensure their species’ survival.

Remember all of that next time you fuck with women or their rights; mated or not, you’re fucked.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: My Box

I haven’t left my box,
much at all this year.
Some say it’s a bad thing,
that I live in constant fear.

But the truth is,
my box is really quite large,
when my imagination descends,
and it takes charge.

Some people say that,
my box’s walls are uncouth.
I disagree,
but ’cause I know the truth:

That boxes,
ones both bigs and smalls,
are around us all each day,
most with invisible walls.

I like my box and keep it cool,
or in the winter cozy and warm.
But some still say my box,
does me lots of harm.

But I don’t believe it,
and I think I know why;
just between you and me,
my box has better views of the sky.

And ones of the beyond if I choose,
past the stars and the moon,
the sun and solar system,
to places so far, I can’t return soon.

Cause its out there I’m soaring,
while my hands remain here, writing.
And though my mind’s in the clouds,
it’s my box that keeps me here, safe

from fighting–
from crying,
from sighing,
or even white-lying.
‘Cause my box is like yours,
but different,
for it is ever,
adventure-supplying.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Sobriety’s Uncouth

A month in chains,
is worth a lifetime of dreams.
Shackled at the wrists.
Bound at the ankles,
I live on,
knowing my freedom,
lies on the other side,
of cages gray and iron,
of bars cold and blue.

This is the mind,
the point of view,
of a creature
whom, unlike you,
finds sobriety uncouth.

To it,
said state is stagnation;
a poison,
bearing things far worse than death,
for this creature,
thrives on imagination,
and revels in its every tainted breath.

When cut off from it–
the muse of the mind–
such creatures wither,
they die inside.

And while they can be reborn,
each time their fire is dimmed.
Until one day but embers,
coals of themselves,
mockeries of their former existence.
Wouldn’t you rather fly,
than die?

So heed this command;
let live and let live,
for though there may be impostors,
so too are there anomalies,
true-born freaks,
creatures of darkness,
whose counter to light,
can only be accepted,
not understood.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: A New World Emerges

I close my eyes,
for a moment in time,
and a world emerges.

Each time it is different:
inflamed and roiling,
or peaceful, serene.

But each time it changes,
as do I with it,
and I do my best to help you see it.

Perhaps I’m not too great at it.
Perhaps I’m best of all,
but all that matters is you see it.

War-torn. Burning.
Ashes. Embers.
Static-gray sky.

Or verdant, gleaming.
Fields of silent life,
that flits on by.

No matter the place,
I see it true,
and show it to you.

Remaining unique,
is hard in this age,
but I find I must try,

whether for me or you,
I can’t quite be sure,
but it is no less real nor tangible.

So again I close my eyes,
to view a world anew,
hoping, even fighting,
to convey its fruits to you.