Cuddle Me

I want to feel you cozy up to me on the inside; you know, inside my feelings. You feel so good there. andre kohn

artist: andre kohn, the kiss

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Who You Beefin’ With?

Art: Fight Club by Tim Okamura

The doorknob turned as anarchy stormed in. Violence ensued. Mercy fled. The war waged on the battlefield of time.
The adversaries bellowed their distinctive battle cries charging to defend their cause ordered by their respective commanders.

Like any good soldier, you fight the battle without understanding the cause—that’s what you signed up to do.
Since relinquishing your thoughts, feelings, and views to your leader, you no longer command your own life.

Someone else dictates your actions, your every move, and your way of living.

You have only the voice of your leader’s [commands and orders] echoing throughout your being.

Your true identity’s been stripped—dead to the world, dead to anyone you encounter, especially noticeable to those desiring a connection with you.

No chapter exists in your war manual for appropriately interacting with those longing to be close to you because you’ve been programmed to die.

Relationships necessitate life.

Your life’s no longer yours. Regrettably, you’ve sold your soul forgetting you were born free with liberty to move about unfettered.

As the battle persists—lives cut down, enemies (of your leader) destroyed—you feel victorious because it seems you’re winning.

I inquire of you, “What are you winning—your master’s war? Who you beefin’ with?”

You can give no thought to my questions presently. If you do, you will die on this non-self-imposed battlefield.

Your commander equipped you with the art of war to do combat in his battle, defending his interests, in his stead.

For your survival, you must follow his instructions to the letter until this battle’s end. Only then can you embrace your truth and purpose lying just beyond this war zone.

Hold on soldier—fight for your survival so you can live to determine your own destiny.

Peace…

Nesi Writes

Plaything 

ART: PAUL CHATEM, DEVIL’S PLAYTHING

She purchased me—like I am a hooker or something. Supposedly, she needed me—instead she hid me away, out of sight out of mind. Occasionally, she glances at me when she is nearby—toying with me like I am her plaything. Even though I am available for her, she goes to someone else instead of thinking about me. 

Sometimes desperation causes her to grab me, loosen me, and pour me over her cushiony friend. After I satisfy her sweet spot, she is content—casting me aside once again. I return to my isolated dark place longing for her return. I know I behave foolishly by acquiescing to the way she uses me. She willingly, openly, and freely allows her friends to pass me around tending to their little dirty deeds.

These acts leave me humiliated—feeling so cheap, and filthy. Her constant neglect and disrespect frustrate me—rendering me helpless because I am in her possession. However, I wait in desperation for her return to me.

Signed,

Her Nail Polish Remover

Nesi Writes