Do not succeed – the internal Parent


Do not succeed my love
do not grow bold
try as you may my love
success will be cold

Do not worry my dear
I will hold your hand
as your weakness appears
only I will understand

Do not succeed my love
and I will be there
to soothe and comfort you
when you break I will care

For when you fail my love
I will hold you and you’ll see
that all your broken pieces
will be safe within me

Do not succeed my dear
even though you are stronger
for I fear when you succeed my child
you will need me no longer



The truth is
that worlds end and we create new ones
that love dies and we get over
people disappear and we mend
and we move on

The truth is
that scars don’t disappear
that missing seems to linger
that grief forever aches
still we move on

The truth is
that wrinkles don’t unwrinkle
abandoned chairs stay empty
the pillow remains cold
and we move on

The truth is
that loss is without reason
time moves only forward
we don’t have another choice
and so we move on

The death of a fear


The death of a fear
it can only explode
as it grows into something big
bigger than the brain
bigger than courage
that’s when it tips over
and it explodes into a thousand pieces
a thousand little fears
fears we can succumb
the fear dies

And the explosion rips
it tears and it burns
it deafens and blinds
and as the fear is lost
so is what contains it
safely within
I no longer hold the fear
but it is still shattered within me
the fear has died

The death of a fear
is the death of all fears
but the dread of its death remains
its carcass lingers within
it spreads and reminds
there is no way back now
there is no fear to hold
and it holds me no longer
the fear is dead


Getting stuck in masochism
of career, beauty, fashion
a masochism of indulgence
that fills the belly until it hurts
until it bursts and splatters
culture, ambition, sex, art
all over the bathroom wall

A reality where tattoos,
cover up the cutting
piercings drill holes
in physical insecurities
a sense of not belonging
camouflaged by black kohl
by a fuck-you attitude

The little voices that tell
what’s wrong, what’s good
not schizophrenia, just ads
the shit an open mind
constantly gets stuffed with
until it’s full and over-flows
like a drain full of hair

The masochism of high heels,
of starving on skimmed milk
the pain of pulled out hairs
of pushed up tits, sucked in bellies
the masochism of real women
with the fucked up confidence
of a monkey on a moped