in this battle of the sexes
the language is cursive versus printing
eloquently spoken needs
applauded with neanderthal provisions

it’s not a women against men fight
but rather
one bruised person
dealing with the wounds of another

a battle where the piercing of softness
elicites a stiffness in gait
shuttering their ability
to walk, to breathe, to exist

it sounds almost incomprehensible
two lives are at stake
that are relatively comfortable
yet fragile but sane and psychotic

when past realities dominate
where fantasies indeed came true
yet the present doesn’t match
the picture of who they are now

it’s almost like wishing upon a star…