When we as loveless humans failed,
With hate in every word exhaled
We turned and let our gods all crash,
we turned our children into ash.
.
And from out the ashes crawled
A thousand demons, wide and tall
Roiling mud and blood and stench
Tore out from groaning wound-like trench
.
And then down from the sun there flew
(not too many nor too few)
A band of angels, a golden choir
Singing songs of purging fire
.
And at the end of battle-day
In the fields of war there lay
No liars, beggars, thiefs or knaves
But a thousand crying naked babes

You've gotta learn to love the vinegar,
Even if the taste is bitter,
Because times always get tough.
It's about drinking it in, taking it in;
Finding the strength to get back up.
To slog off the rough
And chisel something out

I just don’t know
How to live a life
Thinking that everyone
Is bad all the time.

Everyone’s wrong,
Inherently wrong,
Ever so wrong,
Then who’s good?

Me?

No, I am far
From the best person
I know.

To believe otherwise
Would be to put myself
On a very high horse
On a very high pedestal
On a very high hill
That I am 𝘯𝘰𝘵
Willing to die on.

stuff spread all over
moving from one abandoned
house
to another
Seems I'm ******
spoken truth
phone broke
homeless joke
it ain't so funny
When I'm stuck stuck
pull my own tooth

can't get out of here
trust no one
ever-fear
night wary light little
some kind of maze
**** riddle
i don't have the answer to

got to get
before it gets you
i got to go real soon
new hat same old boots
this is just a bunch of dust
it'll **** you

wake up
on the morning news
hide your things
or take them with
else you ain't gonna have ****
broken will
broken dog.
sleeping in this hollow log
now to drink mud

sick two days and still gotta move
another place i can't stay long
don't look now
here comes the law
give me ****
wish me luck
thinking I'm a *** *******
******
got what i had coming
can i put up an argument
would it be worth the time or breath
doubt me
catch your own death
catch your own breath

hell hill
third world frills
cops chasing the elusive
kids
kick grandma's door in shoot to ****
shoulda left the pistol
grabbed the till
19 now a ****** rap what the hell am i to
do with that

all these things that i see
leave me choked
without speech
stressing on the basics now
all day long
bow me down

my passion is broken;
i spend my days and nights
knitting, organizing,
drinking, waiting

writing poetry hasn't ever felt hard
so maybe it's the zoloft, maybe
it's the dull repetition of days
the humdrum chaos of getting older

i want to be kissed, hard
and deep and long,
by someone with strong hands
and unwavering concentration

i am happy and quite sad
and quietly fulfilling my duties.
i'm typing this at my desk
and it feels wrong and bad

my therapist told me the antidote to burnout
is variety rather than rest--
so let the various archbishops of my life be told
that i am so ******* tired

there is a man here, he is broken,
but in his eyes there is passion,
and in between my thighs there is fear,
and i'm absolutely frozen

so tonight i'll drink,
and knit, and write e-mails,
cross my fingers and pray,
that something magical happens