When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.

Everyone always expects a butterfly,
When they find that fearless cocoon;
Hanging over certain death,
And inviting a birth from a new womb.
They expect a sunrise to arise,
To dry out their wings and take flight.
Glittering generalities caught in icarus's wings.
People expect the best from your worst,
And you'll expect that that's best.
Yet this expectation leaves us cursed.
Like the monarchs, who dance under the sun;
When moths are birthed, they dance under a dead one.

I reject the notion of expected beauty,
I reject this reality that-
I need to dance in the sun,
Shine bright beneath the trees,
And fly high to melt my wings,
I despise this idea
Because like the moths,
I will dance among the stars
Between the moons of Jupiter,
And sing with selene in the night.

I will burst from my cocoon
Not in your beauty,
But in mine

All things ancient are once born young.
All things secret are shared by tongue.
All things hatred are worn with love.
All things whispered are sung by doves.
All things stone always come undone.

Everyday I live,
Is another day away from your smile.
Hidden, shy, sly in style-
Masquerading behind silk and gold,
Splendid, lovely.
Milk and honey.
The clouds jealous,
Of the softness in your eyes,
Deep pools of cautious curiosity-
Bright but sharp in disguise.
Simple elegance doesn’t do you grace,
Simple potency doesn't do you measure.
But I hope to one day owe to you this pleasure.

Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action  I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.

people always describe it as an "empty pit"
but that's just not true.
in essence, what it is,
is hunger.
the starvation of meaning,
and the force fed nature of depression.
it's bulimic in urge.
binge on cutting myself,
to purge myself of feeling.
it's always described as suppressing.
when,
in actuality it's just hopeless.
it's despair.
in the same way my dirt hued eyes won't make up
for the cracks formed from
the nights spent crying-
and
too many hailstorms.

In the bar where sad things grow,
           Where(s) Happiness(?),
is pumped in Like champagne through IV.
I-found-us-strung-together-again-
          “ Now
I’m the type of person
                                 to-
                         fall-
**** near in love with gratitude. ”
“ Like that glancing smile,
Hidden behind a mask of bourbon and-
all ten hail marys you replaced
                 with ****** ones. ”
“ And if gratitude gets you this far?
Just imagine what the *** is like. ”

I’ve played the scene in my head-
Like the director's cut of his wife’s affair.
The bitterness of the metal,
The poisonous lead.
The expense of myself-
In a waste of pain.
Suicide isn’t the only answer,
It’s just the best option
Out of a cesspool of ****** ones.
Don’t tell me you’ll miss me if i’m dead-
When you won’t talk to me if I'm alive.

life is lonely.
and death gives terrible company.
so-
Would you like some dinner?

Sincerely written words about death,
are hilarious.
Primarily because of the irony in it-
Being sincere about death means to accept it?
and if we did that,
Funeral homes would be out of business.
and Oncology would be a much happier field
to work in.
My point is, heroism is just fatalism with extra steps.
Either way it doesn't matter the outcome.
As it will be whatever it is, regardless. (ironically)
And this is all to say nothing about the gun to my head,
and the trigger pull workout I have to do,
Doing mental hurdles and jumping jacks to not give in.

so this is for any of my followers who are confused about the name change from "Maegan Deme" too "Bobby Dodds"....
I made this account a few years ago and at the time I was still a bit scared at putting my real name out there too the world,
so I went undercover basically, and was a french antagonistic female named Maegan,
when in reality I am, actually, a boy. so uhhh, sorry about any confusion about any of this, I just figured that I should put my real name out there, as opposed to falsifying things justified by my past fears or worries.
but yeah, my names Bobby, I wrote all the "poems" on this account, and I hope that I'm not seen any differently now that I've stop masquerading.
Thank you all for any amount of support you've shown, this has been a great place for me, and I've read and met some astoundingly unique people here.  
Thank you again!

"Hindsight,
is 20/20."
As the tag-a-longs
And dingbats like to recite.
Well that's dumb- 20/20 is average!!
This is outrageous -even our idioms our idiotic-
So I propose a new saying,
And yes, who is the 17 year old white boy
To say anything about anything.
But hear me out,
How about instead, we say,
"Hindsight, the unluckiest symptom of consciousness,
and a hell in its own right"
Okay yeah, well, maybe it IS a bit wordy,
And yeah, okay, maybe it IS a TAD too cynical.
But since when has a teenager been anything BUT
A self-proclaimed cynic.

With stars too far to telephone,
And when telegraphs aren't a thing anymore.
We gotta make our own futures,
But when we're riding along through our
Generation of hate,
Or lovely liberalism.
Try not to check the rearview mirror

First things first, what type of ******* are they?
If it's a cane?
Your best bet is to file half way through it,
so when they're walking,
it snaps, and gravity takes it's course.
wheel chairs are more fun.
more expensive as well,
so take some water-
and squirt it into the wheels bearings.
watch them rust,
and beat them in a foot race.
annoying visual disabled people is a bit easier
partially due to the fact that sight isn't their strong suit.
but their hearing is much better.
so be sneaky.  
and put saran wrap face level through a door.
(make sure the ground is carpet or pillowed)
the brain damaged few?
have a bit more variety too them,
and with variety comes creativity.
so get creative and when they mention a color of something,
tell them that that's not what color the thing is.
"look at that cool blue car"
"what're you talking about? that's red??"
you'll never see anyone call a neurologist so quickly.
colorblind or dyslexic is real easy.
look up synonyms for short words and replace them with the longest ones you can find.
text them using this absurd paragraph.
watch the ******* emojis fly.
and colorblind is simply talking to them in type.
in random colors, printing it off, and handing it to them.
(make sure they correlate to the type of colorblindness)
and then make sure to dress in solid conflicting colors.
makeup too for extra evil points.
all the other disabled and crippled?
just put everything slightly out of reach.
works on everyone.
I  promise

Sometimes, I like to not take my meds.
It's a sort of punishment,
Ritualistic self sacrificing-
Because I’m too ashamed to **** myself.

Sometimes I like to climb on my roof,
Stand at the very edge and just,
Think about falling off,
Not jumping off- falling.
Like rolling the dice-
On whether to play another round of Russian roulette.

Sometimes I stay up all night just to feel like ****,
Because it’s better than facing the anxiety of sleeping.
And an easier deliriant than Benadryl-
Good thing the only withdrawal symptoms are fatigue.

Sometimes,
I give life a chance.
Every single time I regret it

Sooner or later it was bound to happen.
I fell for you,
                     Again.
In a way I’m quite tired of this dance,
                Waltzing around,
         Spinning,             dipping,
   A two step.                     a  salsa.
         Rhythmic              sadness-
                   Tiptoeing love.
In a way I wish this love had never happened,
I know the impossibility for what I hope for.
Yet everyday I just wait for another song
In our ballroom of text messages and google docs,
The band plays a taunting song-
In the key of heartbreak,
And timed out to the tempo of our thoughts.
Even within our gala the other dancers snicker,
For I have no partner,
And your love is dancing with another.

A poem a day,
Keeps depressing thoughts away-
…
Too optimistic.

“My friend was cremated today”
“Being a mom is so ******* hard”
“Not everyone follows american culture”
“I JUST ORDERED PIZZA FOR THE FIRST TIME”
“Its hard looking at people around you progressing with life and being happy while you’re stuck battling mental health”
“I’m going to collapse this week. My bunny is going to die”
“I have deleted my Facebook of 6 years for the bettering of my health and to focus on myself”
“After 1 year and 6 months I finally gave my girlfriend her first ****** ever last night!”
“I love my girlfriend”
“I’m so happy right now”
“Nursing is not an honorable profession”
“Happy Birthday Bro…”
“Let me sleep”
“I’m heavily considering not fighting for parental rights”
“Just shaved my ****** hair off.. And **** do I look good”
“This is What a Lifetime of Abuse Looks Like”
“I feel like I’m not going to amount to anything”
“I feel lost”
“I haven’t shaved or trimmed my yoo hoo since the pandemic started”
“I just want some ******* tortillas”
“I miss you”
“People cannot handle it if you don’t drink with them. Why???”
“Let’s Pray for peace and comfort this year”
“I’m just not made for this world”
“I could’ve been killed today, but some how I am still here...”
“I am a bad person”
“I’m going to graduate college without having one friend or relationship”
“Missing my best friend...”
“Is it just me dealing with constant unhappiness and frustration”
“I messed up my grades”
“Stop Dwelling.”
“My Father is Dying, And I Wish I Was Upset About it”
“People who abused others emotionally deserve everlasting mental aches!”
“Have you ever felt special to someone and realize you weren’t that special after all?”
“I wish I was a cup or 2 bigger.”
“I wish I had a do-over for high school and college”
“I feel like everyone these days is lonely”

my life is a soup of choices,
a broth of consequence and
steaming of effect.
poached like my ideas of right.
burnt crisp like my thoughts of wrong.
I'm boiled up in a roast stew of fallacy,
chopped up guilt and crushed cloves of forgetten forethought to add reality.
layered in-between self-hating bread,
I'm like a rhetorical tomato,
or concise and crisp lettuce.
flavored with oxymoronic mayonnaise
and ironically erroneous thought.
a tossed salad of melodrama and not enough attention.
with self-defeating ranch,
I'm a self-deterministic rock.
like bitterly sweet sugar,
I swear loving words like antonymous
synonyms-
and I never read past where the sentence stops.

Steady, we go along, stable, we seek our comforts.
And beyond us, the rest of everything lives.
Surrounding our dinner tables a conflict festers,
As my father yells across at my uncle about
The hate of our current leaders.
(i leave my eyes at my plate)

Consistent, we see ourselves, ugly, we see another side.
Another side I frequent is a “shooting range”,
Where before the curriculum starts for the year,
We learn how to fight against a shooter inside.
As I learn the thoughts of shakespeare,
And recite the constitution.
(i fear for when the shooting begins again)

Lost in a known life, I cower beneath those who stood taller.
The fervent few who knew history and what cycles it spawned.
The powerful ‘leaders’ who promised a better tomorrow,
Corrupted by constitution, and empirical deduction.
We stand side by side as family in the face of terror-
Be it red, blue, donkey or elephant.
(i know the lies they spread and still follow synced)


Oblivious we march in protest to ourselves.
Not knowing the start or how our story began.
Impervious to outside influence we are herded into ideologie,
And fed the grass and grains of knowledge warped into ‘morality’
Undead beliefs cycle themselves to those of the generational heir,
And respawns in the minds of those too cowardly to accept something else.
Fact and fiction morph into each other-
And grey becomes all we can see.
(blinded by a light gray scaled, i see myself as no one and everyone as the same)

i try really hard not to cry a lot.
and i try to stop myself from thinking about anymore sort of losses.
and i try really really hard not to realize the loss my dog is more hurtful than the loss of my late grandfather.
because,
there's a difference in-between spontaneity and fore-told doom regarding loss.
there's a difference between having someone on my bed every night,
and the loss of humanity that Alzheimer turns you into.
i don't know which one i'd rather choose,
another 6 years of knowing they aren't there anymore.
or another dead dog.

I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.

When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.

When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.

When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways

When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.

When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.

When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.

When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.  

When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.

When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.

When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.

When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.

When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.

When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.

When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.

When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.

It started out as most things do.
At a distance.
In the back of my mind.
Something to wonder about,
But never define.
Most of the time it's just "hello",
Or "Shalom"
Or "what book"
And their reply.
And, it continued, as most things do,
Way too fast,
And,
Way too soon.
Thinking back now they are a wonder in my thoughts.
About-
What could've been.
If I took the chance of knowing them.
And,
Why do I miss them.
When I've got all but squat.

Who knew life would last so long.
so tedious and constant in aging.
( birth - one - two - … - dead )
And if someone knew how long it would last,
Why would they sign that contract,
on the dotted line on an oak desk with
all too important looking business men greedily grinning.
(the devils favorite disguise)

Who knew of the beating of the heart-
so exciting and focused on one lovely face.
(or set of lips)
Like a party with a spinning bottle,
Soon to be the pulse of the first date.
And first night cashed in bed,
rolled over from exhaustion- excitement.
(a steady rhythm takes on different meanings here)

Who knew that words would be so tough.
so damnable and lackluster
(until they line up just right.)
And poems a love-hate-multi-night-stand.
where we always bicker and fight,
but always come back for one more line.
or in my case,
nothing at all.

I knew this kid that once lived down the block
All gangsta and **** with nothing but shots
Of ******, crack *******.
**** that gets you high when all you’re wanting is fame.
He grew up without his mama and his dad was basically dead.
He knew about god but knew nothing of what he said.
This kid he grew up at the age of thirteen.
And never knew the black and white blood that we all bleed.
He saw the coyotes of the mexican border
Shooting ******* crawling from the broken brick and mortar
All around he knew violence till he one day came clean,
Looked up at the sky and begged for something mean.
He cried out to the sky because he was lonely and scared
But only the devil responded because god was not there.
He soaked up all this pain and regret in a needle
Shot himself up and grabbed his desert eagle,
Shot up a few churches while the masses got done praying,
Put the gun to his head to blow out what was done decaying.

Eyes are bloodshot staring at the alcoholic LEDs,
It would be impossible to rip them off of
The angelic glaze slathered on the screen.
Tears streaming on a face fixed for a permanent smile.
Can’t scream, not s’pposed to.
The eyes are taking in sips of wood alcohol
Littered with food coloring to make it seem like bourbon.
They know it’s not,
The burns all the same.
Eyes sleepless and fried while the screen fries itself.
Maybe it's time to shut them

He sat next to her on the train
And everyday they would sit there.
He had earbuds in,
And she had a book in her lap.
Sometimes his music would go to loud,
And she would poke him to turn it down.
He would pull out his phone
And she would peek over the book
To stare at his nose.
She was falling in love.
Everyday at 6 am they would dance
With a poke or a glance,
Waltzing around to make the first step.
Her heart would drop when he stepped off the train.
And his would stop when she would never show up again.
She was ***** and murdered
The night before.
4 boys nothing more.
He didn't find out till he noticed the ad
Across from their seat.
On televised slicked glass.
"Local is murdered"
"***** and killed, friged and cast"
He blinked and it was gone,
Replaced with coke propaganda,
The same way her seat was replaced with silence.
He got off the train and went home that night.
Wondering what to do,
Maybe who to fight.
He got a few ropes and stool to sit down.
Pondered what he was doing.
Shook his head and frowned.
He pulled out his phone to check the next train.
And Booked his final ride,
to heaven or hell.

your dad ignored you for a week.
wouldn't talk to you.
wouldn't look at you.
wouldn't acknowledge he ever knew you.
your father would berate and demean you.
your father would be horrible and terrible to you.
your father would make you hate the world
and make you wish he was gone.
but he would never leave,
your father enjoys hurting you too much to leave.
your father enjoys abusing you too much to go.
your father lives for you hoping he'll say he loves you.
your father trained your older brother to just the same.
your father
is insane.
so i ask you now, why to me, do you do just the same?

you're so **** smart you're stupid!
it's watching Albert Eisenstein walk across a road
without looking.
the irony is
you know what you're doing
you smart ******* *******
you wanna be dumb
so you don't have to be smart!
its a stupid act
from the smartest person i know

A blinking cursor,
Is waterboarding to a poet.
Lines underlined in red,
Blooded rivers,
Among our heads.
Blank paper.
Lined and-
College ruled.
72 sheets,
And still,
blank.
Still,
Blinking.
Still,
Nothing.

Its a wondrous night to go walking alone
Under the shattered contempt of a flicking street light
Industrial lines weave arteries to supply
The broken will of concrete monsters still drying
Truly but the worst live in the best ways possible,
Sleeping beneath intimate foreplay between the weeping stars
The onyx asphalt sings electric humming
Like the vigilant barbwire standing watch
Over the ****** and grateful
It was a night to go walking alone.

I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
Disagree.
I am the last line

i haven’t slept in 36 hours,
it’s given me time, well- It’s given my brain time enough to deteriorate a bit and drop all my filters.
And i know now what the hell has been in my head whispering to me.
i hate myself.
   i hate myself because i have such a **** hard time trying to figure out if i feel, feel as in caring for someone. Wanting someone whenever, regardless.
i hate myself because i can’t beat myself, it’s like fighting a mirror, you throw a punch, the reflection goes right back at you.
i hate myself because of my life, 14 years isn’t the problem, the next 50 is.
i hate myself,
  Because i am myself, i’m me, and that’s all

A penny for my past,
A nickel for all my life.
That's all of life's worth

Up in the trees,
Wind in the air,
Doesn't get much better.
Living without much care.

a poems like a book,
or you can say it's something more.
like a diary, or journal, shared out for the hordes.
you could say it's something less,
like handled wire and mesh.
nothing new and quite bored,
but I know it's something more.
our poems are our thoughts.
( let's be honest- ours are mostly moors)
they show just how we've fought,
the waves and tumbling chords.
many bring apart the strands,
of a rug so riled and ran.
something like our hearts,
flowing out between our hands.
it's a wonder how much they hurt,
to write- to read- to find.
it seems it's just the way,
that poems like to be designed

miss a few beats,
mistime a jump.
make a mistake-
it's part of the fun!

These sleepless nights, with nothing spent done.
These hopeless fights, where no one has fun.
All my feverish lies, to show what matters.
All my fiendish cries, to find why the rain patters.
Our endless sighs, to sleep once again.
When we’re mildly surprised, to see what actually comes,
Of us,
Of then.

why should I believe in a god?
for faith?
for comfort?
for power?
why should I pray for comfort?
to be happy?
to be useful?
to stand my ground?
why am I trying to go against the riptide,
why am I trying to staunch the flow?
why should I have my opinion?
if that's all I have to show.

portable portabello sandwiches,
funky french dip and British rails.
Philly cheese steaks, sauerkraut and kale.
BLT and lobster rolls.
bourbon BBQ, and Po boy's.
pumpkin flavored bread rolls
And silly sunken loafs
Beautiful bologna sandwiches
With bumping bottled coke
Chunky Chicken club royale
With lettuce tomato and cheese.
Flagrant flopping subs
Spilling mayo at the seams.
Roasted turkey bonanza
On white rye and happiness.
Lovely little sliders with bqq
Bursting bumbly
Burger bouncing buns
And sesame seeds on top
Loving these sandwiches
Creations for a god

five, seven, five, done.
seven to count, one and done.
five, seven, five- done.

Maybe, one day; when I grow old,
I’ll see past quarrels slowly fold.  
Maybe, one day: when lights grow dim,
We’ll all sit quiet to hear one somber hymn.
Maybe, one day: the rain stops pouring;
You’ll be with me- our hearts left soaring.

2 a.m.
I'm back again,
Nice to see you, old friend.
Why am I here?
I'm sorry I don't remember.
What am I doing?
I think hiding from the daylight.
What says that's alright?
Well nothings stopping me from staying up all night.

poets are the greatest treasure hunters,
or maybe, they might be the happiest.
most likely the most fulfilled.

poets are the richest in nature.
or maybe, just the most aware.
most likely just the most sleep deprived.

poems are our greatest treasure,
like chests full of gold.
instead of gold it's words.
that we crave to hold.

poets are the hungriest.
for emotion, life, and fear.
or maybe,
just the calmest.
sitting quietly.
amongst their peers.

it's raining,
it's pouring,
the old man is sighing.
wondering why it's raining.
trying to remember how many times
he's sat on his porch and listened
to the rain trickle down in front of him.
after all, it was a rainy area.
he tried to look back on his wife.
he tried to picture the them back when the porch wasn't over grown.
"oy vey",
he thought wistfully to himself.
he sat content for now.
but he wondered when his rain drop might touch down.

people have written about everything,
nothing has been left to be found.
I've tried to find what wasn't leftover,
but it's gone.

there's been poet's and scribes,
prophets and writs;
but they're gone,
for now.
until another one reincarnates.
again.

love is nothing new to us.
and war never changes too.
but what we write is just rhetoric,
maybe that is too.

what's written makes no sense.
but there's no more writing to be found.
weirdly how I'm writing,
what should've seemed so profound.