I have empathy for those who are weak, and lust for those that are strong.
the silver metal
gleams as i twiddle it between my fingers
the silver metal
glistens as i press it against my skin
the silver metal
not so silver, stained with my crimson blood
the silver metal,
my murder weapon,
i am gone
Your skin, the page;
my lips, the pen.
Sonnets of my reverence
covering every inch.
Nobody cares so I'm
have some more drugs.
Gonna take three more
pills from the pill box.
I have to fall in a deep
So tomorrow when I wake
up I feel alright.
Smoke enters my lungs and I begin to travel into a another world. One without any worries and without any fears. I don't feel corrupted by society here. Maybe that's what I visit so often. I can hear the padded voices of my mom and dad asking me to come back.
" Were sorry" They say.
We're sorry that this happened to you.
I can't come back. My brain tells me no. Don't leave. I'm trapped. And I like that.
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with tart empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and become one who was
Miss Percival's famous jell-o molds were
the talk of every summer block party.
No one was sure where she had come up with
exotic shapes that adorned red benches
robins, and faces of famous people
they really were a thing to be envied.
One Memorial Day, though, there came a shriek from Miss Percival's kitchen
and the flowery curtains shuffled as they did so
The first ones in (the couple that brought the waldorf salad every year. It was good, but it was nothing next to Miss P's jell-o molds)
were Mr. and Mrs. Carroway
Mrs. Carroway almost fainted when she saw what was on the counter
You see, Miss Percival was fond of one site for her molds
and they shipped them in every month in big brown crates
there was a big brown crate, to be sure
but no mold inside
It isn't proper to gossip, but I heard that it was a bowl full of eyeballs;
A medical school had put the wrong address on their order.
I bet that there was a confused batch of medical students
being stared at by a jell-o model of Walter Cronkite.
And they were leaving
And I was soundlessly chasing after them
Like a curious stranger
And he was wrapping his arms around her
Because it was cold
And she had been crying
But she was smiling now
And they were walking away
She was walking away
And I was left standing in the col
It was so, so cold
A sea of tissues
And Im not even sure if it’s the flu anymore
Im just sitting here
Behind a screen
And unable to do a thing
I really wish I could just
Bring you out of that mess
Life doesn’t work that way
So don’t worry darling
For I understand
And I don’t mind
Because I know
You are still
Alive and well
And that you still
Have the other mam
To talk to
I wish I was there though
To catch those
I really wish I could