I like the kind of girl that I'll never be with.
That I don't want to be with.
Because it'd never work.
And that's too bad I guess.
I like the kind of girl who just knows.
Who knows that whoever we're with,
And whoever we say we love,
We still know each other.
I like the kind of girl who's reluctant to kiss me.
I don't need her to kiss me.
I've experienced her lips before.
I just need her stares now.
She is ambiguous and undefined.
But so are my desires.
So is love.
If that's what you want to call it.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
A poet told me to hurt myself.
So I told a woman I love her.
My sense of justice overthrown by my desire to live forever.
It was terrifying.
She told me that she loved me too.
So I kissed her without hesitation.
That kiss held my passion and lust, but not true love.
It wasn't right.
I told myself that it was worth it.
I cried briefly into her neck.
Don't make me talk about it, just bite me.
It was ******* fulfilling.
He told me that I need to bleed.
That this is how to be creative.
That everybody will kiss my scars.
And I'll finally be unhappy.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
This body is really his body, you know.
I'm just keeping it busy for him until he gets back.
I really ******* hope he comes back.
I miss him.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
I'm so tired of being angry.
I want to be melancholic again.
Anything but angry.
I need them to leave me alone.
But they just won't let me be.
They're just a dull knuckle
Pushing down on the crest of my mind.
But nobody notices I'm crying.
I'm just helping to prop them up.
Whispering about the pain.
I could float in sound,
But I drown in the depths of noise.
The crescendos of songs would lift me high
But they clutch at my ankles and scream.
Just let me freeze where I can at least see the stars.
I can't ******* escape them.
They follow me everywhere
Like they're ******* haunting me.
Like they believe I loved them enough to **** them.
I can't stop begging Acheron to ferry them off already.
I drink and I drink from his stygian lake.
And death's wine never tasted so good;
How I used to love to write of wine.
But alcohol makes them sad.
And their sobs never seem to end.
I'm begging you to stop.
Stop leaning on me,
Stop screaming,
Stop ******* following me,
Stop wasting my wine,
I don't want to be angry.
I want to be forgotten.
I was never good at being alone.
But at least then I was only sad.
Just **** off.
Please...
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
My hands are numb to all they touch
But I feel their inner workings better than ever.
I notice the strain while I'm writing,
The cramp when I'm wanking,
And the lack of a third line in my triplet.
Their blood runs cool like ethanol.
My eyes sting but they had the whole day,
Let my lungs have their moment.
Smoke soothes only second to air
But my carnal desires placed it higher in demand.
Warn all your kids
And take coughing fits.
The danger is real
That's just how I feel.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Two hours wasn't enough to write "Twigs".
I'm not even close enough to the fire to feel it's dying heat.
When the party moves away I'll dance around and through and behind the flames so I can really feel it.
Unfortunately it would appear, dancing through a twig fire isn't nearly enough for one's life to disappear.
The twigs burn for only minutes and I'll dance as long as I can for it's the only time that I have.
While I'm still alone just enjoy silence and that the cold stares of stars are being hidden by my fiery pollutants.
Judge people and opinions and facts, decide what is right then call it wrong because everything is neither.
When the party returns I'll slink off to find the kindling and ponder upon the fires inklings.
Gathering the twigs for poems and flames is better than watching my fire die surely?
Shame it's such a monotonous ******* trek, but monotony is the core of life, don't treat it too harshly.
And it's not like these twigs are ever entirely useless if one has but the curiosity to think about it.
Flames glimmer on beer bottles and the embered ends can light cigarettes.
If these pathetic flames won't burn me alive at least they'll help **** me slowly.
Would you believe this is where I came to write about love, lust and loneliness?
The greater themes of the past won't light my fire now unless one believes time is simultaneous.
Though that belief seems to offer no help whatsoever in the fight against freezing.
All good things must die as the wise men would tell me when I asked them for further closure.
But words don't burn unless you've written them on your forearm far too close to the light of open flames.
I began to write "Twigs" that night.
Two crates of beer, One pen found in the side of my car, Forty-three smokes, One pile of logs, Two significantly larger piles of twigs, Seven people, One left arm, Five stubborn bumps below the wheels of my barrow, A hat on a mannequin, Three bottles of wine, A sometimes blazing sometimes failing inferno and Fourteen long ******* hours...
Was not enough to write "Twigs"
Why did I think 2 hours would do it now?
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
A girl has bright eyes, smooth thighs and a perky disguise.
She's been shy and never made much of a try but no word of a lie she loved a man long before she was of age to die.
A girl had long hair with tints of blue.
She wore a dress a man couldn't nearly see through but a man needed no clue as to what lay under the zip he desired so badly to undo.
A man was nothing special.
He in no way had it all.
Dark hair and he stood six feet tall but when it came to a girl he would repeatedly stall.
Never sure what to say should he pluck up the courage and call.
A girl knew she was under the view of a man.
It wasn't entirely new but this strange sensation grew as if she just now felt it too.
Not sure what to do when a man leaned in she withdrew.
A girl began to cry upon the sight of his failed try.
In the midst of confusion a solution arrived when she spied the edge of a knife and a vein which so diligently pumped her life.
A man kissed a girl in a Christmas ball, drunk as high hell and stumbling though he didn't fall.
She whispered "I love you too" only half way through removing her shoe when a man lifted her against the wall, too eager to merely watch the remainder of the clothing removal.
A girl was surprised by a man's advance.
She often scried a future in which a knot had been tied.
A man treated her as a precious doll, protecting her from the demon's who'd call.
A girl enjoyed this time and began to find she could unwind, however, the knife and a vision of a man's advance kept clinging to her mind.
Only a few weeks later a man lies with a girl.
A girl begins to cry.
A man apologises.
A man and a girl remain together.
A man loves a girl.
A girl loves a man.
And a girl is suicidally sad.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Cliché ***** and revolutionary retards.
We cannot use an image of a stone heart in every poem.
Nor compare every woman to a summer's eve.
But neither can I stand an emoticon in place of vocabulary.
A hash tag description should not be the only ******* indication as to what the poet was feeling in the poem's creation.
Poets will not start out strong.
But they should stick to what they've been taught.
Express progress in ideas
Not in virtual images.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Do it!
Don't ******* ***** to me about doing it.
Just ******* do it!
Regret comes later.
We'll have time to deal with that when you're bleeding out because her boyfriend didn't appreciate the sentiment in you pleasing pretty girls with full foreknowledge and a divine purpose.
She hurt you?!
Well lets ruin that ******* life.
Where does she live?
I can take us there right now.
Now don't ******* tweet without dropping a name, just go light her ******* lawn and we'll laugh while we ***** up blood from that disgusting ******* ***
I'm so alone.
Man **** you!
You had three girlfriends by the time you were sixteen
I had you.
So when I slept early it's because I was busy crying because the other kids got ahead of me and I had to replace handjobs with poetry a fact I fail to regret to this day.
They rock!
Imagine how cool a stage dive would be.
Get up here.
I'll fall first and you just follow me.
Metalhead ******* cheering for me when I can't even distinguish the words that are written to make me feel angry, someone ******* drop me just so I can hit somebody.
**** the system.
Or just don't be a ******* tool.
You're all generic as ****
Why argue the fact?
There are so many reasons to own a ******* pocket watch and because society wears one on it's fat, ******* wrist isn't one I'll accept as perfectly valid.
Life's hard.
You don't want to do it any more?
You've been telling me for weeks
But that's what knives were made for.
You have to puncture just a little hole and get a feel for life dripping away and then we move to the big leagues of ****** and suicide and feel entirely free of your immense emotional torture.
But who cares?
The future will still be there.
Just you won't be.
Nobody'll give a ****
I can twist your thoughts and let you see that you'll live on in the grass that grows from that hole we dug for you not that long ago, but just **** that.
You're ******* dead.
Deal with it.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
**** it.
It doesn't matter.
Never mind.
Who gives a ****
Go **** yourself.
You can't ******* write.
You've never been able to dance.
They don't ******* love you.
Paint well for a change.
Why do you care?
Gays are unnatural.
Your clothes ******* ****
Conforming is for fuckwits.
So conform as non-fuckwits.
Which ******* way is up again?
I wish I was never born!
I hate people!
Existence ******* *****
You're ******* wrong!
These aren't your ******* statements.
Minority rules.
Majority rules.
I rule.
God rules.
Nobody ******* rules, okay!?
He's singing what I feel.
Sing it yourself.
Only the artist knows it's real meaning.
So it has no ******* meaning.
Art has no ******* meaning.
Explicit ******* content.
Expression of opinions.
Hide from the young.
Hide from the old.
Just ******* hide.
Ignorant ******* people.
Complacent ******* saints.
Annoying ******* generations.
Inanimate ******* rejects.
All better off without this ****
**** it.
It doesn't matter.
Never mind.
Who gives a ****
Go **** yourself.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC