Are you content?
Not happy. content.
There's a difference.
I want to know if
You can get
Through a day
And get by with
Enough gumption
To rest your dark, Irish head
And not think about my last words:
**** you **** you **** YOU
I didn't mean it like that.
I WANTED to **** you.
I SHOULD HAVE.
But it came out
I hate you
Please don't contact me ever again.
I didn't mean it like that.
I didn't know what to say.
I mean what is there to say
After he tells you
1. I don't want to marry you.
2. I don't love you anymore.
Are your gray suede shoes in tact?
Is the freckle on your hand dancing with anyone else?
Do you think about my dog?
Have you learned anything?
Are you content?
Not happy.
Content.
There's a difference.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
I liked the way the bourbon on your lips
burned mine stop
I had to keep drinking stop
Sometimes I get drunk enough to
remember the smell of pomade,
the way the muscles in your back flow
across an anatomically perfect skeleton stop
I can hear you breathing through
your mouth, your heart
that always seemed to beat faster,
more sure than mine,
until it
stopped
altogether stop
Everything was
all together
until it
stopped stop
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
I met a man a year ago
who was so sad
he said he'd **** himself
if he couldn't find
a reason to live
when they let him out
of the ****** bin
we both inhabited.
I check the obituaries
every day
for a little town called
Coffeeville,
and I haven't seen his name
yet.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Sounds like crucify.
My hands are bound by his grip
on the plank perpendicular to my toes
that start to curl backwards now.
I binged on memories
of the words words words
and when my ears burned
I imagined you cradling her
on your chest
softly brushing her hair back
and talking about me.
At the summer camp where
Jesus saved me
I picked up a pre-packaged
cereal sealed in a factory
long before my selection.
I peeled away the plastic film
and there where my bowl
of cereal was supposed to be
was a colony of silkworms,
squirming around like
a bunch of tied hogs
in a swimming pool.
I threw up because it grossed me out.
I had no control over it.
When I think about her hair
around your stubby, little fingers
I throw up because it grosses me out.
I have no control over it.
I'm no Will Shortz, but this poem is about you.
There's your clue.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Call me already
set me straight
do what you have to do
to get me to
notice
you
from across the room
with your
perfectly manicured
sideburns.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Out of all the thoughts
in the world
you had to occupy mine.
We're the difference
between holding hands
with fingers interlaced
or platonically placed palms.
I want you to know, though,
that I would leave
Victor Laslo's sorry ***
for your alcoholic one
in two seconds flat.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
I
will
never
forget
the
time
you
bought
me
orchids.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
Tonight I am missing:
the attention
that comes along
with I love you
the smell
of his neck
and the strength
to get over it.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
I've never been impressed
with a member of
the opposite sex's
Member ever since
I was six years old.
It was just a hunk
of soft skin that I never
liked to keep my hands on
for longer than
ten agonizing seconds
but I had to do it
twice because it wasn't
right the first time.
If he knew
my first love
my first kiss was
My First Cousin
he'd never touch me
Again
And again and again.
Come on, baby, you can do it.
It never ends.
It's cyclical.
I haven't said a word
all day because if I opened
my rouged mouth
I'd moan for
Sorrow and Pleasure.
Those weepy, little ********
go hand in hand,
Don't they?
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC