I smell like cigarettes
and a really bad week.
Between barely passed midterms
and a ****** twin sized mattress,
Advil PM tastes better in the morning.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
That burn on my leg.
Was it an accident?
Or a scar of my sins?
A scarlet letter
of my wrongdoings
My head is heavy now
very cloudy and dim
Surrounded by thoughts of the past
Every now and again
I stop and I think
about trivial things that inhibit my sleep
What good has been done?
And why should I care?
These splinters cut deep
from this cross that I bear.
The last piece of a puzzle
that just won't fit.
Or a paper cut covered in salt
It's not inherently bad
but it does it make it tough
to simply get up in the morning.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
I wish you were nicer, for both of our sakes.
You're impossible to deal with,
so I'd frankly rather not.
Yet something about this
just keeps pulling me back.
I can say I don't love you
at least not anymore.
So why is it so hard,
to have a simple conversation?
I didn't ask for the world,
I just wanted to come along for the ride.
I'm not asking for a dictionary,
just what you have to say.
I can't comprehend
your apprehension.
Considering all that we've been through,
and you can't
be ******* nice.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
I thought we'd make a lovely mess.
You thought that's all I'd be.
I'm on sinking ship,
with no way off,
and it's getting hard to breathe.
I can't believe how huge a fool
I was to even think,
I had a chance
with you, my dear,
and now I'm at my brink.
It strikes me strange
how even though
I never pressed it at all,
you stayed until the very end,
was it just to watch me fall?
"So what. Whatever. ***** the lot.
It all ends up the same",
I lie and rasp
for we both know
it stings to hear your name.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
So sickeningly bitter you can't speak your lover's name.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
The scars of a working man.
On his hips hang his tools,
on his back
his family.
His wife
and his sons.
To be the backbone of America
the men in a dirtier uniform.
I'm not above the dirt on my boots
but under a higher calling
in a lower place.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
I write
because every time I tell someone I want to be an author, I get looks of malcontent.
I know I won't be as rich as doctor
because I don't want to be a ******* doctor.
I write
because every time I tell someone I didn't play football in high school,
but instead played bass in a band
and wrote poetry in the back of my classes
I get looks of confusion.
I didn't waste my size and strength
I used my mind and heart.
I write
because I've found more solace
in words
than in the world around me.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
It took me a while, but I think I finally see
all of the cracks that lurked beneath your skin.
I can't believe I ever saw you as perfect.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC