He'll show anyone his body
regardless of solicitation
while his mind consistently underperforms.
He'll love you like a brother or sister, shortly before bastardizing you
out of convenience; becoming
the spitting image of his absentee father
with brilliant strokes of somebody else's effort.
He demands the utmost respect
while shilling out putrid morsels
of his own.
He's a collector of personalities;
obsessed with his own reflection
but ironically exists as a reflection
of his immediate surroundings.
He's the one in the group project
who gets half the credit
yet only wrote his name.
He'll stand up for issues
Until the faint whisper of a knee ****
reminds him he's not getting paid.
He builds a fortune
Just to sit on it;
A free bird in his own captivity,
Covered in hemorrhoids and
paper cuts.
He's a shadow you can see through.
A glimpse of glory
surrounded by stagnation.
He's the Belle and the *****
A fighter that delegates every strike,
Lifts his finger
only to put it over your mouth,
Gives everything but college the "college try,"
Bleeds you dry without a second thought
because he's still processing the first.
He only loves himself but doesn't know who he is.
He's an apprentice of all trades
but a master of baiting.
He was all I had.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
She called the same guy
From the same phone
He came to the same door
In the same clothes
As the night before
And a week ago
And his independence
Is getting old
Because he's hers alone
And she won't let go
And he won't let go
And I'm collateral damage
She also owns
She couldn't be less mine
Because I'm not the same guy
With the same ****
All the dang time
And it ain't fine
But maybe one sunday night
We'll love each other at the same time
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
A dream come true for one,
A living nightmare for the other.
A pedestal with a trapdoor.
Public isolation.
Trying to reach their image of perfection when your own is already staggering;
Literally losing yourself.
Diminished in the clutch of overbearance,
Collateral damage from two ideas of fairness.
Bruises on your spirit from social doors you walked into.
A ring with a silent W.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 3:57 AM UTC
Part of me lives inside her,
Like a parasite of romance and memory;
The part that raises half her mouth when the joke's a specific type of funny,
The part that keeps her eyes locked on an empty inbox,
And the part that gives her boyfriend such a diarrheal aftertaste.
It's a tapeworm of longing and contempt that she's **** good at ignoring, because she turned an empty stomach into business as usual.
But she keeps it anyway, because something about it seems so genuinely human when nothing else can match the feeling.
Because when the jokes, messages, and boyfriends are all gone this little white ******** will still need something from her. It won't go anywhere.
The glamorously empty life of a parasite at the beck and call of something just as beautifully flawed.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
Don't lose weight
When you're poor,
You'll need a new belt
You can't afford.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
because when I'm with her I can do anything and when she's gone I'm pretty much useless.
She's like *******
because she's even better with a little ****
She's like *******
because well, she's white. (But that *** is pure Colombian)
She's like *******
because even her scent is enough to make me succeed at all business.
She's like *******
because I've only hit it a few times but play like I'm an expert on it.
She's like *******
because anyone with a Scarface poster in their bedroom has probably not actually had HER in it.
She's like *******
because her head game could make my nose bleed if I'm not careful.
She's like *******
because I haven't slept right since I've been without her.
She's like *******
because I'd give
every dollar I have
for another taste.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
If there was a cure for a broken heart, could I even afford it?
And how many times can the same wound be reopened before the error goes to the stabbed?
Where is the line between glutton for punishment and repeat offender?
How many opportunities have been missed in the ever-expanding search for blame?
What good was earned and what bad was deserved?
Why does it matter?
It doesn't. But it's there.
Where are you?
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
Her lips
bring me to my knees.
Light me up like kerosene.
And if mine were to meet them again,
I’d pull her in close and remove all doubt
that I can bring her to her knees just as well.
I love every part of her,
from the hottest crevasse to the coldest shoulder,
and if it were to turn my way again,
I’d pull her in close and remove all doubt
that my shoulders were made for her arms to rest on.
Her laughter is a music
that whisks me away to far off worlds,
and if a fool’s incantation will make it sound,
I’d pull her in close and remove all doubt
that I am a fool for her and always will be.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
This city is full of fog,
my lungs are full of smoke,
and the irony of the gloom is that I ran back here to catch my breath.
I lost a battle,
but instead of a proud warrior's death,
I got 2 dollars in my bank account
and a futon that gives me lower back pain.
Time is the one commodity we all seem to have
yet the one we're most afraid of losing.
So when clocks tell me to go to sleep
instead of telling me the time, maybe I should listen
instead of laying awake giving it terrible Yelp reviews.
But I'm just out here looking for a purpose,
other than being lovesick with no insurance,
and in no way
do I have the copay,
but if you ask me, it's still worth it.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
She puts her signals in a blender,
mixed to perfection.
Best chased with a bottle of wine.
The cheaper stuff. She doesn't intend it to last.
She dances between moments;
memories that lodge in your brain and heart,
impervious to even the sharpest of chisels.
She doesn't intend those to last either. Or does she?
She locks herself up high in a stone fortress.
Like Rapunzel with better hair, she keeps it all to herself.
It's impossible to climb, but I made it up there once,
because in those moments, I swear I could fly,
so I must have, up to the top, where she keeps her heart.
But those moments were just that. Moments.
A fleeting wink in a brief gaze, from the best-made eyes
in existence.
And I lay now, in the trenches below,
fallen. But am I defeated?
I can't tell because I'm still looking up there,
where her eyes pass to the next person who dare try to fly,
and I haven't looked away,
because I'm afraid,
that if I do I'll find
I left my heart up there too.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC