Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
In an oversized denim jacket Stands
a girl who treats kisses
like handshakes.
She's young.
With makeup done perfectlly
hidden beneath a baseball cap.
I wish for her to treat I love you like thank yous
so that she has her heart broken less often.
So she may pay attention to what all the men are thankful for
So she can hang on to one that's thankful for more than just
She treats kisses like handshakes.
For Alex
This morning brought to you by a lack of everything.
Also forgiving every customer solely on the basis that they haven't had coffee yet.
Like Oprah Winfrey is in my blood handing out second chances.
"You get a smile!"
"You get a smile"
"Go **** Y!~ ou get a smile!."
Because we've all been there. Pre-Java grump at everything.
So I guess what i'm saying is...
Rich white people who probably won't read this....
I get you.... you're welcome for the coffee and optimism.
I hope you pay it forward in some way...
May my smile and
My compliment of your expensive jewelry transmorph through your ears into your brain and out your mouth at...
A fellow employee
Or
Your children
Or
Your husband.
May they see you significantly after you drink this coffee.
Which I did not. could not. possibly tamper with. (Hehe. Tamper)
Because this is self serve.
So, "Go S*rve Yourself."
And have a nice day.
The broncos won and I'm still at a dead end job
Didn't even watch the game, I was washing trash cans.
Heard about it through social media
About all the different things lady gaga looked like when she sang the national anthem.
Heatmiser, pizza rolls, dolly parton
Because one time dolly parton wore a red suit.
Which i thought was kind of a stretch
But i've read stupider things on the internet so i let it slide
I saw a commercial saying that tons of babies are born 9 months after the super bowl.
You know what else is right around that time in February?
Valentine's day
I don't think i've ever been less **** than during the super bowl.
Nobody looks at their man covered in nacho grease and beer stains and goes
"Oh yeah!" Its baby making time!
My girlfriend is in Florida working for Disney right now.
Thy have her doing laundry in a musty basement with middle aged Mexican woman.
It's apparently awful.
Ruins the magic she says.
Seeing cinderella scurrying around half naked doing her make up.
Wig cap and undergarments
Snow white with her nose up asking for kombucha.
Won't even make eye contact with the laundry vets.
Let alone my intern girlfriend.
I asked how the magic wasn't ruined before that.
After watching the play hairspray when they yell cut and
All the actors go back to their miserable lives, i figured it out pretty young.
This middle class manifesto
Where making 15 dollars an hour is a goal.
But she is the faithful type.
Loves her a good hoping.
That's why she hasn't cut me loose anyway.
She says she needs me around because i'm a taurus.
I have no idea what she means by that.
But i love hearing stories about mexican woman yelling in spanish at their iphone screens. And half naked princesses doing their makeup in hair nets. And her still believing in magic. I think it says a lot about her.
She gives me something to dream about while I wash these trash cans.
A Persona Poem
The professor said
"Family therapy is like a Pie Graph
Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie.
When people leave
there's a chunk of pie missing
and the other members of the family
have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie."

Here's my theory:
Everyone in the family has their own whole pie.
Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it.
how they view them in their family.
how they relate to them,

Imagine a home
Mom and her four daughters.
Step dad, his daughter and son.
imagine three bedrooms.
The adults taking up one of them.

let's look at the Mother,
Her four daughters
all with different fathers
she knows how to raise children.

The daughters all know how to
Be
Children, be
Sisters, be
older or younger than each other.
The step-father knows how to have
A Wife,
One Daughter,
A Son.

Well Step-brother leaves the house.

Susie has a child at fifteen.
what does
her pie look like now?

She used to have a boyfriend,
four sisters,
a mother, father.
Now lost a brother
gained a baby.
She only knows how to be a child.

let's look at the mother.
She hasn't learned: Grandchild
but she knows how to raise a baby.

lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters,
what's another one?

The sisters, lost their brother, a role model.
Exchanged for this this new baby.
another sister?

everyone's pie is empty in some parts.
judging by some other
dead white guys theory
when who you are doesn't line up
with who you see yourself as,
that's when people develop
Mental illness

Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises.
That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister.
Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men.
Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie
and Big Sis.
like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death.

The farther we go back in each family member's backstory
the more slivers of pie we find
Georgia has autism,
Carley diagnosed depression,
Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years.
Clover is quiet.
The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar.
Any number of names they can slap on him.
He doesn't live there anyhow.
isn't human.

Muffle the sister that says she miss him.
hit her, cut her, lock her up.

This was a case study.
I lived with this family for four years.
unintentionally filled up parts of their pie.
I was Son.
Older brother.
Boyfriend.
Father.

When I stopped being a fly on the wall
Stopped seeing how their story was developing.

I didn't have any pie left.
"If anybody who is a part of this story reads this, and is offended, I miss you." -Nick
Keep chanting your submerged voices.
Lonely in the back of the room.
Too loud now
To hear the folklore.
Let them paint you poisen.
Label you the enemy.
Let them get high off the scent of rebellion.
They think we had our day.
That it's time for an uproot, a change.
When we're done letting them speak.
Let's hold a wedding in their honnor.
May no man leave unbled.
Let blood be blood.
Let it not be a metaphor for coming of age.
Let it not be a phobia,
nor trigger nor gang.
Let blood be blood.

Let a cat be a cat.
Let your house smell like ammonia.
Let it claw your carpet.
Let it cure your anxiety.
Let it knock over grandpa.

Let ashes be ashes.
Let dust be dust.
Let a vacuum be a vacuum.
Let a soul be a soul.
Let blood be blood.

Let a baby be a baby.
Let it crawl around and do baby ****.
Let a tantrum be a tantrum.
Let ***** be *****.
Let a mother be a mother.

Let a bigot be a bigot.
Let an opinion be an opinion.
Let a fire be a fire.
Let an ******* be an *******.
Let a woman be a woman.

Let a cow be a cow.
Yes he does use he pronouns now.
Let the utter be an utter.
Let the bull be a bull.
Let the cow be a bull.

Let a podium be a podium.
Let a speech be a speech.
Let a poet be a poet.
Let a revolution be a revolution.
Let blood be blood.
Miles of indigo ocean floss the urchins from its rocky teeth
cracked, aged, sturdy

like our captain
unwavered by the changing tides
wrinkles deep in his eyes
skin dry from the salt of the blue.

The ship a knotty brown, pointed like a tri-corn hat. Roguishly handsome like it could Woo the sea.

Our captain sang stories
of the ship's past lives before its soul
settled into our vessel.
His adventures hearing mermaids
Lured under to their beauty.
Most men be tranced by their call
lost forever in their seaweed chains,
not this Stone-hearted Charmer.
With swiftness of a thief
his smirk toss the sirens under his thumb.

Johnny Two Leg sticks his knife into the lid of a large barrel
prys it open.

Maggots wriggle under the dark of it's planks.
Rot cotton forming in their crevasses.

"Another day another barrel" Johnny sigh to himself
lid clanking against the deck.

This will be the crew's rations.

Sing songing men with their plenty red wenches toss back tankards on board.
Their song isn't flashy,
not even practiced,
they just want their tales to be heard.
A chorus, or chant repeats between stories.
Some simpler, some scary, some tall.
Each member of crew taking turns with their voice boxes, scratching the black liquor walls.

Johnny Two Leg plunks the barrel center of the crowd
a loud cheering erupts.
The poor boy who was staged on a chair belting limerick of his most recent love affair has his stool politely kicked, knocking him prone,
causing a nearby member
or four to laugh.

"If a man is a song, is he really dead?"
booms our captain through the bustle. touching Johnny Two Legs back,
giving a smile as he walk past.

We form a line as he hand us vials from the barrel

thumb the frosty glass
pop cork unleashing purple mist tendrils that spiral round like a serpent's tail

look to our captain in devotion
who holds his vial out proud.
Johnny Two Leg stands prouder,
glowing for the captain.
The poor boy stand bright eyed, clutching.
Together we swig back the poison

give our souls to the next vessel
be it castle, sword, or ship.
They'll sing about us
of hearts calloused harder than oceans teeth
voices louder than the reddest haired *****
passion hotter than the fires of hell.

When their lungs grow tired of our song, remind them
'fore we faired the sea under their new flag
we breathed oceans of wisdom
devout to this Knotty Tri-corn Rogue.
May his story never die.
Next page