It's funny how easy it is to do what's forbidden.
I care not for following guidelines and rules anymore.
So what if I'm ruining my life?

I shan't hold you accountable, don't worry your head about it. I've gotten a taste for self-exploration and for the freedom to do it.
No amount of your sickly sweet lectures will wash it away.

Tell me I'm wrong, see if I care.
I'll respond same as tonight-
With an open window and an empty bed.

I refuse to write anything brilliant today,
in support of the writers’ strike.

To you, the ground beneath my feet
Every step I take,
you support me.

You stand with me,
in my times of trouble

I am warmed by your embrace,
as I become entranced in your outfit of lace.

Nothing could be more finely crafted,
than my connection with you.

The ages may wear on you,
yet you remain the only one
my sole longs for.

For you truly are...
My favorite pair of shoes.

Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal
     regularity?

Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millenia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?

Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's ****
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the end of an era?