I wear my watch;
all of the time.

Father had a rotary,
Whereas I favor flat four
But when Pap has a V8
I cain't argue no more.

I've calluses from working,
but writing always leaves me
with a couple fresh blisters.

Best left behind,
that's what I've found.

Sometimes if you can't understand why,
then just maybe
it's best left behind.

Carry me yonder,
my stubborn stride.
For the past, and all it's burdensome belongings are
best left behind.

Is it still a lie
if deep in my heart I believe what I'm saying?

Is it still a lie
if I'm ******* insane?

Its a poetry website lol you have to write a poem rofl

I'm wearing a gun
And a **** ring,
I don't know which one
Feels better.

Countless overlapping stickers speak
more history than a sacred sacrament.
The guitarist's personal bible
is the case for their instrument.

hands-down
She was the first love
I have ever had

and Her face
still comes to me
in my dreams.

From the time we meet,
I want you to forget me.

And the reasons we seek,
will make you regret me.

The air doesn't smell any different
on this cold October day.
So life goes on,
just feeling more
like a gift now
than it did before.

Never been quite sure
where it all ends,
whether it be down in Hell
or up in the Heavens.

Don't matter much to me
you see, 'cause
I got friends in both places.

Continuously loathing the longing I feel
for the people I'm the most afraid of.

Is the line as fine as you think it is?

I'm never quite sure.

It's not me,
it's Bukowski.

Held true an honest sword, never.

Yet still a firm grip persists
from a grudge long clenched.


Gleaming and bitterly cold,
this sharpened-heartstring blade.
Forged from flesh betrayed,
handed down through ages of old.

Even the loudest dreams
drift off into oblivion
upon my waking.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?

An abandoned child
on your doorstep.

A-l-l-o-w
m-e
t-o
s-p-e-l-l
i-t
o-u-t
f-o-r
y-o-u.

yeahyeahyeahdude
forsure

That sun is deceiving.
Faux fluorescence, fickle morning light.
In my eyes
so bright,
on my skin
cold as night.

Conniving contrivance of combustion,
yellow liar in the sky
feeding my hopeful mind
full of summertime delight.

Don't step outside,
lest you find
that sun is deceiving.
False light,
bitterly white,
dancing in the
azure heights.

what's it really matter though?

******* all,
constant readers.

I have so much hatred
pent up inside

but I don't know for whom
or even why.

I think she forgot to look both ways
before crossing my mind one day,
for now she is but a bloodstain
upon my memory.

I feel she was beaten to death,
one brutal pulse at a time,
by the last heart attack
that I suffered.

But sometimes the daydreams take
me away from this atmosphere,
and the shadows from Saturn's rings
form her name in space.

As I spill my coffee,
alone.

Ain't need to say it,
I'll let my actions
Speak for themselves.

That's all that really matters anyway.

a line
in a circle
in a triangle
on her skin

and the kind of pink
that makes me want to sin

I hate.

Maybe I'll read a book
Or play some tetris

They're still highways
That take you here,
But they seem less so.

Somewhat more like trails,
A hardpan of sorts,
Beaten through the hills.

They're still streetlights
That bring you to a stop,
Painting the wet streets in red.

Somewhat more like a twin dusk that
Demands hesitation, and patience,
To wait for the green dawn.

The cans dry me out,
the brandy's got me hung up
and sober from the relentless lust,
and for the first time in a few weeks
I can smell the putrid way it reeks when
my lips crack and leak liquid copper
all over that loud and sour smile
I wear plastered on my cheeks.

Oh, I smoke too much?
Maybe you breathe too much.

There's a space between
you and I
that I just don't seem
able to find.

As hard as I try
to ignore that crumbling keystone,
I'm still painfully aware
that the arch will soon come crashing down.

I wonder if when that happens
I'll have the audacity,
and the brazen cowardice,
to act surprised.

To feign knowledge.
To play a selfish fool.

I miss my truck and
I guess a piece of me
still don't give a ****
about the rest of me.

But that's not true,
I'm trying to change
these soiled linens
on my bed of rage.

Let the dust settle now,
I'm approaching the age
where time grabs hold
and ceaselessly shakes.

Save the planet;
**** yourself.

You think so?
Because I don't.

In fact I try so **** hard
not to.

See, I think it's key
but she sees it differently
because hypothetically
it could be a liability,
that is, this honesty,
because maybe truth can be
painful it seems
and that will only lead
the pain to breed
and somewhere in-between
that golden honesty
can become a sheath
to house a blade honed keen
we use to cut each other deep.

That bitter brass crash
punctuating every beat
is jarringly unsettling,
just a toy monkey indeed.

Tell me what it really means.
Tell me what it stands for,
why was such a thing created?
Wound up tightly, set it free.

The zombies will all chase it,
relentless and ever mindlessly.
Just a toy monkey?
More like a bomb, indeed.

wow writing is so cool
just knowing you're reading this
is the key to making stool.

I just **** these words
out of my keyboard.

This website ***** golf ***** through a garden hose.