One there will be no wars.
No racism.
No hatred.
No wickedness.
No poverty.
No lies.
No evil.
No lust.
No heartaches.
No drugs.
No alcohol.
No money.
Nothing that causes pain at one point to anyone.
One day is just a wish...

B.m.P

Don't get attached I whisper
as I sit and imagine you here with me

Don't get too attached I say
As I relive those kisses over and over and over

Don't get overly attached I say
As I listen to way too much romantic music

Well, then.  I whisper
As you put your arms around me

***** it, I say
As you lean your head on my shoulder and breathe in

**** it, I shout
As you come in and kiss me again

And again
and again

"poetry is just words"
-evanwilson

Cake is just bread with a sweet flourish that makes it delicate and uncommon
painted beautifully, decorated to aesthetic design
produced in the same oven, created from same ingredients
to still stand separate from everyday usage
and survive bland reissue

I prefer one on special occasions

There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?

He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?

This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?

This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?

This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:

memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.

I find that when I come here I feel at home or peaceful. I don't feel judged for the words I must type out on a page for they are more than just words to me.  
My social anxiety is not a handicap here and for that, I rejoice!
When I come here, I can lose my self in fine literature distracting me from
every thing that makes me want to end this thing called life.

I want to leave my hairs on your pillow case,
And my perfume in your wind.
I want my fingertips
To smudge the glasses in your cabinet,
And my feet
To ***** your white tile floors.

I want my indent
To remain in your bed
And my heart on your chest,
For all the night lingers
You'll be my rest.