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A poet's supposed to only post poetry
     If I try to do anything different under a pseudonym
They'd know it's me
               They're not too dim
  To shine a light on similarity
             Between two varying laugh tracks despite all the hilarity
        Been getting down to brass tax with a microscope
       I could read the fine print even if both my eyes were closed
     So tie the rope tightly around your own necks
                          As I work far outside of my trajectory from how I make the bow flex
         If I was Archie mixed with Cupid
          I would
    Follow an arrows arc like an archery marksman whose targets are Betty and Veronica's beating hearts
    And when they get hit,
        They both fall pretty hard
      And meet me in my back yard where I get their backs archin'
         Point is, I've got precision aim
    When I'm shooting for emotions
            Make you never feel a thing
      Make you clear minded and focused
             Let you all in on my pain
   Have you buzzin' like a locust
 Apr 2017 The Bleak Poet
There is more beauty in the steam
coming out of my coffee machine
Than there is in a Monet
At least with my lonely eyes
it seems that way
When the sink drips its drops
To me it is art
Maybe cause my world
Is falling apart
I tend to find beauty in odd things
 Apr 2017 The Bleak Poet
I live between contentment
it is the perfect space
for me
Suicide should only be committed once*
So why the hell do I try every couple months
Something's up with the water
I don't feel the rush like I used to
There's no happiness tutorials on YouTube
I laced together my shoes, through them on a wire and convinced myself to sit and think
The kitchen sink's dishes stink
But you are what you eat and I had a helping of insane

Low key lowlife, broke and high under a spotlight
No ice so there's more drink at the drive thru window with my eyes suspiciously low
I'm ridiculously close to laughing what's left of my mind away
I forgot how it feels to feel fine today
It's either *love
or hate and there's no areas of gray

*I wish I had a thousand hours to sit down and figure out exactly what the **** that I've been running from
I wish someone would stick around long enough to identify with the place that I'm coming from
There's more to you than meets the eye
Like the chapters
                    of my life
   I can't stop reading you
          And I can't wait to see
                   what happens next
The future always at the front of my mind
        But as I look behind me
With the past steadily
           trying to catch me
I realize I'll never escape the memories
           Like the first part to a trilogy
   All that matters is the ending
         And my book ends with
The time says its unholy but we say we are already in hell. 
Nothing to lose besides our prayers.
Shut the hour, let me sleep. 
"The pills will help with that," but they'll take away the motive. 
This isn't working. But then again what is?
An excerpt from the short story
"No Cry for Love" by Mickey Lucas. Currently still in the works.
Sometimes I count backwards from 10 hoping with each passing number a month could go by so that when I reach February you still want me to die and we still both agree on something.
I keep your letters under the mattress like we used to, sometimes I feel brave enough to ask if you read the letters I sent you whenever you're tired but then I feel like that question would have to be followed by me asking you to send them back.
Even counting down from 5 would be good enough if it meant it was back to the part when you said you'd thought about it too.
Giving someone space by telling yourself to read their signals like an instruction manual and wait for the right away as if you've never given it to anyone else.
Still giving you space because I'm blind enough to not be able to tell when I should make a decision.
Maybe I could try to call you and count the rings before you answer.
I could wait for you to call me and save the candle from my 7th birthday for when I turn 70.
If I never texted you again I wouldn't have to to tell my future kids what serendipitous impatience feels like.
If you read this you're gonna realize it's about you as fast as I realize every girl I talk to still sends their ex messages at one in the morning on the edge of whiskey soaked lips.
In retrospect that's equally as fast as when I realize I build homes in muddy coloured eyes.
this is a melodramatic way to respond to no communication.
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