I'm bored.
I want to hit up
people I don't
care about
and go have a beer
and loads of cigarettes
hold each other's shoulders
in a group in some bar
and laugh like
we are real friends
even though
I've quit
that life.

I'm just bored
and that's
what bored man do.
They go out
and pretend that life
is better than it actually is
and we intoxicate
our selves with drink
and smoke
and plenty of other things.

But instead
I lay in bed
reading a book
I'm half way through
it's good
but it's not enough.
My feet stink
I refuse to get up
and shower
I'll just change socks,
my teeth feel off
from the coke I drank
and I haven't brushed them
since yesterday,
and my poems
hit like heavy hitters
would back in the day
where boxing wasn't
rigged
or ran by punks
with YouTube channels.

*******.
What boredom
makes a man do
in times of need.
Maybe
I should take
a walk
but I'll sit here
marinate on my own
fight against addiction
lack of connection
and poor hygiene.

I'll invite my dog up to bed
and let him lay on me
while he stares at the wall
and I'll stay bored
and write a poem
that won't hit like the rest
but as least
will serve
a purpose
as my girl
waxes her legs
and waits for me
to say something.

I want to write
a poem
so here I am
doing it
even though
I have nothing
to write about
My head's
a bit fuzzy
I woke up
around 4 pm.

My girl wants to
read me a poem
she thinks I'll
like it.
"Not now, I'm writing."
"Ok."
and as the world
burns to ashes
outside
losing weight
becomes
just as realistic
as going outside
and running
without someone
chasing me with a knife.

I tap my belly
twice.
I've decided—
I'll keep Steven.
He's a good boy
who has tantrums
but a couple
farts here and there
usually settle him.

My joints and my ***
hurt when I get up
I'm getting too heavy
for my knees
and the chairs
aren't comfortable
enough.

This poem has
an thing to it
I don't know what
it feels good
and right
it feels like Steven.

I can hear
my father arguing
with my little sister
over homework
and that doesn't.

There is
a pressure plate
pressing on my head
and I can hear
my skull crack
the more they argue
but it never
pops it
it just presses
and presses
never landing
the killing blow.

the homework
questions begin
"Is freedom
good or bad?"
"Good."
"is censorship's
something
present in
dictatorship
or democracy?"
"I don't know
what censorship is."
I get up
from my bed
my joints
don't hurt
I grab the door ****
and shut my
bedroom door.

There's your answer.

I spent the weekend
away
when I returned
there was—
a new fridge,
microwave,
shelves,
and a bench.

it seems like
everything moves forward
when I'm not around

even the roaches—
****** off.

I got a knock
at the door
at 3 am.
I open it
there he is.

"let me in
there's pigs
outside"

I let him in
and take a good look.
He usually
isn't like this:
like he owes
a debt to the world
and the earth
came to collect
her cash with Interest.

"What did you do?"
"I was smoking ***
and the cops ran after me."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"what do you mean?"
"Dude, you smell
like gun powder."

He knew I knew
We waited 2 hours.
The cops were gone.
"Here have this ski-mask."
"Thanks."

He has a kid
and wife now
not everyone's
that lucky
to live that long.
good for you
old sport.

You eat what I write.
There's a piece
of my poems
with tomato
sauce on your
shirt.

Then you
burp
with satisfaction.
after, you
wipe your face
on a paper napkin,
and talk about it
with your friends
over the
dinner table.

Then you stir your
wine and make
small talk
about my
personal life
as if you were
a close friend of mine,
and I hate you
for it.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about how I fake
or force most of my emotions.
That might explain
why I'm so socially awkward
and why I tell girls
and my coworkers
and my dead friends
to *******.
all of them are fools
myself included.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about how I try to fit in
how I want to belong
how I want to be one of the boys
how I want to be loved
how I want to love
how I want to be human
and feel human
(in all ways except physical)
and how much easier life would be
if I had just been born
away from my own thoughts.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think how I forgot
most of this poem
that I wrote down in my head
while I was working
because I can multi-task
but it doesn't matter now
I've got most of it down
I think.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about all the diagnosis
that have been thrown at my face
Bipolar
Schyzofrenic
Schizoid
and depressed.
At this point I just consider it
name calling
but I have much a better diagnosis
that requires no anti depressants
or anti psychotics
I've self diagnose
as an *******.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I think about how
the men in white cloaks
tell me how I shouldn't abuse
Alchool
Cigarrettes
Drugs
and that I should take my medicine.
Little do they know
that all of the above
I consider medicine
and that I do abuse all of them
except my pills.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I think about how I fantasize
about death and suicide.
That lady death is my mistress
one shy kiss away
from setting me free
from all this boring routine
that we call life
work, relationships, eating
*******, sleeping, talking
and living
all of which
I do very little of.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I wonder how much better
life would be
for those around me
if I had just been locked up
in some loony bin
and stayed there
for the rest of my days.
In a way
I'm locked up in this madhouse
that some call
my mind.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I just
write
and
breath
and
think
and
finish
this
poem.

I just got up
from sitting
on my ***
for too long,
my right foot
and whole leg
are numb,
and I'm limping
towards the bathroom
like I'm wearing
clown shoes.

Oh, so you're laughing
at my numbness,
and pain.

You can be cruel?
No, you're not cruel.
You're just like
a dog from hell(!)