It happened again today,
as it does too often.
A super sized new roll of
toilet paper unwound off
it's holder in a heap upon
the floor.

She followed me into the
bathroom and sat slyly
staring gauging my reaction.
I thought I could actually
discern a slight smile upon
her enchanting face.

What is it about cats that
makes them do that,
unroll all the Toilet Paper?
Are they merely mischievous
or inherently evil? I am in a
quandary to know the difference.

D emons dancing down underneath
E vil words slipping out its mouth
M onsters await at every corner
O minous feelings crawl into my brain
N either dead or alive, I float in between
"Stay dead" they said, but I was gone by then

young people,

they think nobody has the
same thoughts as them
they take great pride in some made up
originality

as if really nobody ever thought up
scenarios of themselves descending
some rope from some helicopter and
dropping in the middle of enemy forces and
starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an ****
and killing all the bad guys while not
taking one bullet
One man army

or there’s those other thoughts
of being simply the greatest at some
sport and being admired and envied for it

also, the thoughts of *** in all its forms

the thoughts of mindless violence

of saving the day

of being somewhere else and doing something else

all kinds of thoughts
and all the minds who think them label them as original

but they’re not original

they’re every young person’s thoughts

and me,
I also have thoughts I consider original

I think of how it is to be old
pretty much every **** day
I think of me being old and dried up and weak
and waiting for death

it’s not a very pleasant thought
especially for someone in their twenties
but it’s my way of labeling my thoughts original

maybe in some wheel chair
with a nurse pushing me from behind
No kids
no family
no fortune
no achievements
a life wasted
death watching from above
mockingly

and myself looking up at it
smiling
*******, you think you got me
but little do you know that
while I was able, while I was more lively than
a rotting carrot
I defied you by ripping apart pieces of me
that will stick with the world
long after I’m gone

Oh, they might not be great pieces or even good ones
but behind they remain as you take me away

and all of them branded with my name
It’s through them that I am
immortal

and there’s nothing you can do about it

great, good
or bad,
you cannot **** a poet

We’ve had promises broken
Words left unspoken

Tears on our cheeks
Lonely weeks

And yet
It still surprised me when you left me.

Its eighteen months since her delivery
Now she is penning odes ostensibly
Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall
What Dada says? "No writing on the wall."

With great care baby writes her graffiti
Not much untouched by her audacity
He tries to compromise with a new book
but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look

He has to admit the walls are hers now
Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow
Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night
without the stars; a novice oversight

She's more surreal than Salvador Dali
The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti

Anger,
              Pain,
                      And burning eyes.
Hurt,
          Despair,
                         And despise.
Hate,
           Blame,
                        And smile.
Flames,
             Blisters,
                           In disguise.
Tears left,
                   And Tears dry.