One day, soon...
I will drive off that overpass,
Just to prove that I could.

Oh, you looked at my poem
And offered your opinion.
But, who asked you?

Or even care?
You have the same priviledge to create one.
Simply by pulling words out of the air.

You states that the grammar is wrong.
As if you wrote the poem,
Its like advising God.
To hold off on the thunder storm.

You're the poetry critic.
That judge of personal views.
That creates havoc, if we offer ours of you.

We all creates.
In our very own way.
Even editors of books.
Don't always gets their way.

let's go back to basics
i'll punch you in the face
i'll rip out your hair and eyes and teeth and use them as jewelry around my sleeve
oh how much i love you! every part of yourself you've given me! your brown eyes and bleached teeth - you make me look so chic!
i don't care that your veins and enamel and sticky hair styling products are ruining all my long-sleeved clothes
i'd rather wear you now and save my expensive jewelry for more formal and important events -

                                                              ­                                                                 ­      my heart's made of gold

Suppose I was more agreeable
Instead of arguing over coffee about politics, religion
All those subjects deemed taboo that neither of us truly give a **** about
Pressing my point like daggers against your ribcage
Knowing the sweet spots that make you moan
I would give in, applaud your cleverness, then leave for work

You would be left wondering if you should feel insulted.

of course you should

As usual,my filterless memoirs have become vocalized
******* them back in tight and quick is useless
Once freed, the damage is done

But. they. are . just. words.

the previous statement is ridiculous and the author should be shot

Never could I slice you deeper, **** your private mind or lay your soul bare
Then with the bitter, caustic, truthful edge of my observations
You are just as vulnerable as the rest of them
Barbed wire telegrams
Frozen emails
Ash and arsenic letters
Cut you to the quick

Delightful.
But I like it better when I can witness the damage
Basking in the upper handed afterglow of my superior ability to mortally wound
For no bit of silver that I've ever found
Was ever sharper than the razor edge of my tongue

"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
*******. The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.

Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-

Mine?

Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and
lost.

Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"

"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."

I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside

I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-

Beauty is the greatest lie

Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise

imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake

but have never even opened their eyes.