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Waverly May 23
The say
give him his flowers
during those April showers
before he gets too old
and loathes
the smell
of the young
rose.

They say,
give him his flowers
when the thunder
cracks,
the lightning whips,
and
the wind rips
his soul to blistering bits.

They say
give him his flowers
when the sun comes out
with it's hot quench
and
melts the fun
of all his summer dreams
and
he just can't believe
that when he was young

he really did
dream

but now
he licks
at
nothing
finding love
haunting.
Waverly Dec 2020
shiny toy
dazzling in the sun
but nothing
to love.
Waverly Nov 2020
****** you up
horrible decisions
on my ******* again
harvest moon alive tonight
liquor flowing
got me tight
cant say how mad I am tonight
gotta let it go
I just cant
how could you take him over me
but its karma
just couldnt believe
youd sit there
and take a backseat
Waverly Feb 2020
1
How am I deserving?
A dog to have an angel.
A drunken mongrel, lapping up his drink out of the sewers,
stumbling and mumbling and howling his way home.
Smoking cigarette after cigarette, eating his fill of what's in his bowl.
A liar, a thief, a beggar, a cheat.
A homeless dog, screaming, baring his teeth at the others,
until his cowardice overcame him and he whimpered into the woods,
crying with his tail between his legs. Nothing but shame to clothe him
and even that hung loosely.
And how now, am I deserving?
A dog, to have an angel.
An angel, whose song is hummed so softly, it could be the twinkling stars whispering. whose eyes, light and caramel and emerald, ignite waterlogged embers into competitive thrusts of red-hot atomic energy. The energy to move. To grow!
TO EXPAND!
how now?
Am I deserving?
of an angel with a fabric
of a million hurts and echoing pains,
laid so gently upon her shoulders,
that it is royal,
and she is not ruined,
but exalted.
Am I deserving?
The mongrel.
The angel.
The drunkard.
The farce.
Waverly Oct 2019
New things,
New emotions,
New places,
New,
New, new.

So old to you.

All I'd wanted to do,
You'd already done.

No magic in flipping through
the pages of last year's edition.

I just hadn't read it yet,
No spoilers babe,
Please,
don't ruin it.

But you did ruin it,
somehow,
The way that lovers always do.

Without words,
But even more brutal.

You laid beside me,
As our bodies burned in the tumult.

You stared at me glumly,
As I hooted and hollered,
Energized and convulsant at the pleasures
Of the newness of each moment.

Not knowing that I was being seen through.

A placeholder.

A parenthesis.

An interesting afterthought.

That I was the means to an end.

The work-around.

That you were thinking of him.

And the countless pages ya'll had written.

But, I eventually got wise.

I saw the blank awe
For augurs:

The listless staring,
Limp kisses,
Lonesome nights
Too easily won fights.

It was written.
Written like this poem
And
Meant to be erased.

I want you to always think of me
When you think about what you've done.

And I hope it makes you smile.

I've still got the dog, *****.
Waverly Oct 2019
*******,
The spider said.
Evil, evil thing to say,
To the fly stuck in your web.
I'd be gone in an instant,
If I hadn't been bitten,
Paralyzed,
Paroxyzed,
Entanglyzed.

Those shimmering beautiful eyes
And delightfully sweet and spicy aroma of your juicy *****.

My lips
Knew a thousand ways to make your legs curl and your body shrivel. To make the web bounce and thrum.

But it was you,
Charlotte,
You who knew the fool in me
That loved to love.
You, Charlotte,
Whose beautiful shimmering eyes and plump body
Fattened me up for slaughter.
And I loved you for every minute of it.

Even as you devour me now,
I close my eyes to the sound of your poison coursing through my veins,
Thrumming along,
Music to die by.
Waverly Oct 2019
Nights
And brain cells
Wasted.
Twisting and turning
Down roads
I know won't lead me home.

Why can't you hate me openly?
That would help me internally.

Easier to be the bad guy
Than the beloved,
But worse to be the abandoned
Than the forgotten.

How many nights
Did I pour myself into oblivion?

Shot after shot,
Burning my half-lived
Half-lifes
In this radioactive wasteland.

How beautiful,
A glowing, broken heart
Always ready for fission
And you so safe
Behind that picket fence
With Mr. Right.

I'm older now, and getting older quicker
And yet,
I still lapse into the days of
Late nights and burnt pancakes,
Love songs and flea markets,
Ferry rides and indigo sunsets,
Whistling wind and your lovely lips.

I've been stranded on this island so long.
I hope you've been getting my messages. I hope somehow the abyss has a voice for me and that you can hear it and be broken too.
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