My gender
My ****** orientation
My disability
My problems
My colour of skin
My size
My voice
My place of origin
My clothes
My religion
My past
My mistakes
My label
Shouldn't be the determination of how you treat me

I've begun to hate
The sound of happiness
It breaks my heart
Cuts my skin
When I hear a laugh
Or see love
So I drown the noise
To avoid the pain
Of seeing and hearing
Everyone else's happiness
When I clearly
Have none

I have a vice
It goes by many names
It is not my friend
It does not play nice games

I have a vice
It may **** me one day
It is not my friend
It does not hear what I say

I have a vice
I liked it to start
It is not my friend
It is going to take my heart

I have a vice

Maybe it is my friend
After all
It will be with me at the end

#my #friend #vice #sad #demon #drugs #help #alone

Hey, sometimes Bob Dylan changes your mind.
Like how you're thinking' Cohen and then you
Go to the closet where the records are hid and
Face-high you're being stared at by that man
On the cover of
"Bringing It All Back Home"
And you quietly apologize
And wish him a belated happy birthday
And light a cig
And turn the world on
Outside your open slider door
For what always feels like the first time.

Hey, sometimes it takes a whole poem to give you something to do.

Strong emotions huddle into a space called heart
build up so dense are soon ripped apart
the heat drives them to expand too fast
but time dictates slow down they must.

the strong energy the explosion unleash
go on to create stars galaxies
that retreat from one another but oh what a fate
the final fallout is an unsteady state!

I'm pretty sure all poetry has left me.
As if it just packed up and hit the road.
Like my words no longer dance or sing.
Like they have forgotten all melodies.
Assimilated tone deafness.
Compound letdowns retract vulnerabilities.
Brick walls and leather skin replace possibilities.
Reckless love and whimsical fantasies,
Replaced by ***** diapers and piles of laundry.
Consonants and vowels blend to mush.
Aches and accomplishments are one in the same.
All of my agony has turned to apathy,
And I wonder.
How could I let poetry walk away from me?
How have I become so broken that I can no longer write?
Words have no ability to woe me.
Vocabulary is no longer my saving grace.
Void of creativity.
Like somehow life has gotten too messy for me to express.
Series of catastrophes and celebrations run together.
And I feel lost.
And I feel blessed.
But oh so empty.
Poetry come back to me.