i don't sleep well anymore
i am lying to my friends
because there’s nothing
better to do
i make music with my teeth-
my therapist listens with
enthusiasm- she must have
pre-ordered from itunes
the mirror told me a joke
and i was the punch line
i don’t laugh at ****** knuckles,
only stitches and their optimism
did you know an octopus
has 3 hearts and its probably
Because we lovely few keep
throwing cardiac glances
to cerulean eyes
i make mistakes
im going to get a phD
in loving myself outrageously
so i can stop writing ****** poetry
Instead i’ll count sheep and the
hours im never getting back
i don’t sleep well anymore

congestion of a lung-
the left one that he can live
without;  
sans the pareidolia, what is
this organic machine?
maybe a
fool weakened by
failure of finding the
force in front of him.
having waited this millenium
after Archimedes,
subtraction has
become the reaper
of the living man: one who
doesn’t need his eyes to
find his feet wet from Styx.

it doesn't make any sense.

look at her anatomy, for example-
he still can't understand it.

and if i die naked
from exposure,
left only with my claws,

may my stomach
be filled with her flesh;
heart sour.
Both of us now equals

i don't sleep well anymore
i am lying to my friends
because there’s nothing
better to do
i make music with my teeth as
my therapist listens with
enthusiasm (she must have
pre-ordered from itunes)
the mirror told me a joke
and i was the punch line
i don’t laugh at ****** knuckles,
only stitches and their optimism
did you know an octopus
has 3 hearts and its probably
because we last lovely few keep
throwing cardiac glances
to cerulean eyes
i make mistakes
im going to get a phD
in loving myself outrageously
so i can stop writing ****** poetry
i'll probably fail out
instead i’ll count sheep and the
hours im never getting back
i don’t sleep well anymore

Our history is buried 6 feet deep,
and the worms are excellent archeologists.

I started writing to give recollection to my name.
I mastered the pages so I could hopefully forget yours.
But that failed,
so remember me as disappointment.
For the words on this page emanate the
same failure as the organic,
breathing matter holding them-
living them-
believing in them that I was as gifted as
the others before me who wrote sonnets
dedicated to forest green eyes.

Probably your green eyes.

****, forget forgetting your name.
It was carved into the tree that
conceived my paper heart.
And, by chance, did you use the same
knife to engrave it that
you did to tear me to shreds?

Classic of you to expect a rhyme.
The admiration bleeding from my poetry
cannot be captured in "love" and "dove,"
so to hell with you.
Yet, thanks to you,
came the spark of a nameless girl
with words that incinerate.

I have advice; although, I'm not sure how
it will taste:
remember me as a legacy.