It surrounds us all
Binding us to our mother
Holding us all near

legs stick-straight
my hips don't gyrate
my hair's not well-trained
and my ******* aren't the same
size

my eyes
aren't bambi-watching-his-mother-get-strapped-to-the-back-of-a-van-BIG
they're not blue like the atlantic, but grey like
cigarette ashes.

my eye-lashes aren't a foot in length,
they don't billow when I blink
and I've lost so many, a ton,
ones that I didn't even
get to
wish
on.

there's something in the middle of me, in the middle of
me there is a large amount of something
pushpushing against my skin and
aching against my vital organs, I
can feel the strain as my heart strings are
tuned up up up and pulled to the taunt
-ness of a mandolin.

the monotonous monks that haunt
my chest cavity take on a barely audible
angelic hum - the lightness of their voices
driven in
to the tips of my
limbs,
which are
quivering
     as if
                
            they
                        

                     were



          feathers.

cliche, boring, bland and weak
based upon a foundation of chic
pseudo-intellectual

you distract from your lack
with your apathetic crap
entomology and intonation
i call it character *******

you do it too often, many of you
just be who you are so we can shine through

i just have to get this off my chest...
your subject matter concerns love
who would've guessed

it rhymes and chimes and deliverance isn't best
and if one skims just beginning and end
there is no need for the rest

lacking originality
either resolve or contradiction
not cryptic nor a riddle in sight
not an original thought nor display of risk

you can learn here from this one write
what you could never tell east from west
and even though, you'll be better so
it will never be
as clever as thee
so just hide behind your traditional text

its not that i seek to pick on the weak
its quite the contrary-

start over with command
so you understand
it is the fraudulent that i detest

it is lack of interest and tact
and i won't take it back
your technique is as the rest.

you slack in approach
you couldn't hold my attention
from the first line
to the next

no captivation
no eccentricity
no enigma
flooding, you are, a pest

parasitic in your relentlessness
attention seeking for all the wrong reasons
leading poetry to its death

you bore me truly
insincerely yours,
unafraid to best.

bitter is this transition, dusk till dawn
floating on half remembered dreams
one would expect tranquility
instead of a constant reminder
that i go to sleep alone
cold sheets with room for two
resign themselves to midnight solidarity

She tells me I have
Beautiful veins for needles
Too much heroine