The whole poetry thing is horse crap
I've read better words on receipt backs
Prescription Pill Bottles
Labels Billboards Words
Spilling out in a constant horde
Fire Please light it all on fire
I'll watch your words pour black smoke
A burning tire
Some people wake up
To automatic gunfire
Primate, your environment constantly spins
Living in holes smoking crack with your
"Friends"
Tuned out I step from a third story window
Leaving two daughters and a pill head widow
Tired of seeing my pack torn apart from within
Alcohol sleeping pills its fun to pretend
Just trying to be alive! But
My poetry comes out so cheap and contrived

Last night I danced like my dad
with a girl who resembled a dictionary definition
I read not long back.

Graceful eyes that could
stop traffic with a blink
and engaging lips that
would smile to sooth the pain of
the midday, gotta-get-back-home-now,
commuters whom step
on pedals with haste.

I lied. My dad can’t dance, so last
night I made a fool of myself
in front of a girl who resembled
a dictionary definition I read not
long back.

I wish the harvest moon didn't
leave me feeling that I'd never find
my breath. That I could see eye
to eye with what once brought
such joy. Dancing in the rain
kicked up below our feet, waves
crashing around us, we threw
bottles into the ocean
but decided
to save the messages for a sunny day.

In my dreams
     you are the moon;
  you occupy the right side
  of my thoughts.
A synesthete's slumber:
  I see your face
     shining over unsure tides
         and feel glad
         in shades of lavender.