I'm tired of the way the ways tire me

I reversed the current on my fan . Now it turns the way I think

I have a radio . I use it to collect the dust of passersby , not passerbys

Why do I like scotch and Irish music when I am of English descent ?

A little fae told me sidhe is pronounced "Shay" . I thought that strange .

If Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso had been novelists would they have illustrated their books

Wine is like crime and punishment . It is plucked , crushed , and bottled up , put into solitary confinement for years , then poured out and ****** away .

All poets are crazy , anyone who disagrees is crazy .

Stock futures are yesterday's indecission

The last in class in medical school is called doctor
The last to class is called tardy
The class in being last is never having to look over your shoulder to see who is behind you

Having no homework
Sleeping in late
Laughing so hard that you cry
Being called beautiful
When your fav song comes on shuffle
Being liked/loved back
Doing well on a test you thought you failed
Making someone laugh/ smile
Long hugs from someone you love
When he texts you first
Packing for a vacation
Getting unexpected gifts
Realising it’s Friday
Looking back at old photos
Eating the food you’ve been craving
Blasting music in car
Watching a sunset/sunrise
Being warn and cozy when it’s cold
Feeling Important and wanted

She likes toy soldiers with mustaches
and rolling camels from newspapers
(that way she has something to read when she smokes)

She likes spin the bottle at recycling centers
and starting arguments over produce
(she prefers steamed vegetables, you see)

She adores staycations in someone else's house
and dinner theatre for breakfast
(a little Hamlet and eggs)

She likes every other Tuesday
and clocks with only minute hands
(it's more her speed)

She likes hunting for change in penny arcades
and five & dimes
(but not dollar stores...go figure)

She likes soda crackers (but not soda)
She likes beer nuts (but not beer)
She likes wine cozies (well, you know the rest)

reveries of sun-drenched prairies;
windswept under cottony clouds
golden-yellow in summery indolence

It is a quarter past June, and
          already it seems like a record setting summer.
Sprinklers and the scent of chlorine filled pools,
          as I walk in my street-worn shoes to my sanctuary.

The lifeless blacktop park where
          my will and the heat-embracing pavement meet.
A well-manicured backyard tree hangs its verdant leaves
          just over its owner’s fence.
Like a lifeline for life reaching out to me.

I stick and I move,
          as the sweat cleans the dirt and despair from my face.
Like a sunshine superman, I drink UV rays into my bones.
          Alone I feel whole.
The disinfecting flames of summer
          have begun to melt the cold rot encasing my soul.

Wherever you hear about a drinking
problem
you expect the man to be
violent and ****** and turn abusive
and destructive

well
it wasn’t the case with him

There was a drinking problem there
for sure
but all it cursed him with
was sleep and sometimes
verses

He’d start writing after
drinking

But he was a kind man and a great
lover
and his wife had a hard time
convincing her family and friends
and neighbors
that a man who has a separate trashcan
only for bottles and beer cans
is not a man who strikes his wife,
not even with words

Well, none of
them read his poetry

and by the time he died of
cirrhosis it was
too late

You can’t scold a dead man for
having written thousands upon thousands
of pages of
splatter-punk gore and abuse fantasies
involving his wife
her family
her friends
neighbors
and everyone he knew, including minors

i spend my days
pouring myself into the cups of others

only to find that
when it’s time for myself
to take a sip

all that’s left
in my cup
is the remainder of a girl
who gave too much