Your shirts
hang drying
that we washed,
my son.

I recall you
wearing them,
each
and every one.

They hang there
lonesome now,
sad relics
of your wardrobe,
cast-offs
of a life
gone too soon,
cut short,
live long after me,
I thought.

I like the patterns,
the colours, too,
but on seeing them,
I’m remembered sadly,
of lovely you.

I sniff
along the cloth,
feel the buttons
that you once
did up, undid,
your fingers touch
and hug and feel,
the pain, of that,
too much.

The shirts hang
innocent, unaware,
lifeless, unworn
and cold,
I can feel them,
but want you
to hold.

Maybe I’ll wear the shirts
to give them back
some life,
some warmth,
fill them out,
give them body
to embrace,
pretend to them
I’m you,  
act out the lie,
not reveal to them,
not tell them,
I watched you die.

Rhyming Is My Business

Working on a secret mission,
brain in unstable condition,
don't believe in superstition,
will charge for admission.
Life flashing before my eyes,
tongue tied between her thighs,
maggots soon become flies,
my ***** is the perfect size.
I am number one,
writing is just for fun,
never will I own a gun,
life has just begun.
I'm my own best friend,
friends and family, I will defend,
texted you, but forgot to send,
my funeral, I will attend.
Sometimes I need a helping hand,
life never goes as planned,
Facebook is becoming bland,
nothing beats a good hair band.
****** is a bad addiction,
why is fact called nonfiction,
dying is not a prediction,
life is just a contradiction.
With me you're in awe,
it's just an unwritten law,
never miss Monday Night Raw,
when I don't write, you go through withdraw.
I am just the very best,
to hell with all the rest,
nothing beats a woman's chest,
knowing me, you should be blessed.