Ketamine dreams,
induced narcoleptic nightmares,
poles of northern impulses,
and southern stupors.

My equator's equilibrium,
and my catatonic control,
each one in the same,
yet far from reach.

A squeeze of a lime,
its fresh sour scent,
atop three fingers of gin,
match the burn of my cuts,
and i feel once again.

Cocktail straws set aside,
stirring fingers dull discomfort after a lick,
"three more limes please, barkeep",
it's now triple the pain i seek,
tolerance & your fickle itch.

Stuffed the words you said
Down my throat;
Followed quickly by the flick of tongue,
Swallowed the words you said,
Dogged with cigarette smoke,
In hopes,
You meant them.

Sometimes, what hurts is not just losing love -
but the reality of losing your best friend, your world.
Losing the person you've spent many-a-time making memories with;
the only person in the world you felt a sense of belonging with.

Sometimes, what hurts most is watching things fall apart -
rooted to the ground, you are unable to hold on to your slipping love.

Nights you would spend conversing with your love;
planning your future memories,
enjoying the night-sky together -
now turned to nights of sorrow, loneliness and heartache.

Sometimes, what hurts most is knowing you are responsible for everything that went wrong.

If this is no poem then:

Then it must be a good **** during a rainy night
Because it a rush, a rush to get to the finish line
Legs stretching higher than a frog most heroic leap;
That’s when you have to admire how terrific the organs
Can be during moment of ecstasy:
If this is no poem then

Donald Trump is not taking residency in the white house
Where Politics is still a multifaceted word: according the wikipedant
And hate intolerance, greed, revenge, violence, famine, disease,
Continues to be the number one problem in the world today:
If this is no poem then

There are no use for poetic devices, and my feeling shouldn’t
Get in the way of the truth, of setting me straight or free.
Poetry comes from the island, where the native spoke
Dialect like they don’t give a ****. .about the language called English
Breaking up words into sugar cane…and making raw brown sugar lyrics

If this is no poem then

It ought to be: or take the road to Bombay:
And see if the folks there really love poetry…
or give a rat *** about they missing teeth.

We may have been toxic.
But it was a toxicity
I could call my own.
Since I was young,
I’ve had a hard time
keeping things for myself.
My dreams, my ideas,
even my love
for the color purple.
These were all mine
at one point.
Soon to be
ripped away
by an envious, more outspoken friend
But this.
This toxic waste land of a love.
It was mine.
No one else wanted it and
no one else could have it,
The love I possessed was…
Unconventional.
But it was mine.
I was happy
being unhappy.
If I was able to argue with her
at least that meant she was there.
She was a present figure in my life
for me to hate to love, and love to hate.
But now she's gone.
I can't love nor hate.
I can't even have a friend in the one I loved.
So yes, it was toxic.
Yes, it was torturous,
but it was mine.

tired of you dancin,' with somebody else,
our mirror's vision, refelcts somebody else,
fires burning, what the *******,
your desires live, on rancid shelves.

thank you for my tilted dreams,
as desperate elbows fall,
the way my corner leans.

thank you for waves that come and get,
my undertow,
the things i can't admit.

buried words lying to your waist,
your quicksand stomach,
some things i can't embrace.

better hurry, save your face,
your lit cigarette,
smokes like the ace of spades.

feed the trip,
       conduct amends,
take these pills,
       undress your sins,
fake the real,
       it's just the tip,
corner pocket,
       my eight ball's lens.

so tired of you dancin' with somebody else.

I was made of glass
fragile and hollow by design
reflecting those around me
but never quite fulfilled.
I shattered, tiny fragments glistened
like tears
But still I felt nothing.
Sorrow slipped silently
numbing a soul hungry for all yet thirsting for none
I sat in darkness waiting
for you to see the sunbeams
glancing off the shards and think them beautiful
but you were blinded by so many splinters
that you could never imagine the whole.