You haven't quite lived till you've bred.
At least that's what my old doctor said.

He said, 'You haven't quite lived till you've greyed;
Not till youre weathered, abrasive, decayed,
Not till you've worked your own bones to the grave
And believe life's a grand play without meaning or make.

'Doctor, I feel bad,
Negative, scared.
Sometimes I don't bother
Brushing my hair.'

'Ah yes, I've seen this,
Many times before!
Clearly, you're INSANE! I implore you not to attempt a self refection.
You need my own intervention.'

He called my soul's crying a shocking anomaly.
He gave me these pills that 'will give me autonomy';
'You've got to be medicated in this **** economy.'

I got a new doctor, but that doctor ***** too.
Why does this happen to me? What should I do?

'How I love you, how I do!'
Said the hammock to the noose.
'Thank you kindly, much ado,'
Fled the bluebird from the goose.

Then said the bonnet to the bee:
'I've been there for you all along,
I'm so patient, caring, strong;
Why's it that you don't love me?'

'Sting I must and sting I do.
I have my reasons – good ones too.
This doesn't mean I don't love you.'

He leaves in a hurry
I need him to stay
Otherwise worry
Becomes my day-to-day

A dozen short poems
Forgiveness abound
In order to show him
I want him around

I tell him I'm broken
I need to be fixed
He says that he's hoping
I'll get over it

There she goes again, weeping
Can't she see I'm trying to play Minecraft?

There she goes again, screaming
Banging her head into the floor
She's probably banging other men too

I said:
Maybe if you spent more time on dinner
You would have a healthy outlet
To distract you from these troublesome emotions
And there she goes again,
Weeping

I counted meticulously each mark on your marred body
Realization: More freckles on your left hand than days we had left together.
Shedding tears: in the Japanese restaurant.
A couple of them fall into my Miso; you scold me.
I'm sorry.

Great, another Bukowski dickrider (me).
We get it, your substance abuse issues are your muse,
And you're very,
Very misunderstood.

My mother informed me
That Fireball the horse
Had passed on a temperate Fall night.
She'd waited to tell me
Till I'd finished my course,
And assured me things at home were alright.
We'd called him Fireball because his chestnut velvet
Glinted auburn in the morning sun,
And endowed with a massive pelvis,
He kicked hard as a hot son of a gun.

Fireball was just like Dad,
In that, if you, weary, had ever needed a lift,
They'd both have carried you on muscled backs.

Grief ridden in the big city, I grew ill.
A meddlesome misery settled unkindly
As I thought still of Fireball fondly.
Then a thought dawned upon me:
If Heaven's so mighty,
How will Fireball find me?