Matt says *******
Jake says **** that
David says **** me
Sarah says don't say ****
Mia says what the ****?

These are my children
the people I created
and I am their God
punishing and testing them from behind the scenes
they don't know how much it hurts me to hurt them
but that doesn't stop me
my little children
all trying to find their path
trying to grow into fine young adults
if only they could see the end I have in store for them
Are you still a martyr if nobody cares?

I don't know what happened
somewhere along the way our feet must have slipped
because this place is cold and unfamiliar.
Look at the jester as he dances with all the ugly girls
A poet is a poet is a liar is a liar is a pretentious *******
But I never let you read them
no because if you did
you'd realize that a large chunk of my blathering
is about you
then you'd probably say something like
what the ****. this is odd. no creepy. stop calling me. I don't want to wind up in saran wrapped pieces in your freezer
but I do write them
and that's what counts

Look at you
you poor little thing
you sit there in your tears
mascara pools solidifying around your shoes
how much I want to save that moment forever
that moment where you needed somebody so badly
who could maybe be me
and I go to tell you I love you
but bite my tongue
because in reality
I don't ever want you not in that moment
I don't ever want you happy or regulated or normal
in that moment I realize that this isn't what love is
this is greed
so I pass you by
leave you weeping on that curb
leave you to get better

One day at a time is the mantra of the sickly beggars I call my people
oh addiction, such a hot, edgy topic, look at you breaking down barrier after barrier
no not this one
this one's one for the people who took the road less traveled
only to realize nobody walks that path for a reason
the bushes buzz with flies looming over dumped ****** victims
women sell their trade for a feeling of being loved
and the monsters don't fear the dark
one day at a time
this will all be worthwhile in the end
the end.
it never comes really
you think it's just you? your ignorance makes me laugh to sickness
give me a runners high over a drug any day
like there's an actual difference between the two
like one hundred years from now we won't be sharing the same plot of dirt?
my awful lungs and liver and kidneys and heart
your slightly less awful organs
One day at a time
every day of the year
tally marked against white walls with posters of the things we took for granted
one
day
at
a
time
time to get up
it's a new day
roll the die
play the game
hope you get lucky
one day at a time

Baby, let me be your puppeteer
pulling at those strings we both know so well
jerking you to make you do the things I like
I'll tell you I love you
if that's the sorta thing you're interested in
me, I'm more of a instant self gratification kind of guy
so light daddy's cig
and maybe take that pretty little mouth downstairs
tell yourself you're doing it because I love you and you love me back
go ahead doll face, now wear those shorts I like
he doesn't hate women. He just really really loves them
sure thing sweet heart, whatever gets you going
tell yourself I cut those strings a while ago
go ahead
but remember to get my blood flowing
boiling over
in the morning I won't want to remember your face
dance for me puppet
before I put you back in that closed box

I write about my own life too much
and I don't think complaining is art
sure you may relate to the ******* I spout
but don't you think I wrote it with you in mind
you are never in my mind
My thought process goes like this:
1) how can I score something to get me high
2) what is the best way I can shirk my responsibilities
3) how can I write something to prove how smart and deep I am
4) how can I convince her to **** me
I need validation
I need to be left alone
I need to be kicked in the ***
I need to grow up
but I won't
call me Peter ******* Pan
only it's not Never Never land we fly to
no I convince you you can follow me out of your bedroom window
take flight with me
then I watch as your body explodes ****** and mangled on the concrete of your parents' driveway
then I write a poem about how hard it was for me to watch
My poems are selfish
because *******

There's gotta be something to all this
he says
he pleads
he reaches out for something concrete to mix his ideals in with
there's gotta be something to it
he says
well explain what it is to me.
it's like
I see the world before me
every place that ever was
ever will be
I see all of this
and all of the people -
silly little things bouncing around the galactic pin ball table
and it's like I'm waiting for the bonus round
I'm not following you
that's the problem
nail on the ******* head doc
nobody follows me
or maybe I don't follow them
they say Hello how are you doing
and all I hear is
sroeijfapoirjfpaiorjvpioserhvipshfvjipsrjvarjv[oisjgv[js[voijn­raoijoi[sjvijsr[jsr[i,vjsoirjvso[itjsoiernaudrv;jzdnfv;ndfvi;ondf­oibnsoinb Why ******* bother?
and I don't know why I bother
ya know, doc?
because I see myself in a cracked mirror
a really introspective, deep thinking, wordsmith of the people by the people for the people
here to wake people up, to put some ******* oomph in their step
then it changes
out of my left eye I see
the waste of space siphoning oxygen and turning it into ****
so **** yourself to make the world a better place, right? only I know that it's not right. When I am awake in bed at five am craving anything to shut my brain up I think of her, or the other ones, or my Mother and how much wasted potential it would be. Potential I don't have. Potential everybody tells me is there. Go to school. Move to san fran, or LA, or the big apple, flee. But I can't leave them.
Slow down son, you're rambling.
sorry doc, it's just the world moves at a set speed, and inside my head is a washing machine full of shoes and bricks on way too high a setting.
so why do you write?
because If I didn't this would all come out in much unhealthier ways. I have to stop myself from spearing the woman with her baby with my Hyundai accent hatchback 2011. I clench my fist so tight, that my fingernails cut my palm - If only I didn't bite them raw and ******.
Where do you think this all comes from, this feeling of anxiety?
where? what the **** kind of a question is that, doc?
just do your best
my best will never be good enough. Because the world is empty and void and full of people who would sell you as Joseph just for a technicolored dream coat.
That reference is so outdated, who is it for?
certainly not the people who like my work. I write poetry for a world that doesn't give a **** about poetry.
you don't really write poetry though, do you? You just rant and then hit enter to give the appearance of lines and stanzas.
You're right. I dropped out of school for this **** and all I can churn out is infantile angsty *******. I hate the people who practice self harm. It seems laughable to me. If you need help ask. If you want to die, Die. Nobody is stopping you. Then again, I want to save every kid who thinks they are ****** up or not worth it or hopeless. Maybe I read the catcher in the Rye one too many times. But Salinger had it right. He just locked himself away from the world so he could write.
I think we're about to run out of time
Doc, my time ran out a long while ago. My whole life has been spent running away from the last falling grain of sand
so the same time next week?
sure, doc, why the **** not, I mean you don't even really exist.
You are just the dead air when I'm at my most lonesome. This office - just my empty car, my bed in late and early hours and this patient is just another kid thinking he is the exception only to realize we're all being flushed down the same ****** toilet.
So yeah, same time next week I guess