I write poetry
Because it is easy
Mix metaphors
With simple similes
An awesome analogy
Don't let the diction get too decipherable
Don't let the fiction get too ****** up
We all know how a story should work
Make me emotional
Make me feel something
So I can feel human
Because I'm a lazy
Emotionally repressed
Kid with a shoulder full of chips
And a mouth full of ******* jokes
So make me whole
Mr poet
While I fantasize
About all the ways
You could die

You are all pigs
Well what does that make you?
Sweetheart, I'm no stranger
To drinking too much
And wasting my potential
You are no stranger
To having overshot your potential
And being an over-serious, pretentious *****
No, you are just some dumb kid
High on your impotent,
Pseudo-self-righteous rage
Yeah, and you're just some *****
Too afraid of the clinking
Of your own die
No, I'm just under appreciated
I'm a ******* visionary
Your head melts obviously
Gasoline ruining this perfect puddle
With ******* ******* rainbows
I wish you wouldn't swear
I wish this world worked right
And I really wish
We weren't all
Just a bunch of filthy pigs

A taste for being inebriated
The sense of dissolving completely
Into the silence of night
I learned how to spot a spinning room
For a cheap carnival, parlor trick
I can't tell birds apart by their chirp
But I can appreciate a beautiful day
Even when everything feels lost
Poetry gave me a voice
And taught me when to shut the **** up
It showed me to see the angels
Trapped inside of everybody
Begging to come out
But it also showed me
When to be wary of a lost cause
Poetry gave me a way to vent
When I could feel the chaos I life
Crawling up my throat
Poetry gave me vision and a fresh perspective
Poetry have happiness
And self discovery
And love
And for all the bruises I carry
I wouldn't trade it in for anything in the world

You painted me an image
Of rolling southern fields
Struggling to stand up right
Beneath the muggy, humid sky
You wrote me song
Called it city living
You never told me
That instead of the ambitious, bohemian dream
I'd cut myself - deep - on the edge of things
You gave me a small taste of your scent
It smelled like good tongue kissing
But it was never groupies with no *******
Only a constant stream of falling into
The hard concrete of an impossible love
With a beautiful angel
Back then -
Where the reds were rosier
And I was so impressionable
You promised me so much
Maybe I deserve these bruises
Which tattoo up my entire body
Weaving a story
Of willing betrayal

I'd sign every letter I write you with a kiss
Only Manila envelopes taste like ****
Besides,
Who the hell writes letters anymore?

There are two parts of me
One's a daydreaming little kid
Sitting on his ***
With an empty notebook
And a box of colored pencils
The other is a mean, bitter, cynical,
Angry grown up with a mustache
But **** does he get things done
As he drags the little kid
Along behind him
By the collar of his shirt

they say the working man gets a good night's sleep
well I haven't much use for sleep
see, in this jungle of a world
you have to be sharp
your wits a finely honed machete
to cut through thick overgrowth
to reveal the salivating predators
waiting in ambush
so the old saying gets a little warped
everybody has to sleep once they're dead
and everybody has to die
these lines all have final destinations
so I'm trying to convert my train car
into a roaming idea factory
with somewhere by the open window in the corner
where I can kick my feet up and drink a cold one
these cigarettes and cups of coffee
are fighting valiantly to keep these eyes of mine from falling shut
but already I feel myself drifting as these words stream through me
flowing off to some distant stranger's dinner plate
my body is made of heavy wood
not much in the ways of joints and movement
but I beg you
to crack open my skull
and siphon out these silly little poems
from the swirling wreckage