we cross paths without seeing the same thing.
Ghosts facing each other through the speeding windows of passing cars
blur the line between reality and perception
and you realize that nobody is right
What if the red I see isn't...
The way I see it
we're all insane
it's why I know how to make you see what you're supposed to
while I've personally never seen it
I'ts why we obsess
and scream alone in empty hallways
riding down the street on a bicycle
quacking like a duck
I'm glad I'm my kinda crazy
and you should be too

everybody watch the **** out
there's a nineteen year old trying to get profound over here
it all started when I was kid
thinking
why am I not one of those poor bloated African kids on the TV?
why am I an English school boy sitting to close to a TV?
meaning
meaning
meaning
meaning that there has to be some reason for all of this
but I got older
dumber
jaded and bitter
and I think I've figured it all out
no really just hear me out
the meaning of all of this
from womb to tomb
is that there isn't one
deep,
right?
but life is like a cartoon fight
a cloud of dust projecting fist
boot
asterisks
wavy lines
and we're all in that melee
and we're all going to get our teeth kicked in
life's one tough sonofabitch
and it's been doing since before there was a before
my point being
you can't beat life
and you can't avoid it forever
all you can do is hope
that when that ball of cartoon extravagance has settled
you'll be clutching onto the things you need
the things you want
the things you love
and you'll still be able to stand back up

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 a rag tag bunch
who live on the bus bench
outside of my apartment window
some of them know me by
"Hey you White boy,
lemme get one of those beers"
or,
"Hey you White boy,
lemme get one of those smokes"
a lovely bunch
they drink all day
and all night
and never get on the bus
they talk
and yell
and fight
and speak of women
the beautiful fairer ***
they pass around *** wine
hidden from the cops
in brown paper bags
or black plastic
they know the end of the line approaches
and they don't
particularly care

I'm young,
and I don't really know
much about anything
I love my parents,
but let's be honest
genetics didn't give me
too much of a choice
I've thought that I'd loved girls
and maybe I did
how the **** do you ever know?
but I've been thinking on the subject
for some time now
debating if it even existed
and I think it has to
It's the only thing between us
and the end of all things
But it exists in simpler forms
love is the feeling you get
when you are so mad at her
that you could lay hands on her
but you never would,
you just don't have it in you
love is when
you come back to him
time after time
regardless of the ******* mistakes he makes
time after time
Love is when
the thought of them
spending time with somebody else
being consoled by somebody else
being loved by somebody else
makes you feel absolutely
sick to your stomach
but I think
that all love really boils down to
is saying yes
even though,
you know you should say no,
that is my understanding of love

there's those certain tales
which are older than any city
never ending, always growing
and every generation
has a brave few
who wish to give parts of themselves
to that thriving monstrosity.
each tale
gracefully
bluntly
violently
mockingly
holds the elements of humanity
and are laced with honest expressions.
each tale outliving their authors
and nobody can remember
their names or faces

it's a seductive habit
**** and cool
edgy and real
intelligent and spiritual
all encompassing
a suicide mission
we all have our own blood on our lips
and we use it
to leave messages
cries for help
damnations and manifestos
or maybe just
a silly little poem
we just don't want to be forgotten
we just want to be
a never ending tale

The clocks were counting down
10
9
8
7
All the way to 1
New Year's Eve
It was a matter of chance
Or was it?
You kissed me on the lips
It was just a peck
Near meaningless
But we were drunk.
Scratch that
i was drunk
You were too drunk
You said
just sit with me
And I did
Until you fell asleep
And I pretended
To not be that uncomfortable
Your body resting gently
Crushing the ever living hell out of my right arm
And I didn't mean to wake you
When I had to take my jacket off
I was hot but
I'm glad you woke up
Even for five minutes
Slightly smiling and very tired
I put my hands on your eyelids
And said
back to sleep
And that's just what we did
And it was great

You were standing there
so suddenly in front of me
in the dark, sweaty basement
where strobe lights broke through the fog like lightning
and digitally enhanced thunderclaps shook the support pillars
It was a surprise
you were alone
as was I
and in the midst of people seeking shelter in each other's bodies
it was only natural
I was the match
you the gasoline
lost track of time
then again, I was drunk
but I think you were too
But then we were outside in the cold
your arms wrapped around your frame
my arm draped easily over your shoulder
walking back to wherever it was we were going
we shed our jackets and made pillows
on our backs
shoulder to shoulder
I turned my head to the left and said,
"Nice to meet you"

Night owl
on the prowl
for nights untold
under the moon
I feel at home
peaceful and calm
It listens like no other
to the shrieks and howls
and cast no stone filled gaze
I'm a night owl
and I don't always know
what prey I'm looking for
but that doesn't mean
I'm not out hunting

back leaning against the tub
forehead resting in forearms
on the toilet seat
just waiting for the ***** to come
but ******* wouldn't you know
it's taking its **** time
the cold of the tiles
feels good
on the bare skin of the thighs
and the sweats come out
bucket after bucket
Lean further into the tub
wouldn't it be nice to sleep there?
to wrap up in a blanket
a taco of heart racing
too drunkenness
hoping to find a land
where they could finally be free
hoping to find a land
with the comfort of
a bathroom floor

Should I be good?
I know I should
but at the same time
these people wade through nightmares like babies
and they can't handles the red and black of this world
doors opening on scenes of horror
but it's what we are used to
the endless sound of knuckles on cheek bones
the sound of fist meeting flesh
violence, danger, rage
we're all hooked on a non familial story
and we eat it up like fish eat bait.
all I'm saying is once the sun descends
carry a tight visage of toughness with you
because once the night time creatures come out to play,
you're never safe

And from his lips leapt silence
silence which says so much
beneath the layers
of its dead nothingness
And in his head rests madness
like a tire fire
he breathes out black toxic smoke
And in his heart
he screams out
Won't somebody help me,
can't you see I'm drowning here?
but they don't
whether it's pride
or arrogance
or whether those two things
are one in the same
his silence shrouds him
Nobody hears your silence

somebody at work
said who'd want to be normal
her eyes glinting behind
her ray band sunglasses
and her car wash uniform
and her Toms shoes
but she was right to a point
who would
when normal means being the middle six?
**** that I want to be all three of them
an angel of bad taste and baggy clothes
and the best people I've ever met
never met normal
going home on the last bus
with his briefcase
and suit
and his dial tone voice
no the best people I've met
took normal out back
and Old Yeller'd the *******
they are the people who would fly into the sun
if only their wings weren't held together with wax
Me?
I'm the subterranean rodent
taking para-scope Polaroids
hoping to get a glimpse of the good life

to preach insanity
screaming blanks in the streets
twisted limbs
hang from twisted bodies
malnourished and dangerous
the edge people
they live life
balanced on their tiptoes
in a bathtub
choking on their sins
sins which they didn't commit
an old rocking chair
sits in a wooded clearance
forgotten and mossy
hopes and dreams
stripped layer by layer
until the marrow is all gone
to preach madness
that's what they want from me
to call us mad men
but there's no such thing
there
is no
such thing

Hey guys. Thanks for reading my stuff, and if this is the first time you have heard from me, I hope you will read my stuff. Lately I've been working on a sort of pet project of mine. An online space where young writers can showcase their work. So I started this blog called The Lost and Found (hbaxter94.com). But I don't want this site to be just my work. I've read a lot of good poets on here, as well as other places, and I wanted them to be a part of it. So I am hoping to get some submissions. Poetry, Fiction, Non-fiction - it doesn't matter. (Fiction and non fiction pieces under 3000 words please) If you write honest, powerful stuff which is relevant to growing up in today's post-modern post-internet era culture then I'd love to hear from you. Message me on here or email me at hbaxter94@gmail.com
I hope to hear from some of you wonderful people
           -Thanks Harry J. Baxter

I've been in a writing slump lately. I don't know why. I've been focusing on being a real human being again - getting back into school, being more sober, working more, making more money, working out, being more social. But whenever I find the time to write I just feel tired and want to sit on my *** watching tv. I don't know, this is just a rant I guess. I'm going to try to work on it. Keep scribbling guys- Harry J. Baxter

The feeling was that of hide 'n seek
Breath slowling under a light layer of leaves
In shadow and foliage of some great tree
Not getting caught
I started smoking after the first cigarette I stole
Right under my parents' noses
That feeling of lightning ripping through me
That was what I was hooked on
Not getting caught

Duck beach
Drinking on the the sand
Fleeing corolla
With 30 beers
Finished before we made it back to duck
Thrown in cop cars
Blowing over a .2
Not getting arrested
Living like champions
Tattoos on the 4th
Which will last forever
Experiences with strangers
Nothing better

"I shouldn't be drinking really,
my family is full of alcoholics
so I try not to drink"
It was the first thing she had said to me
then she downed her ***** cranberry
and smiled devilishly at me with her eyes
a demon girl for sure
best to keep my distance
but I'm coming down from the mushrooms
and I'm well on my way to being **** drunk
So I asked,
"what's your name sweet thing?"
and she smiled
and shook her head
"my lips are sealed"
then she kissed me on the cheek
fill up my cup
because teenagers and sobriety
haven't been on good terms for a while
and yeah it was kind of annoying
when you called me Harry Potter
but at the same time
I could already tell
that soon enough we would be sharing a bed
and sure enough
a couple minutes later
you whispered in my ear
"let's go to bed"
and we did
and it was my first time
and it was more than a little awkward and clumsy
and I'm sure it wasn't good
and to be perfectly honest
there were so many drugs inside of my system
that I never quite made it to the finish line
but I was relieved
because in high school it was a big deal
which I had finally gotten out of the way
and tossed to the side
to rot in the gutter
and I never saw the demon girl again
never even learned her real name
and if you asked me today if it was worth it
well I guess I'd say no
but deep down
I'd say yes

The clocks all struck midnight
but that’s okay when you work nights
for a pocket full of singles
and a paycheck which never seems quite enough
come buy the painkiller
the rain won’t stop falling
until you do
and at times when grey cloud curtains
part to show you that
heaven isn’t
you’ll be glad for that liquid encouragement
and those knee pads
because this parking lot is gravel
and that small lot will never be a park
where kids can play without stepping on
the shards of broken hail mary prayers
for all the times the hands pass go
and collect their 2000 sea shells
not much has changed

frozen lakes
leafless trees
blank faces
numb
everything numb
self medicated
desensitized
he misses the feeling of tears
he misses the feeling
disconnected
and the life boats
are slowly going out of sight
people, people everywhere
with no thoughts to think
he looks for something
which can crack the shell

It was 5:30 when he woke up
a text message alarm clock
vibrated into consciousness
"still on for the beach?"
is what it read
but he wasn't sure
if his head was still on
yesterday clings to today
but promises are promises
made to be broken

so he met Kyle
at the beach house
down the road
they got beach chairs
and enough cigarettes
to make his mother faint

They walked to the beach
not another soul
as far as their eyes would take them
the sun bounced off the ocean
stabbing their eyes
discarded useless sunglasses
he climbed into the water
green liquid ice
virginal purity
which washed the slate clean
a long list of forgotten memories

A hammock sways lazily
pushed ever so gently by the ocean breeze
where the grass fades to grains of sand
about a stone's throw away from the dock
where he fished with his father
where his father had yelled at him
for throwing back the fish
which he had left to suffocate on the dock
we could've eaten that
I'd prefer Howard's Pub
There is a coffee shop
with a vast lawn
and a small porch beneath an old wooden arcade
they sold good coffee,
and worked for their tips,
There are endless beaches
which most tourists never see
hidden beaches hiding behind signs marked:
private
and he got ****** on almost all of them
And there was a night
****** off of whiskey and Johnny Cash
were he laid atop a picnic table
drunkenly trying to count the stars
breathing in unison with the cosmos.
and there were pretty locals
riding around on bikes
the kind that you have to pedal backwards
to work the brakes,
and there is music
endless amateurs plying their crafts
to anybody who had a spare moment
leathery, salty, sticky, sweaty beach people
people who live in small shacks
which they made by hand,
who live off the fish in the Atlantic
and the good will of good people,
they said there was a lost colony or something there
and I think they still are there
a special breed of people
who have no idea what a franchise fast food restaurant is
people who live at a slower pace
than the ticking hands of all of the big money clocks
people who live in a place
where the Pelicans reign supreme
the people of Ocracoke Island

She is starlight
Fighting for the moon's attention
As she moves in sync
With the peace of this earth
Sparking fires In the fields of my imagination
She coaxes me forward
Towards some beautiful disaster
My eyes caught in her gaze
As I float among the wreckage of my ship

She is a healer
Who never healed her own wounds
So she gives and gives
An leaves just the smallest trail of blood
She lives in a house full
Of punched out funhouse mirrors
With a bottle in one hand
And her not so innocent good intentions
In the other
She makes me feel like some dumb little kid
Riding his bike way too fast down a hill
No helmet, just a grin

The way she is so full of that nervous energy
You get the feeling that she is always moving
Kinetic
With eyes closed and music playing
The way she seems like nobody is watching her
She fixed her broken acoustic
By taking my heart strings
And strumming them against pretty fantasies
Just because she missed the sound

On this earth many do wander
Whether she has a flower in her hair,
Gum in her mouth,
A cute 2nd hand outfit
With cute first hand scars to match
Out there -
Walking with the weight of their clipped wings
Resting heavily on their back -
Are the fallen angels
And I wish I knew how
I might teach them to fly again

you made some choices
maybe the only choice you made
was to let somebody else make all the choices
but you are excellent at finger pointing
and complacency
even better at keeping your mouth shut
great at getting ******
weekends don't mean the same to you as they do to others
you spent your only free time getting higher or lower than the others
pop a pill
take a shot
or burn a fatty
we're all committing suicide in some way
we're all born under the death sentence of a clock which only runs backwards
time is limited and is not something we get back in change from a cash register
or in a tip from some ******* customer who is so much more important than you
the kids are all smiling and laughing with ease
and you hate them for it
jealousy is one hell of a vice
and on those nights were you gripped the pillow tight to your chest just not wanting to be alone
you always are
and your alarm clock is always set for 6:45
in the AM
and you don't get home until 5:30
PM region
you give and give and give and wait and wait and wait
just like they told you to
because God forbid you try to take it
make it break it fake it or forsake it
just get back in line
the bouncer will let you know when you can come in
a 25 to life cover charge required,
of course,
and put your lighters and rags and spirits away
this won't be the day you crack
and burn that palace of mediocrity to the ground
paste that big plastic plaster smile on your face
grimace because it's about to come out of you
"Thank you sir. Have nice day. We appreciate you business."

The thing about growing up is
you never asked to be a grown up
in fact
you never asked to be anything
not even to be born
and yeah yeah yeah
I know
your parents gave you a life with potential
a roof
and three square meals maybe
but they also gave you
expectations to avoid resentment
to burn brighter
and maybe you prefer the dark
or to spark up whatever drug you can get your hands on
they would really like it if you were responsible
but it is that possible when the thought of letting people down
has you not getting out of bed until 1pm
I'd rather see you smile than frown
but this clown is running out of jokes about how patience kind of sounds like patients
and this bottle isn't doing the trick
and the tricks I work to make this all come together
now seems a whole lot less important
the apathy can sneak up on you
guerrilla commando trekking through the jungle of your doubts
it was one hundred degrees when I went to work
and storming when I left
****, did I forget to close the windows on my car?
are my phone, cigs, and lighter still breathing?
am I?

poetry started out as venting
became something more
something fingers can never quite grasp
the word always on the tip of my tongue
so I always lose the plot halfway through
and end up rambling like the drunk closing down the corner stool
do my words fall on deaf ears
or do they spark the ignition of emotional explosions
so big they measure on the Richter scale?
Time will tell
I only hope that by the time
time catches up with me to tell me
I will be gone
far away
off on my next big thing

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

Maybe I'm just an *******
but I kinda wish
people would die
before they hit sixty
I know I hope I do
because from what I've seen
You only get more bitter as you go along
and people are always going on about
how children are the future
but it seems that people
try to hold on to the future for as
long as possible
but maybe I'm just being cynical
I don't really know
Just putting it out there

The air is clear tonight
I am relaxed
overeager hooligans
are shooting fireworks
into the face of the muggy
night sky
The light summer breeze
smells like her
my head
is swimming with words
the right one always on the tip
of my tongue
the right one always out of reach
a family on the sidewalk
out front of their house
the women fat and weathered
the men unkempt and wiry
small children running around
laughing
and a disabled man sitting in the open door
of a car which blares bluegrass
and I am yet to walk the hills
where does this trail lead?
or better yet,
what does any of this mean?
blah blah blah
yaddah yaddah yaddah
tonight,
none of that matters

the streets are comfortably empty right now
silent save for the trash blowing down the streets
the murmur of an engine and the slapping of tires
but danger lurks off screen
a constant constant
men with nothing to lose but their desperation
and still the air is sober and calming
my head is racing and I am losing
I didn’t even show up on time
we all want to think we make the decisions
we all balk at responsibility
we have excuses
faces to point fingers at
I came upon a homeless man sleeping in a doorway
by almost tripping upon his pair of emaciated, ratty legs
he was sleeping
an absurd notion in his situation
just right there on the street
in some strange doorway
beneath an array of indifferent stars and galaxies
I stood there watching him for a moment
which felt like hours
and I don’t think this man dreams
I think for him a night of safe sleep
in a doorway
is his waking dream
Turning around I left him there
and the quiet streets of the city I love so dearly
seemed a lot less quiet

Endless cars rush by the window
in flashes of silver, black, and white
and almost like clockwork
the bus stops just outside
in regular intervals
and endless people
hobble by the window
in flashes of middle, lower, and no class
and outside the addicts
try to turn the very air they breathe
into gun metal blue
puffs of cigarette smoke
and inside people read newspapers
and try to talk,
to think,
to work,
over the rough din
of coffee machines competing with
beautiful jazz trumpets and saxophones
and there's an old black man
and a slightly less old white man
they are friends, and they sit next to me
talking about money and work
and how they wonder
if Joe ever moved into his new place
and it made me wonder too
the old black man
has his eye on an old
antique Spanish coin
he's just waiting for the price to go down
and there are people
their faces obscured by the screens of their laptops
who flutter between
their work and social media
there's an energy about the place
that we all seem to share
as if we are all a part of a bigger community
even if we don't recognize it
just a rag tag group
of transient people
who don't really have
anywhere else to be

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

It was the sort of day
that equates to the last day
December **** it
why is it sixty and humid enough to swim circles through the air?
yet the grey mist suffocates the horizon
and the light mist tastes like a city
the cat standing on driveways of crumbling mansions
running with fur puffed up from wild dogs snarling at choke chain collars
The trees are all hiding their heads in the sand
and each building passed decays in decadence
everybody hungry enough to do something they might regret
men and women taking shelter in zoo enclosures
to avoid the jungle cats which stalk the streets beneath blood red hunters' moons
It was the kind of day to make me want to see the next

Lenny Bruce
herald to the funny man
ground breaking pioneer
of laughter as medicine
only back then
they thought his medicine
was bad juju
they arrested him for speaking
like a fascist pig slaughter house
once you've slept on a feathered bed
you can't go back
to sleeping on the floor
he died after getting some bad H
and they took his clothes off
posed his body
and took shameful
pornographic photos
look what freedom of speech gets you

Bill Hicks
leading audiences
on a funny roller coaster
on the way to enlightenment
he defended those with no voice
"remember America,
you're free to do exactly
what the **** they tell you"
pancreatic cancer took him from us
in the midst of his 30's
his only crime
was burning too brightly

the people who show us
how silly everything is
those are the ones we ****
Jesus
Malcolm X
King
Lenny
Hicks
Wright
and we let the devils run amok
so long as they are pinching pennies
from our pockets
to give to the dark shadow of Moloch
maybe it's time
to laugh our way to freedom

I met an old man today
I was trying to write in the sun
and was sitting downwind from him
and judgung by the smell
I thought he may have soiled himself
He was sitting with his wife
and they had about fifteen teeth between them
he heard me speak
and asked me If I was from England
yeah, I moved here seven years ago
we're from New York
that's cool, I've always wanted to go
Oh you have to,
There's no city like it in the world
So why are you in Richmond?
New York Is too **** expensive
I remember one time
I was held up by a .38
the poor ******* didn't know
I only had 75 cents in my pocket
Let me give you some advice, kid
If you ever go to New York
Never look up
only tourists look up
you gotta keep on looking forward
oh yeah
and if you have a ***** pack around your waist
and a camera around your neck
you might just get your *** kicked
oh and if you ever get lost In New York
all you gotta do is ask a mailman
they're like the kings of the city
they know everything
I wished him a nice day
told him It had been a pleasure talking to him
and walked home
only looking forward
because I'm no tourist

You said I was the best,
no really,
you said that
As you drunkenly horse pet my face
then I said something
nowhere near as funny as I thought it was
but you laughed anyway
laughed as I told you I wanted to see your face on the other side of that glass pane
oh but you'll come visit me right?
of course I will say I'll visit you
but between you and me
plane tickets are expensive and I've always been a man of leisure
No lazy is not the right word
it's definitely leisure
you were scared
God knows why
as scared as I am when the time comes when I see you in person
a moving statue to the things I hold close
you said I was the best,
believe it or not,
as you drunkenly horse pet my face
and I said
only when it comes to you

Let'***** the road
my partner in crime
lets load up our guns
burn our I.D.'s
and hop on the first
freight train headed south
to Mexican tequila
and the baking sun and sand
living life in flashes of violence
like lightening pitch forks in the sky
streaking across the barren places
which are yet to be tamed by man
we'll gun down sheriffs and posses
and **** cheap mescal
and gulf water
and dust
keeping each other safe
in the low din of the early morning
as an orange fire flickers against
burning out to embers,
so vulnerable to the wind,
against all odds still burning
and we will wake before the sun
and find somewhere
where we no longer
feel the need to run

You are on the wrong side of thirty
You the white cliff of Dover
the passing of days the waves of the ocean
chipping away at you
wearing you down
You are on the wrong side of thirty
and maybe you’re starting to notice
your fleeing hairline
the creaking which starts in your ankles
and connects your milestones
to knees and back and neck
maybe you don’t see the point of getting out of bed today
or tomorrow
maybe your wife has started to let herself go
after the kid came
love handles and cellulite thighs
sagging **** and a birds nest atop her wrinkled face
You resent the kid
because for him
the world is so open
full of choices made on his fickle whim
while you wither away
giving every part of yourself
so one day he can be on the wrong side of thirty
and you can rest easily
on the wrong side of a grave
a wry smile stretching the skin of your corpse
*It’s your turn now you ungrateful *******

most of my generation
will probably be dead
within seventy years
which is a sober thought
which some would find depressing
but I've always found it comforting
the time we have here is in the end
not very long and not very meaningful
again,
people tend to think of this
as a dark way to look at the world
and I can never get them to understand
the true beauty of the fact
because what it means is
regardless of what we do in life
we have the freedom
to live it on our own terms
no expectations
no responsibilities
no nothing,
except for what we choose
because nothing feels as good
as a life lived
on your own terms
and not anybody elses

I hope that I can be
an oaken door
standing wide open
the wind rushing inside
causes the shutters to clap
against the brick walling
and sometime people will leave
and their absence is cold
but maybe someone else
will come in
bringing even more
than the previous resident
and my curtains will be open
so that I may see all outside of me
and so they might
see all that is inside of me
all I can ever hope to be
is open

We popped ourselves up to the ideas of pop culture
and adopted the looks of orphans
spray paint and swear words
too loud overcrowded mischief
the misgivings of being too young
children throwing tantrums over ice cream
calendars fell and the montage ended
we were flung across the globe as dandelion seeds
weeds to be weeded
I was playing tight rope on the fence
and fell on the side with no safety net
skinned knees and black eyes
the stoners the dropouts the thugs and **** ups
***** and *******
******* and *******
these were just words
deactivated model replicas pointed at the head
college student with a chip on the shoulder
and the one they called the jester
and the one they called the king
with return addresses tattooed on arms
the awake became the living dream
no time for nights of nightmares
enough scare to go around
pack another GB and cry some more
my blood is ink dripping from the pen
yours drips from thighs and forearms
you want to be the new thing
you forgot what the original means
and burned all of your dictionaries a while ago
check my *** cheek
the origin is there
UK/USA
now all the lights are off
and the moon hangs fat, sacrificial in the sky
do you want the moon? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the moon.

it's funny
how much I revere you
how much I want to dot you eyes and cross your teeth
to all of my friends I sound like a corny school speaker
ideals, ideals,
ideas of fighting some good ******* fight
but what have I won?
what have I fought for?
isolation?
anonymity?
I dropped out of school for you
threw myself to your will
drank what you gave me
smoked with no complaints
and I've never felt so much of a need for validation
and don't act like i'm the bad guy
you're so fickle that I can't tell if you're coming
or going right out that door for some other schmuck
with less to say and a pair of skinny jeans
I'll drink you off tonight
******* out of my system
let go of you for a while
before I come crawling back to you in the morning

We're all sick
just trying to find some medicine
and it comes in all forms
and they are all demons
drink
smoke
pills
powder
*****
violence
pain
God,
if you buy into that sort of jargon
I think God left us
about the time we started talking about profit margins
and gains and losses
and bonuses
and bail outs
but we take these drugs
in an attempt to get high enough
to catch a solitary glimpse of heaven
before we plunge back into hell
The devil,
He's laughing
because he knows we won't escape
we've been given up to damnation
and that's **** fine with me
let the world burn
the people massacred
and all the while
I'll stand on the brink
of the end of all things
laughing
because the only thing I truly know
is that the only way to survive hell
is to out devil the devils
So you go on complaining
and the world will go on not listening
because the world doesn't understand *******
only brute force and steel

the rain falls down in small volleys
they call it daily showers
the temperature rises to near sixties
uncharacteristically ominous
rising to a foul stagnation
and the fog rolls in to obscure sight
it's hard to see but so far ahead of you
when you're out there wandering

It's time to pack **** up
When that bad habit
Becomes dependency
When dependency
Becomes addiction
It's time to pack up
But I forgot my suitcase
So I'll take another beer

I sometimes feel bad for writing happy poems
or silly poems
or love poems
It seems as if people only want a pained poet
like a sad clown
they want tears to make themselves feel better
the selfish little....
but I grew out of my metal head phase
a couple of years ago
and I'm sorry to say
but sometime this life is just
positively ******* awesome
okay okay I get it
a lot of the time it isn't
but that's just as awesome
how many good books have you read
where everything went fine?
we're the stars of our own movies
sometimes we take issue with the script
or get ******* at the director
but ultimately
the performance is up to us
and at this very moment
I feel like Brad Pitt ******* it
so you may have to wait a while longer
for the return of the pained poet

I used to love all of the drama
all of the *******
I was never a part of it
always off in the corner
watching,
observing,
unknown
the "struggles" my friends encountered
"My boyfriend is a ******"
oh no, please tell me more,
"He likes other girls"
you don't say
"My best friend didn't pay,
for the **** I loaned him"
what a *****
you should probably fight him
go ahead,
feed me what I need,
I won't tell
I have always been best at
being a blank canvas

I don't think I'll make it
until I know how to not fake it
until I learn how to break it
until I let them take it
the it factor
Harry J Baxter
because unless I can give me
then I'm just like that tree
that fell in the forest
through the safety net
with nobody around
to hear it yet
A sick dog without a vet
without a vestment of hope
will they like this? nope
is this really you?
your where why and who?
because people have
great ******* detectors
and unless you're the director
nobody is buying tickets
no more white pickets
see that bucket? kick it
like  a mangy mutt
kick it right in the ****
these rhymes are simple
I never had much skill
never got such a thrill
from fitting into a style
maybe in a little while
but I don't want to hear it
I just don't give a ****
if these long lines of words
leave your eyes feeling hurt
and your poetic sensibilities inert
It never stops
and I might take a shot
at making this poem
be needlessly long
an ugly song
sung by an ugly swan
or is it a duckling?
who knows? who cares?
It just leaves me scared
to think that I'm not
who I am
when I write

Paper runs the world
it stands off
just behind the curtain
counting the roses
taking in the standing ovation
a knowing smirk
beneath hollow eyes
Paper is a vampire
pale and white
it tastes your blood
and takes it from you
drop by drop
an empty husk
to be tossed aside
Paper is a politician
a smooth talking
travelling salesman
come and get your snake oil
you wont live forever
but you will have a lot of stuff
a tribute to your vast
amounts of paper
Paper is green
an embodiment of pestilence
it is the monster
underneath your mattress
or in your closet
locked away in that safe
Some try to live without it
the victim was found bled dry
in a cold empty room
he would leave bread crumbs out
for the mice
that's one hell of a paper cut
and the audience laughs
that's what we're paying them for
all of the precious paper
ruling the world

looming steel words of blunt violence
strikes at spinal chords
like a hammer strikes the sword
and with all of your vertebrata ground to dust
and every disc slipped
and you no longer feel the electric smoke signals of your nerves
is how you know the words were powerful
beautiful
disgusting
purposeful.
a good poem should hit like a snake bite