I’m Smith of Stoke aged sixty odd
I’ve lived without a dame all my life
And wish to God
My dad had done the same.

You
My favorite word
playing in my ears
like my favorite song
on repeat.

You
could mean so much
to so many different people.
To me,
it means the way you laugh
at your own jokes;
The way you sleep
making soft, short breaths
and I can listen
to each and every one;
The way your skin feels
when I run my hand along
your soft and delicate body;
The way you talk
as if every word is important
even though you think it’s pointless
(But it’s not);
The way you worry
about everyone and everything;
The way you cry,
rarely,
but when you do it’s heavy
and needed
and all I want to do is hug you;
But most of all,
the way you love
and care
about everyone.

You
meaning so many things
that this poem would be
everlasting.

You
day and night
I can’t get
my mind off of you.

You,
someone who will
never* love me
the way I love you.
So now I hope
for someone to love,
someone to love me
the way I loved you
(and still do).
But oh, how I wish
how I wish
it could be you.

2.18 AM

The couple next door are shouting and throwing things, the cries of children can be heard
I'm awake from my uncomfortable sleep

A middle-aged lady is sobbing on the bench, palms over her face
Thinking why is love so cheap

Almost unconscious, the brown eyed girl stares at her wrist on the bathroom floor
Maybe she have cut too deep

The heartbroken freshman stood at the border of a mountain *****
Not caring that it is steep

As her phone lights up, she buries herself in the blanket
Ignoring the beep

2.19 AM

I'm lost in my thoughts, wondering
Why can't people just be happy for a second?

little tike,
kite thread,
strung out
pulling hands, body, fear
into sky, clouds, air,

beyond

chicken skin chill
wind shiver cold
fear

stop! mama! scream

little older now,
kites, dreams, birds, feathers
flights, mountain crags
song, soar

mama, now, screams
rolling, plywood floor
no kite, big hand man
grab, spit, roar

tears heave breath
face, mama hands
cry, side, no more
said to floor

metal fireplace
hot, don't touch,
arrow poke fire,
heavy hurt stick
**** big hand man
make mama scream
stop thumping body
slap, flesh, red burn

heavy arrow stick
fall down, thump
face, floor

big hand man
take, this or that
hot scrap belly
bone, angry kite
throw living-room
bed, heavy hands
burn bones, dreams
eyes

morning light
mama scoops
legs, arms, teddy

"we're getting out alright"

*subject matter partially stolen from http://hellopoetry.com/-peachy/

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.