Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
how does one
just pick a flower
from a full bloom

how does one like
just one thing
of this divine spring

love every flower
say the bird and the bee
this is nature. no monogamy
A cut here.
A cut there.
I am in need of such repair.

A tear on the left.
A tear on the right.
Oh, so many sleepless nights.

One pill..
Two pills..
Three pills more.
Oh, what the heck I'll just take 24.

Mommy?
Daddy?
Anyone there?
I'm starting to get real real scared.

I made a mistake.
Now it's to late.
I'll see you later, at heavens gate.
i've written a grip of confessional love poems on beverage napkins
strung them together with a dissociative understanding of time (like dental floss)
     wrung them out and hung them up to ripen on the line

mama always said not to name things that are only going to die
and i lied to her face when i told her i wouldn't

          i gave it a name

and i was going to send it your way
as if maybe seeing it all spelled out
would make you change your plans
     and stay

alas
     i'm quite certain that i blew my nose on the winning sonnet
and burried the rest with what was left of my tears

now i don't even write
     i just scream at the stars all night
as if my life's become a sailor-song
and this desert
          my decaying cabaret
this is total ****. ironic, really. i sat down in a futile attempt to illustrate the way that sometimes, saying exactly what you want to, just doesn't read well enough. i'll never really be capable of articulating the pain of these passed two months, and if i could, it'd read like ****. like this.
they've been sitting here since the night Christ died
     sharing stale conversation
     and lukewarm beer
Shoutout to my favorite pub-house, the park lounge. to the old-timers who keep me company, and the ladies who never let my cup run dry. I love you guys.
.    ironic
really

          the brain stem controls involuntary movement
     and lies just inside
the flesh that i can't help but check
for the glass and pebbles
     you left behind
 Dec 2014 Jaxson Albin
JR Potts
I gave you serpentine kisses in the morrow,

wore two faces when I confessed my love

but we lay together in the dotage of the day

and you are the only person I can think of.
 Dec 2014 Jaxson Albin
curlygirl
A poet wants...
    Someone who adores everything they've ever written
    (because it means they adore us)
But a poet needs...
      Someone who's honest, who tells us when it's not our best work
      (because it makes the good work even more special)
A poet wants...
    Someone to hold close every night. Someone who loves to have poems breathed into their collarbone while they sleep
     (because it inspires long love poems)
But a poet needs...
      Someone who spends a few nights away. Someone who forgets to call occasionally
       (because it inspires real poems)
A poet wants...
    Everything to be perfect. To be able to edit and rewrite life as it happens, so we never have to feel pain
    (because then we wouldn't have to feel embarrassed about the unshared poems in our journals)
But a poet needs...
    Pain. Imperfection. Mistakes. Life.
     (because it allows us to write to feel to forgive to learn. To bleed out our heartbreak with ink and parchment. To reach out to each other with words)
All because a poet thrives on the difference between *want
and **need

— The End —