What happens when the good girl goes bad
like the spoiled milk she left out?
Because I couldn't seem to get up.
I think it was something about acknowledging that I'm alive, I'm here.
Wouldn't it all be easier if I wasn't?

When the good girl goes bad
because she worked her *** off on that paper and only got a C.

When the good girl goes bad
because the world doesn't treat her right,
but I guess it must because that's
how come I'm the good girl.
Not my depressed sister sitting in her room;
not my other sister running around, destroying everything I had to work for;
most definitely
not my other sister who always seemed to be your favorite but is now smashing plates in our backyard,
'cause I guess that's what happens if you get too close to you.

When the good girl goes bad,
you get angry because
I'm supposed to be your perfect child
not supposed to be
your ***** up child
your lonely child
your lazy child
your anxious child
not supposed to be
your good for nothing child
your dysfunctional child
your doesn't give a **** about anything anymore child.
why don't I ******* give a **** about anything anymore?

When the good girl goes bad
your life falls apart,
because clearly
you had enough to deal with already,
because clearly
this is all my fault,
because clearly
you don't have the time to face your good girl
and
because clearly
that's all on me.

When the good girl goes bad
because you left her out on the counter all those years, sitting there to rot.
And though I know that you can't waste your time putting it away, 'cause you never cared for it anyway,
maybe you shouldn't have bought the milk if you didn't want to drink it.
And I know the milk should take care of itself
but I tried and that only works for a couple of years
before the good girl gone bad falls far off the counter, spills across the floor,
and the only thing left is to throw that nasty old milk away
because your bread, eggs, oil, etc. need your attention
and it's just too late for the good girl.

When the good girl goes bad
because she never asked to be the good girl
or maybe I did, I don't really remember,
but not like this.
I just wanted to be loved
but little did I know that
the good girl just sits there
keeping herself afloat,
but the boat can't guide itself if it wasn't given eyes.
The boat can't patch itself if you keep telling it its still brand new
when its really old, broken, and covered in holes.
You shouldn't put a boat in the water if you know its going to sink,
but I guess you only really need a couple good boats
so you can just toss the good girl.

When mama's little good girl goes bad,
she feels guilty
because she was told she'd always be
the good girl.
Though, its hard being the good girl when you don't have any windshield wipers for your tears at night.
But the tears at night aren't supposed to exist
because
I'm still mama's mother ******' good girl,
just...
please pretend I haven't gone bad.

Last night I hit a cat.

I've never hit an animal with my car before.
I've been in a car that has hit an animal,
but it's different when you're the one driving.

It was late. It was drizzling.
I was coming home from work.
My right eye was blurry.

I live in the country off of a gravel road.
I was two minutes from home,
at the top of the big hill.

It shot out from the dark brush on the right.
They teach you in driver's ed not to swerve
if an animal comes at your car.

I didn't swerve. I wish I had.
It's different when you're the one driving.
I felt it, in my bones. In my heart.

I heard it, too, over the roar of violins from my radio.
I coasted twenty feet; threw the car in park.
I put on my flashers, since that's what you should do.

I haven't cried that hard since we put my own cat down.
I didn't know I had it in me to sob that viscerally.
I think I'll feel that cat in my bones until I'm dead.

And eventually, you will meet someone,
out of the hundreds of people you’ve met in your life.
She’s ordinary and does the same things like everyone.
She wakes up in the morning, fix herself a cup of coffee,
does household chores, work her way out through the day,
drinks wine, read thick novels, and sleeps soundly at night.
But she will turn your world upside down.

This seemingly ordinary human being who is like
any other human being suddenly starts to become
the only human being in your life.
And you start to ask questions.

Like, why her? Why now?
Why does your heart beats faster when
she’s around and slows down when she’s not?
Why do you dream of her? Why do you see a future with her?
Why is your mind filled with the image of her face,
her warm smile, the curves of her body,
the roundness of her *******, the thickness of her thighs?

Why is her laugh the most beautiful music you’ve ever heard?
Why do you feel wonderful and glad when she says your name?

Suddenly, everything just seems to lighten up.
You are entering uncharted territories and
it feels so good to get lost in some place
that isn’t just built for sleeping and dreaming,
isn’t just four-walled and filled with furniture.

Home, more than buildings, houses,
and four-walled rooms, can be a pair of arms
around your body, like a second skin on you,
a birthmark you can never get rid of,
a memory you will never forget.

i contend
you're my best friend
through the good ****
and poems writ
and a whole lot more
through the bad times
and bad rhymes
and remedial chores
despite all the words i speak
and all the feelings i leak
despite how much i bug you
to hear "i love you too"
and how much i mention
i need too much attention
you're still here
you keep me near
sometimes i wonder
when i'll make a blunder
i wonder when comes the day
that i drive you away
but no matter how much i complain
i never drive you insane
you haven't once said you're mad
it's never my fault when you're sad
and i don't know quite how this is true but it is
so i won't look at gift duck in beak because his
**** is what gives us the gift don't you see
that your **** is so great and so wonderful to me
and i'm sorry but thinking of your **** got distracting
but instead of deleting this line or redacting
it i have decided it's best to include
it because it gives this poem character and some attitude
but perhaps it is best to get back on track
now that i've talked about below your lower back
anyway what was i saying, oh yes
i know it's not news but i must confess
that i love you way more than i could ever impress
just with words or a poem or even a book
more than puns or kiss or a pointed cute look
i love you, dear
not just for your rear
but for your soul
just to be clear
it's light and it's warm and it's wonderfully pure
i know that i'm certain, i'm one hundred percent sure
you're the one
no joke this time, not even a pun
you're the love of my life
and maybe one day my grocery shopping partner

I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway
Because life is an absurd struggle in
An impersonal universe, thus rendering
All efforts ultimately meaningless,
If that's the case, why shouldn't
I write bad poetry? If we are to, as
Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy"
Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical
Boulder of frustrated creativity up the
Mountain of artistic expression, in the
Misplaced hope that just maybe,
One of these times, instead of rolling
Back down and adding one more instance,
To that large pile of abject failures that
I've accumulated throughout my life,
It will stay at the top, rendering me
Successful, and making one of these
Jumbled word salad tangents into
Something that's actually worth reading.

...probably not gonna happen, though.