There's an autistic guy
sitting in the booth next to me,
he works in a different zone,
but they keep piling loads
of meticulous **** on him
& he does it lickity split
with a smile on his face.
Who knew he'd be
so proficient.

Funny, it's no joke
how the rest of my
coworkers whine
when they don't
get their smoke break
with so much
of their work
left to do.

Time is precious,
so short
when you're
on the road
squeezing
poetic snippets
between boring meetings
with non-poets
who drink designer coffees
& wear Armani.

It drives me bananas.

She doesn't know you like I do.
She doesn't know the real you.
The you that has a cute little birthmark just above your right elbow.
The you that has scars trailing up and down your left arm
from those times where your world was spinning so fast,
you just couldn't handle it.
The you that is beautiful without even trying.
The you that gets drunk every once in a while, loses control and goes insane.
The you that has adorable toes.
The you that has that tattoo on your left shoulder to show
that you don't settle for anything less than what you deserve.
The you that always has to shower the morning after ***.
The you that once sat in front of an oncoming car
speeding towards you,
at 75 miles per hour,
because you didn't think you were worth living for.
The you that picks at your nails with your teeth.
The you that has to vigorously brush your teeth after making love.
The you that is searching for a person to make a home out of and lay your heart in.
The you that bats his eyelashes and blushes easily when pretty girls brush past him.
The you that is 17 years old and still hasn't started shaving,
because your parents no longer trust you with sharp objects.
The you that once played the sweetest melody my ears have ever heard,
but stopped when you found out that Mozart had never found love.
The you that just wants reassurance that all of this mayhem and chaos,
is worth living for.
She doesn't know you like I do.
And I know that nothing is guaranteed in life,
but baby,
I promise you,
that she doesn't have a **** clue who the real you is.
She doesn't know you like I do.

When the hopes
Are dead with the pallid leaves
And autumn hits on the back of mind
And eyes roll to find the remedy
For life needs some light to breathe
God sends spring, the survivor
Then white shawl It stretches out
And spills showers to cure paralyse
A new  birth on earth life takes
Where breeze plays on swinging strings
And raindrops dance on our floors

Sometimes I wonder if my first mistake in loving you was getting to actually know you.
Know you like the back of my hand,
And then realizing just now,
That there is the tiniest freckle in that wrinkly area between my thumb and pointer finger
And I have been alive and barely breathing for 14 years but I never noticed that speck.
Or if my first mistake in loving you was
Introducing you to my friends as the boy I was talking to at 4 am on school nights
And the boy that I had just promised I was "done with" 2 days ago
At Elizabeth's house because I saw you kissing Karly behind the bleachers on Thursday.
But right now, I am standing in front of 20 somewhat people,
Questioning if my first mistake in loving you was
Watching you **** me 1 month into our strenuous relationship,
I don't mean the *** was bad,
I'm just saying it wasn't the best either,
And that you probably could've done better.
Or maybe you couldn't have,
Your ***** was a bit small.
I'm just explaining that I think if I had loved you correctly,
Then the *** wouldn't have made me question if no actually means no
And whether or not the height of my skirt made your ***** decide that it was getting through My lace ******* one way or another that night.
I'm not telling you that I regret it, because I don't.
I don't regret things.
I don't regret things.
I don't regret things.
But I do regret you,
And I do regret walking out of the house in that mini leather skirt despite my mother's Objections,
Even though I should be free to walk around my city wearing whatever ******* clothes I want To,
Without worrying over whether or not I'm asking to be ***** at
Dickpoint.
So the question is if I really didn't love you,
Which at this point of the poem,
I don't I think I ever did,
Then who made the first mistake in our relationship?
And boy, you better take the blame for it this time,
Because I am an angel.
And I will not claim this loss as a loss,
But in fact as a win,
Because I deserve better than this.
I deserve better than regret.
I deserve better than ****.
I deserve better than you.
I deserve better than your *****.
I deserve better than your uncomfortable hands.