I feel my body is not real
It’s like a picture or an abstract painting
The picture
Is not the place
Only an impression of it
The painting looks complete
From far away
But up close
it reveals itself to be only splotches of texture and many dots of color

My body is not real
Or if it is
I am only paint on canvas

Why is it always rap?
Well sometimes it’s psychedelic
But at parties I mean
I like smoke filled rooms
Where I know
Everyone’s high
And I can join them unabashed
The room soon faded out
All that’s left
Is the dimmer lights
Maybe a face to make out with
Smoke
Some bare walls walking on stilts
I’m
the highest in the room

I don’t think I’m worth the amount of effort it takes for someone to love me
I could never be enough as I am for what I cost to purchase
I start every sentence with ’ I ‘
And I end them all in ‘yes’
I have no boundaries
No sense of self
Just open thighs and a mouth
Still I am just as much without
Without love
Without care
Without anyone.

Purchase the girl!
She’s almost as good as free!
Purchase that girl!
Over and over and over
She’ll let you in

over and over and over
Again.

I don’t know if I’m real
I think I could drive away and no one would give a ****
Maybe I’m no longer writing poetry
It’s all just blatant confession
I wish I could find something worthwhile

It’s all just a mess

Breaking her into pieces
Wondering how it happened
Knowing in my head -
I ignored all the signs.

Killing my brain with substances
She supplied more
Killing my time
She was the glass I poured from

Breaking her into pieces
Cremating the bones of our relationship
Knowing in my heart-
She cared far more than I could manage.

I am now standing here
Solitary.
Breaking her

All over the floor.

If I was a corpse
Do you think you would see me differently
Would my cold eyes suddenly become a more haunting shade of blue?
Would my misery and pain be more apparent
Or would it disappear in the fondness of nostalgia ?
If I was a corpse
I think I could get you
Just where I want you
Maybe you could love me
If I was cold and dead
Even if
It’s only memories

He likes to write poems
I think his greatest secret is
He wants poems written in his honor
To be forever preserved in sacred pages of letter and ink
He loves to write poetry
But his poems can not capture
His own beauty
Ink covered fingers or t-shirts with coffee stains
He smells like beach waves and vanilla pine
The way his hair falls in his face
And the pretty boy eyes he hides behind bluelight glasses
He likes to make the moon his muse
He would marry the sound of his own voice-
Projecting his spoken word or monologue across a crowded nighttime space
Nobody knows
This sweet barista boy
Has broken every heart
That every loved him

Cute barista boys are not to be trusted
But they sure as hell will give your heart all the butterflies of springtime gardens
And he will treat you like God
Before tossing you aside